Becky Part 3 - War Comes to Lake Peace
Chapter 1: Becky Checks In

Copyright© 2018 by Cabbage

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: Becky Checks In - A social worker fights a battle of wills with a young girl who has an attitude problem and the strength to back it up.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/Fa   ft/ft   Fa/ft   Consensual   Reluctant   Romantic   Lesbian   BiSexual   Heterosexual   Cheating   Cuckold   Wimp Husband   Sister   FemaleDom   Humiliation   Rough   Black Female   White Female   Oriental Female   Hispanic Female   Exhibitionism   Masturbation   Oral Sex   Big Breasts   Teacher/Student  

If you had come up to me during my freshman year of college and said “Megan, you’ll earn your Master’s Degree by 1980 and work at a home for troubled children,” I would have called you a liar. If you went on to tell me that I would love working at a home for troubled children, I would have called you a crazy liar. But it was true. I graduated early, and five years later I was working as the Head Girls’ Counselor at Lake Peace, and loving it. I was making a difference for kids who needed it, and I met and married the man of my dreams. Sean was a Boys’ Counselor, and he was a great lover and a total hunk.

The first couple of years at Lake Peace were hard. We got the worst 10-14 year-old kids from across six states, and tween girls can be especially nasty even when they’re not from troubled backgrounds. But eventually I hit my stride. I could size kids up in seconds, and even the toughest girls would open up to me in a matter of days. I felt like I could turn any wayward young girl into a positive, well-behaved young woman. At least, that’s how I felt until I met Becky Finklestein.

We were getting a new batch of residents on Monday, and I was going over their files with Rosita and LaToya, the Girls’ Senior Counselors. Most states don’t give us complete police records or court transcripts on our residents, but we get pretty detailed summaries from the juvenile system. “Wow,” I said when I opened Becky Finklestein’s file. “You guys better let me take this one.”

“That file is as thick as a dictionary,” LaToya said. “Let me see that.”

I laid Becky’s file on the table. “Oh she looks like bad news,” Rosita said.

The Polaroid clipped to Becky’s file showed a freckled girl with thick-framed glasses, and frizzy orange hair pulled up in pigtails. She had the most contemptuous scowl that I had ever seen, and her green eyes burned with an anger I could feel through the photograph.

“Eleven years, four feet tall and 180 pounds,” LaToya read. “The little fat ones are the worst.”

I nodded in agreement as I flipped through Becky’s records. It was hard to be an overweight young girl, and sometimes they externalized a lot of the bullying they suffered. I had seen girls like that before, but I had never seen a file like Becky’s. “There are over three dozen instances of assault in here,” I said. “Formal police reports filed when she was 7 and 8. Seven separate police reports filed in the last year ... One of them involving a SWAT team? Really? A SWAT team for a 10 year old girl?”

“A genius IQ?” Rosita said, pointing to Becky’s academic file. “The smart ones are the worst.”

“Does that say ‘murder’?” LaToya gasped, pointing to a report from Becky’s juvenile officer.

It did. Becky was being sent to us because she was an accessory to a murder at 10 years old. I had seen all I needed to see from the file, so I flipped over the Polaroid from the juvenile system, where the social workers sometimes leave notes. There was only one note on the back of Becky’s photograph. It read ‘VERY strong’ with the word ‘very’ capitalized and underlined three times. “She is going to be a challenge,” I said aloud as I closed her folder.

I had no idea.

That weekend Sean and I went out for one last wild weekend in town, before the new residents showed up for the summer. We kissed in my Corvette convertible, savoring each other’s lips before we got out and went our separate ways, and I ran my hands over Sean’s arms. I always had a thing for big muscles, and Sean used to be competitive bodybuilder, so I could barely keep my hands off him. There were three offices in the girls’ administrative building, and since girls got dropped off throughout the day, the other counselors and I could check the girls in and get to know them without a big crowd building up.

I had checked in two girls when I returned to the girls’ administrative office and saw Becky Finklestein scowling at the television with her arms folded. She was wearing a baggy pink “Guess?” sweatsuit and smacking on gum. In another chair sat one of the 14 year old girls, a gang member according to her file, curled up and crying with a black eye. “Oh dear, what happened?” I asked her.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking. “It happened this morning. Before I got here. I swear.”

