Chapter 4: Becky's Fan Club

On Wednesday morning I was so tired that I needed three cups of coffee. I let LaToya and Rosita check in all the girls so I could take it easy. Then a sharp knock came at my door. “Come in,” I called.

The door opened, and in walked Becky Finklestein. She had her hair up in a ponytail and she was wearing a powder blue camp sweatsuit and carrying a small bottle. “Hi Megan,” she said.

My heart stopped as Becky closed the door behind her, and I tried to ignore what I felt in the gym and during my dream. In her sweatsuit she looked like a fat little nerd, but as she walked toward me the movement of the fabric would occasionally betray the gigantic muscles that lay beneath it. I steadied myself. “Good morning, Becky,” I said, praying that she didn’t want to discuss the previous night, when my nipples hardened and my hands trembled. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi Megan,” she said innocently. “One of the other girls let me borrow this nail polish, but it gets messy when I try to put it on because I don’t know how to wear makeup. Can you help me?”

I smiled. Becky looked meek as she held out the bottle of polish. “Hop up on the chair,” I said, pulling a bottle of nail polish remover from my desk. “Have you ever worn nail polish before?” I asked.

“Well once,” Becky said, watching as I scrubbed the misapplied polish from her fingers. “I had a slumber party with my fwiends Courtney and Gloria once. I got a makeover. My mom was really mad.”

“Your mom gets mad when you wear makeup?” I asked, shaking the bottle of nail polish.

“She’s always mad at me,” Becky said, matter-of-factly.

“Some moms are like that,” I said, looking Becky in the eye, past her steely gaze to the soft, lonely eyes of a sensitive little girl that needed my help. “My mom was like that. She was a real witch.”

Becky giggled and I giggled too, and I saw her posture soften. “My mom says that I’m too young to wear makeup,” she said. “She said if I have big boobs and wear makeup the boys will think I’m a slut and they won’t respect me, even if I’m smarter and stwonger than they are. But I don’t care about boys anyway because they’re gwoss. I just want to wear makeup so the other girls will be nice to me.”

I could imagine how Becky must get bullied by other girls. Boys wouldn’t dare pick on her, not once they saw how strong she was. But eleven year old girls can bring each other to tears with a few choice words. “That sounds reasonable,” I said. “Have you explained that to your mother?”

“She doesn’t care,” Becky said meekly, looking at her feet. “She doesn’t understand because she’s beautiful like you, not ugly like me.”

That was the moment of openness I had been waiting for. “You’re not ugly,” I said firmly. “Eleven is a very hard age for girls, but over the next couple of years you’ll blossom into a beautiful young woman. I can see it in your features. You’re going to be gorgeous. Now let me see your hand.”

“I sure hope I grow up beautiful,” Becky said, offering her hand. “I could do anything I wanted.”

I smiled warmly and nodded, savoring the moment of vulnerability that Becky had allowed. She blushed. The ritual of gossiping while putting on makeup was important to a young woman’s development. No matter what happened from here on out, Becky and I would be friends. “You can do anything, Becky” I assured her. “The only one who can stop you is yourself.”

I unscrewed the brush from the bottle of nail polish, and to my horror it was the same cherry red color Becky wore in my dream. My heart raced, but I didn’t want to show weakness. It was obvious from Becky’s behavior in the gym that she compensated for her status as a social outcast by awing people into submission with her size and strength. It was classic bully behavior, and I couldn’t let her get to me. Not after I just got her to open up. I took her hand around the wrist, and began to paint her nails. I tried not to think about the massive hunk of forearm muscle that bloomed from her dainty wrist, just inches from my fingers. “Can we paint my toes next?” Becky asked as I finished her fingernails.

“Are you trying to make an impression on the boys?” I asked, teasingly.

Becky smirked. “I guess you could say that,” she giggled.

I smiled. A second later Becky had wriggled out of her shoes and socks, and had one small foot resting in my lap. Becky’s calf was resting on my leg, and I could feel its incredible size and hardness through her sweatpants. I tried to ignore the rush of blood to my pussy that came whenever I thought about her huge, muscle-bound legs. “This is a pretty color. Who let you borrow it?”

“Cynthia Schroeder,” Becky said, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “She’s nice.”

I couldn’t help but notice that Becky was staring down my blouse as I painted her tiny little toes, studying my cleavage. I remembered what it was like when I was her age, always wondering what it was like to be a grown woman, even as I was becoming one. Her need for a good female role model couldn’t possibly be more obvious. “Cynthia is very nice,” I agreed, going through Cynthia’s case file in my mind. “I hope that you’re nice to her in return.”

Becky shrugged. I began to blow on her toes to dry the polish. “That tickles,” she giggled.

“There, you’re all done,” I said. “Now hurry or you’ll miss today’s baking class. I hear that Henry is baking cookies today.”

Becky had begun to leave when she turned back around. “Wait, I got this too,” she said.

Becky was holding up a cylinder of lipstick, the same cherry red as her nail polish, the same cherry red as her lips in my dream. “Oh Becky I don’t know if you need lipstick,” I said haltingly.

“Actually I think I can figure this out on my own,” Becky said.

With agonizing slowness, Becky covered her full cupid-bow lips with shimmering red lipstick, and puckered. I could feel my nipples hardening as my dream came back to me, and I quickly turned away. “Enjoy baking class. I hope you like your goodies.”

“Oh Megan!” Becky called. “One more thing.”

“Yes Becky?” I asked as I turned around to see Becky lift up the hem of her sweatshirt, exposing her shredded eight-pack abs, ribbons of serratus muscle, and deeply etched devil horn waistline. I could feel my jaw drop as I struggled to look away from the muscular perfection of her sculpted adolescent midsection. “How do you like these goodies?” Becky asked playfully.

A second later I was alone, with engorged nipples, damp panties, and tears in my eyes. I was being sexually intimidated by an eleven year old girl, and there was nothing I could do about it.

At lunch, I went to see Dr. Li. She was a licensed therapist, and even though she worked primarily with children, I wasn’t in a position to be picky. We had worked together for five years, but as I sat down in her office that day I realized for the first time how beautiful she was. Her face was unlined and unblemished, with fine features framed by shining black hair cut into a bob, punctuated with horn-rimmed glasses that made her look like a librarian. And the way her blouse and skirt hugged her slim but ladylike figure made her look like a sexy librarian. She sat down on the other end of the couch, and I tried not to stare at her smooth, feminine legs as she crossed them. “This is a bit irregular,” she said. “I specialize in adolescent issues like bullying and sexual anxiety, but I’m happy to help you if I can.”

“Well, bullying and sexual anxiety are what I want to talk about, Doctor,” I said cautiously.