Chapter 7: Becky Teaches and Megan Learns

That afternoon I went out to the lake to inspect the canoes. We didn’t let the kids out on the lake until the third week, when we had them under control, but I wanted to be ready. On the way to the lake I passed the gym, and peaked through the windows. All the girls were packed inside, some of them using free weights, and some of them doing pushups, all under the direction of Becky Finklestein, who strode about the gym in a powder blue shorts and t-shirt that clung to her monstrously muscular physique like leotards. The Ambrose twins watched Becky lustily as she walked around the floor correcting the other girls’ form, repositioning their arms and legs as needed. Part of me was happy to see young girls taking an interest in fitness, but part of me was angry that they had skipped art class. All of me was angry at Jeff Black, the art teacher, who should have been able to control them.

I stopped by the art room and found Jeff at his desk, painting watercolors. “Where are the girls?” I asked firmly. “The girls are supposed to be in here painting.”

“I ... I let them go outside because it was such a nice day,” he said.

“You are not allowed to make that decision,” I told him. “And why are you painting left-handed, I thought you were-”

I looked at Jeff’s right hand and noticed that it was wrapped in bandages from his knuckles down to his wrist. His fingers were deeply bruised. “I fell,” he said defensively.

It was obvious that Becky had strongarmed Jeff just like she had done to Henry. She was undermining the authority of the counselors, and it was starting to make me angry.

It was unusually quiet that night when I told Sean that I was staying the night again. “What the hell, babe?” he asked. “You’ve stayed late every night this week.”

“It’s a new semester,” I said. “Besides, someone needs to chaperone Becky at the gym.”

“The little fat girl?” he asked. “Let one of the others look after her.”

I pecked Sean on the cheek and closed the car door. It was nearly dark when I got to the gym. I was in my powder blue soccer shorts and tank top, the larger size that are issued to counselors. I was admiring my shoulders and triceps when Becky walked in. She was in her sweatsuit and pigtails, but she wasn’t wearing her glasses. “Hi Megan,” she said. “You look really hot in that outfit. Nice delts.”

“Thank you, Becky,” I said. “And I appreciate that you have been wearing your sweatsuit. I know you’re proud of your body, and I appreciate that you are willing to make the other girls more comfortable.”

Becky shrugged as we walked over to the two heavy bags. “I show off sometimes,” she said. “The girls think my muscles are cool.”

I remembered the way the other girls crowded around Becky after she demolished Jake, Mike, and Cedric, running their hands over her sculpted physique. “I’m sure they do,” I said. “And I notice that you have been teaching them to lift weights. But you must not disrupt our curriculum. Do you hear me?”

“I’m teaching them to be their own pwotectors, like you wanted,” Becky grumbled. “You’re just finding reasons to yell at me. Why do big boobs make ladies mean?”

“Becky,” I said firmly. “I need you to stop disrupting our curriculum.”

Becky shrugged again. “I thought we were supposed to be boxing,” she said.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,” I said, setting up in my stance. “Now I’m going to show you some simple combinations, but you need to make sure that you have good form-”

“Like this?” Becky asked, setting up perfectly in a boxing stance.

“Um ... yes,” I said, admiring how quickly Becky had copied my form, and dropped into a perfect stance. “Now the first thing to do is to throw a straight punch from your forward shoulder called a jab, then follow it with a straight punch from your back shoulder called a cross, like this.”

I demonstrated a quick two-punch combination for Becky, and she smiled. “Like this?” she asked, her fists blurring outward with incredible speed as she threw jabs, crosses, hooks, and uppercuts with seamless precision, bobbing and weaving as she did.

I was speechless. At eleven years of age, Becky had the speed and coordination of a seasoned boxer, and her arrogant smirk told me that she was well aware of that fact. “I ... That’s very good,” I said.

“I already know how to box,” Becky said.

And with that, she swung a right hook into the nearby heavy bag. Her tiny fist struck the bag so hard that it sounded like an explosion. The leather of the bag split into shreds under the force of her blow, spilling sawdust all over the floor. I stared at the shreds of leather that hung from the chain. It had survived thousands of punches not only from me, but also from every male counselor that had worked at Lake Peace, and Becky Finklestein had destroyed it with a single blow. “Oh my God,” I muttered.

“You mean ‘oh my goddess’,” Becky corrected, stepping forward to the other bag, as I instinctively backed away. “I also have black belts in Judo and Kawate,” she said.