Becky smirked. Girls like her wanted to get into trouble for fighting. So I decided to let Dr. Li worry about the black eye. “Hi Becky, my name is Megan. Would you like to come back to my office so we can get you checked in?” I asked, being careful to speak to her like an adult, and not patronize her.

Becky silently hopped out of her seat and followed me to my office. “Sit anywhere that you would like,” I said, motioning to the couch and chairs.

Becky immediately went to my desk and sat in my chair. The worst kids always did that, and that’s what I expected her to do. Without missing a beat I sat down on the couch. “Is this the part where you tell me that you wemember what it’s like to be my age?” she asked sourly.

I quickly marked an ‘SI’ on Becky’s file, for ‘speech impediment’. A lot of kids Becky’s age had troubles with ‘l’ and ‘r’ words but I’m sure she got teased for it, seeing as how she was short for her age, overweight and wore glasses. It was also plain to see, despite her baggy sweatshirt, that Becky’s bustline was overdeveloped for a girl her age. I was the first girl in my school to get boobs, and the boys were constantly staring at them or trying to grab them. I could still remember how bad that felt.

Becky had every reason in the world to be picked on, and no reason at all to open up to me. So I decided to be frank. “No Becky,” I said. “I’m not going to say that, or how wellness is a journey not a destination, or any of that bullshit.”

That got her attention. I held my hands out, using open body language. “I won’t do any of that because I know that you’re very smart, smart enough to know clichés and sales pitches when you hear them, and I don’t want to shut me out before I get a chance to prove myself to you.”

Becky shifted uneasily. It was a small victory but it was an early victory, and I tried not to smile. “How are you going to pwove yourself to me?” she asked.

“I’m not going to presume to tell you that,” I said. “You tell me what I have to do.”

“Well, to start off don’t be mean to me,” Becky said. “And don’t make fun of me.”

“I will never be mean to you or pick on you,” I said. “I promise.”

“Yes you will,” Becky grumbled. “Ladies with big boobs are always mean to me, like my mom.”

It was no surprise that a girl Becky’s age was pre-occupied with breasts, or that a girl as troubled as Becky had problems at home. I filed those items away in my head, as a profile of Becky began to take shape. “Becky you’re way too intelligent to think that body types determine personalities,” I said.

Becky blinked a few times. I was starting to get through her defenses. “Well ... look” she said. “All I really want is to be left alone so I can think. So just leave me alone, I guess.”

I decided to go all in. “I think that’s a fair request,” I said, standing up. “I’ll show you to your room, give you a quick tour of the camp.”

Becky walked beside me as I showed her the ground. She scowled at the cafeteria, she scowled at the art studio, and she scowled at the playroom, the doctor’s office, and the classrooms. But when I pointed out the gym her eyes lit up and she was full of questions. “What equipment do you have?” she asked as she peaked in the windows. “Do you have hex dumbbells or the adjustable kind? Do you have EZ bars? I hope you at least have a Smith machine.”

“Let’s go take a look,” I said, opening the door.

We have a pretty well-stocked gym, with lots of treadmills and exercise bikes. It helps the hyperactive kids burn off excess energy, and it helps the overweight kids lose weight. But Becky walked past them without blinking and immediately went to the rack of multi-colored dumbbells. “Is this all?” she groaned. “These weights are for twerps! The biggest ones are only like 20 pounds!”

“Our on-site physician advised us that most of our campers benefit from better cardiovascular health, and that young children don’t need to lift weights.”

“I need to lift weights,” Becky said sourly, but then she saw the swinging doors to the counselor’s gym, and went toward them. “What’s back here?” she asked.

“That room is for counselors,” I said. “We don’t allow campers back there for liability reasons.”

Becky ignored me and pushed through the doors. “This is better,” she said as she surveyed the barbells and machines that the counselors used. “Not gweat, but good enough. Does anyone use it?”

“I’m in here every morning.” I said, “along with my husband Sean. Other counselors sometimes.”

“Really?” Becky asked with a look of incredulity. “You look skinny to me. Like a Barbie doll.”

Now I had a chance to really impress Becky. I had been lifting for the past 12 years, and although I was far from winning Ms. Olympia, I was strong and lean. With a toss of my hair I pulled up my sleeve and flexed my arm, smiling at the shapely peak of my sculpted 13 inch bicep. “Have you ever seen a Barbie doll with arms like this?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow at Becky.