Then with catlike grace, Becky leapt straight into the air and pirouetted around in a spinning kick, bringing her heel into the second bag at my eye level. The second bag exploded as well, ruptured completely by the impact of her kick. “Becky, I...” but I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was stunned by her amazing display of power and skill.

“I’m glad that’s over,” she said. “I need to work my chest. Get ready to spot me.”

Before I could react, Becky peeled off her sweatshirt and sweatpants. She was wearing her camp issued shorts and tank top I saw her in earlier. Despite the fact that her shorts and t shirt were girls’ XL, they barely fit her. The blue silk shorts were stretched so tightly by her sweeping thighs and huge slabs of hamstring muscle that they clung to her like hotpants, and because they couldn’t accommodate the enormous circumference of her legs, they rode up along her hips and crotch, allowing a glimpse of her adductor and gracilis muscles. “How did you even get into those shorts?” I wondered out loud.

“It wasn’t easy,” Becky giggled. “But the best part of having huge legs is showing them off.”

With that Becky turned away, and I could see that her shorts barely covered her huge, rounded, peach-shaped buttocks. Looking over her shoulder she clenched her ass, causing the dimples on her thighs to deepen as her glutes hardened into rounded slabs of muscle that bulged so prominently from her body that I moaned out loud.

Becky giggled again, strutting over to the bench press where she began to add plate after plate to the bar. “Becky that’s almost 500 pounds,” I said when she finally stopped.

“I know,” she said as she adjusted the bench to accommodate her short stature. “I normally start off pwetty light so I can focus on my form and emphasize hypertrophy.”

“I’m sorry did you say light?” I asked as Becky lay down on the bench.

Becky didn’t answer. Instead she hoisted the bar up and lowered it to her chest. I stared in awe as, with mechanical precision, she pumped the bar up and down with obvious ease. After 30 reps, she re-racked the bar and sat up, sweat starting to bead on her freckled skin. My jaw dropped open at the sight of her pumped-up torso. Her shoulders were as big as volleyballs, with all three heads perfectly segmented and lined with striations, and her arms looked huge and chiseled, even as they hung at her sides. The titanic width of her torso stretched the tank top into a crop top, revealing her perfect, brickwork abs and the ribbons of serratus and oblique muscles that framed them. But it was her chest that stole the show. After 30 reps at a ‘light’ 500 pounds, Becky’s pecs were erupting out of her tank top like domes of pure feminine might, and they were swollen, striated, and streaked with veins. “Looks like you’re not the only one around here with a huge chest,” Becky said with a giggle. “Check it out.”

Playfully, she used her thumb to tug the neckline of her tank top down, allowing me to see the entirety of the rippling gulf of muscular cleavage that ran from her collarbones down to her solar plexus. Her pectoral muscles looked three inches thick. I gulped as I watched a single bead of sweat run down her left pec, and thought about what those massive slabs of rock-hard girl flesh had done to Mike Vincent’s face. I tried to imagine how hard they would be in my hands, then I tried to not imagine it. “So ... big...” I blurted out, and Becky giggled again.

“I’m just getting warmed up,” she said as she hopped down and began to add more plates to the straining bar. “You should pwobably come over here if you want to spot me.”

Absentmindedly I obeyed, watching the striations bloom along Becky’s shoulders as she added hoisted plate after plate onto the bar, using all of our 45 pound plates, then adding 25 pound plates until the bar would hold no more. “That’s 865 pounds,” I gasped.

“Yeah, you all need to order more 45’s, but I guess this will have to do for now,” Becky said casually as she lay down on the bench and smiled up at me. “Are you ready,” she asked?

Then eleven year old Becky Finklestein began to crank out rep after rep at 865 pounds. I stared slack jawed at the rippling majesty of her pectorals as they flattened into beefy slabs as she lowered the bar to her chest, and then swelled into rock-hard domes of girl beef as she pressed it upward. I stared speechlessly at her unbelievable size and strength as she did three sets of twelve reps. When she finally racked the barbell, my mouth was hanging open, my nipples were as hard as diamonds, and my panties were wet. Still lying on her back, her body now beaded with sweat, Becky Finklestein looked up at me and giggled at my lack of composure. Then she sat up, the tank top stretched and distorted by her expansive, muscle-studded back. She hopped off the bench and walked over to the mirror in the corner, where she ran her finger down the crease of her pectoral cleavage, smiling as it disappeared completely between the titanic slabs of adolescent bulk. Our eyes locked in the mirror. I gulped. Becky popped a pink bubble and turned around. “Hey Megan, check this out,” she said as she clasped her hands, and began to flex her chest.