Most girls Becky’s age stared in disbelief when they saw my muscles, but Becky just nodded with approval. “Not bad,” she said as she continued to look around. “Nice definition, decent peak.”

“You should see my husband,” I said. “He used to be a competitive weightlifter and bodybuilder. Once you get settled in, I might be able to talk him into showing you how to pump iron.”

When she heard that, Becky turned to me and laughed. It was a lilting giggle that made her squirm with glee, like a normal, healthy eleven year old girl would produce when talking about boys. I didn’t understand what she thought was so funny, but I didn’t care. I had gotten past her ‘tough girl’ act and made her smile. When I held open the door to lead her out of the gym she followed me without protest, still giggling. “Teach me how to pump iron,” she chuckled. “As if.”

As we walked across the lawn to the girls’ dormitory, one of the boys ran up to us, smiling eagerly. “Hi Becky!” he called, his eyes drifting almost immediately from her face down to her chest. “It’s me Tony from the Hope for a New Life center!”

“Ugh gwoss,” Becky groaned as she rolled her eyes. “Hello loser.”

“Are you ... did you ... did you just get here?” Tony stammered.

Tony was openly gawking at Becky’s blossoming bosom. It was an experience I remembered all too well, and I expected Becky to fold her arms or turn away, just like I used to. Instead, she put her hands on her hips and stuck her chest out as if she was daring Tony to stare at her. “Go away Tony,” she said. “Go be a cweep somewhere else.”

On command, Tony turned and ran, stopping a few yards away to stare at Becky again. She stuck out her tongue at him as we entered the dorm. The rooms were small, but they were clean and bright. “Guys used to stare at my chest when I was your age,” I said. “I remember how creepy it felt.”

Becky looked up at me as I showed her to her room. “Yeah you have some huge knockers,” she said. “You can wear loose blouses like that but everyone can still tell. I’ll bet boys still stare them.”

I had never had a grade school girl refer to my ‘huge knockers’ before, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or to scold her. Instead I ignored the comment, and offered support. “You should never be ashamed to be a woman. I wish I had learned to assert myself at your age the way you did.”

“Boys are gwoss,” Becky said her bed. “It’s like they want me to beat them up.”

“Do you ever get into fights with boys?” I asked.

“I only get into fight boys,” Becky said. “Because they’re stupid and gwoss.”

I smiled at the memory of when I used to think boys were gross, and had cooties. Then I remembered Becky’s file, and the staggering number of police incidents, and my smile faded. “Becky-”

“Hey there are only sweats in here,” she said. “Don’t you have any tank tops and shorts?”

“Most of our campers prefer sweatsuits,” I said. “Many of them have body image issues.”

“But I can wear other stuff, right?” Becky asked. “My mom always makes me wear sweatsuits and stupid baggy clothes because she doesn’t want me showing off.”

There was a lot for me to unpack in that statement, but my profile of Becky was coming together very quickly. A repressive mother really put a bow on everything. She was under constant scrutiny at school and at home. But Lake Peace was here to support girls like Becky, when they let us. “We can pick out some t-shirts and shorts the next time you come to visit me in the office,” I said.

Becky took the bait. “Cool,” she said. “Can I come by tomorrow? I need to hit the gym, but first I need 42 gwams of pwotein and some amino acids.”

“Of course,” I said with a smile, as I closed the door behind me.

As I walked back to the office, I laughed about how serious Becky was when she talked about lifting. I remembered that her file said that she was ‘VERY strong’ with the word ‘very’ capitalized and underlined three times. How strong could an eleven year old girl possibly be, I wondered.

I had no idea.

On Tuesday morning, Sean and I had the best wake-up sex of my life. I was running my fingers along his pecs as we basked in the afterglow, and discussed our new residents. “You absolutely have to meet Becky,” I said. “She’s a little weightlifter. She counts protein grams and everything.”

Sean laughed. “Isn’t she the fat little psycho with all the arrests and the murder charge?” he asked with a smile. “Are you sure you want her lifting weights?”

“Accessory to murder,” I said. But I’m already getting through to her. And also she’s really smart and we need to engage her mind or she’s just going to get bored and get into trouble.”

“The smart ones are always the worst,” Sean said, as he removed my hands from his chest and stood up. “Sometimes I think you only like me for my body,” he said with a smirk.

“Is that so wrong?” I joked. “You just better hope I never meet someone with bigger muscles.

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