Rotter's Daughter
By Mr. Scrod  colinscrod@hotmail.com
A father supports his daughter's unusual hobby - growing muscle and fighting other girls!


The nurse was massaging Jenny when her father walked in to the little room.
Rottman Weiler was a sticky, pear-shaped man whose tailor did his best to hide
the 48-year-old's gut with expensive suits. Seeing the tall black aide oiling
up his 18-year-old daughter, massaging the girl's shoulders and shaking her
loose, the old man attempted what he hoped was an avuncular smile. His
misshapen teeth failed hopelessly at this, achieving only a pornographer's
leer. It wasn't for nothing his employees called him "the Rotter" when they
thought he couldn't hear them, and "the Rottweiller" when they knew he could.

The nurse alone was certainly worth any leer. Espresso Mochajiva, six foot of
smooth muscle packed in creamy chocolate, her severe calves rose up and up to
a round ass and tiny waist, accentuated by a pair of low-hanging men's khaki
shorts. Her cut-off tank didn't even try to hide her enormously wide back and
shoulders, leading up to a regal neck topped by an enormous, anachronistic
afro. When she turned around, he was, as always, captivated by her abdominal
muscles, a hard six-pack that could stop a bullet.

His daughter, though large and strong, didn't share her nurse's lean muscle.
Jenny Weil was a sullen, 5'9" mass of pink topped with bright orange bangs;
she ballooned outwards like an overstuffed sausage. Nothing sagged on her, not
yet, but gravity would eventually claim her full breasts, the skin under her
arms, her gut and all. She turned pinker under the Rotter's frank stare, and
dropped her green eyes down to her suddenly clenching hands. She wasn't happy
with her looks, even though she knew she was solid and fit. She had the
strength, she could feel it inside, she just couldn't get the right look, that
was all, that and her hair, and her suddenly ballooning breasts that the other
girls hated, she'd dieted and starved and been rescued from some damn eating
disorder or another by her nurse and her father. But her strength and her
brains didn't count at school and then there was that snotty little yeast
infection Sheeeeiila!

"Do you still want this, Jenny?" her father spoke, interrupting her grinding
emotional engine. "Remember, the product is new, and you're among the first
human test subjects. There could be, will be, certain emotional side effects-"
his voiced trailed off helplessly.

"Increased aggression." Espresso completed for him. "But that's exactly what
we want, yes?"

"Mmm, possibly," said Rottman. "Is the timing right? We don't want her
bursting out while the little Mohns brat can still back out, and we certainly
can't afford it happening too late. By the way, Espresso, I know you left Ms.
Mohns' service on bad terms. Do you think you're ready for her? I mean, we
wouldn't want any confrontation between you two, unless of course you couldn't
control yourself." The hint fluttered in mid-air.

"Don't you worry, old man," said the nurse, and rubbed his bald spot. "The
oil's activated by adrenaline, it will take effect at just the right time. As
for old woman Shirley," and here Caribbean woman's tone turned cold, "Little
Espresso can control herself until the right moment!"

In fact, Sheila Mohns and her mother Shirley had already arrived with their
coterie, made themselves more than at home, and were planning the triumph of
old money over new.

"Now Mommy, " said Sheila, when her guests had cleared out, "You're sure Dr
Weinstein can fix up any accidents, right? I mean, if the porker gets in a
lucky punch, which is all she'll be able to do." Her lower lip pouted
prettily. "I'm not worried, of course, but I do want to look good in the
pictures. You didn't forget the camera?"

"Honnneeey! Don't worry!" said the mother, flashing bleached teeth. "The only
one who'll look bad is that fat lump of garbage!"

The Mohns women were living proof that, yes, you can be too rich and too thin.
Both women starved themselves and worked out masochistically, although careful
not to grow any "unsightly" muscle. Shirley Mohns prided herself on looking
more like her daughter's sister than a mother, dieting and tanning till her
ribs were visible even beneath her latest ensemble. Both were bottle blonde,
surgically perked-up noses, whitened teeth, almost audibly tan, and, it cannot
be overemphasized, thin.

Sheila stripped down to the latest lingerie, a pale lavender emphasizing her
bust (a gift for her 16th birthday) and her sunken stomach, and started in on
her warm-ups.

"We have to keep these people down, Sheila. If it takes a humiliating beating,
well, that's just more fun for us. They're so NOKD-"

Her daughter arched a perfect eyebrow.

"Not Our Kind, Dear," Shirley explained with another blinding flash of teeth.

What Rottman Weil called his "Arena" was a boxing ring, smaller than average
size, housed in a huge marble room, surrounded by comfortable old chairs. The
pink marble floor was carpeted in thick red plush. "Hides the blood," he
explained, when Shirley asked archly.

Shirley rolled her eyes at her daughter in the blue corner of the ring, as if
to say, "These people!" Her social circle chuckled obediently.

Espresso led Jenny Weil to the ring, past the hooting crowd, an African
princess leading the army past commoners. Jenny, stuffed in a black wrestling
singlet, followed her nurse and friend into the ring, glowing from the sheen
of Espresso's special massage oil. Someone murmured, "Like a lamb to the
slaughter."

"A pig, you mean," stage-whispered Shirley, and shrieked with laughter.
Rottman favored her with his very coldest smile. He was suddenly sweating, and
not from the warmth of the room. If the enzyme didn't work in time, if his
daughter got hurt, if he lost this chance to stick his finger in his
neighbors' eye-he didn't like If. The Rotter believed in a fair fight only if
he couldn't fix it beforehand.

Of course, Shirley couldn't let her ex-servant get by without a remark. "Why
honey, I do believe you've found a way to make that 'fro even larger!"

"A lot of things've gotten larger since I left, Miz Mohns," replied the black
woman, and flexed a 16-inch bicep by way of illustration. "Mr. Weil and I
found some tricks with that enzyme I told you about, and we've had some very
impressive results."

Unwilling to wait any longer, Sheila lunged at her opponent. A slap rang out,
and the redhead's pale face showed a big red print. "C'mon, bitch!" the skinny
girl taunted, "I've got all night to beat on you!" Her arm lashed out, and
Jenny whoofed as a left found her thick stomach.

Sheila tried to push Jenny into the ropes to start some real punishment. "Now
you'll see how bacon gets cured!" crowed her mother. Turning to her guests,
she said, "I told Sheila I'd double her allowance if she could knock this pig
out with belly punches!" She turned around and snapped a picture, eager to see
the fat girl's slaughter.

Sheila had more trouble moving Jenny's mass than she anticipated, so she
began, true to her mother's orders, to concentrate on belly punches. The lefts
and rights didn't have much behind them except speed, but they did accomplish
one thing. Jenny thought she heard the ocean as her pulse rushed adrenaline
through her body.

And then. . . Jenny reeled, almost falling to one knee. Her slender opponent
smirked, thinking she'd won the fight already. But the big redhead's body
continued to convulse, to change. Fat melted away. Blood- filled muscles
doubled, then tripled in size. Angry veins stood out like a relief map. Her
thighs stretched and swelled with new muscle, adding at least another foot to
her height.. Her shoulders tensed and shot outwards. Her already thick biceps
expanded to the size of cannonballs pulsing with knotted veins, while her
singlet, unequal to the struggle, surrendered and snapped off like a rubber
band. This revealed her previously round tummy quivering and hardening into a
washboard. Her always-full breasts grew big as missiles, with hard, angry
nipples that almost threatened to poke out Sheeeeiila's eyes out.

O yeah-and Jenny got really PISSED!! She batted her enemy's head with a left
that nearly took it off. (Rottman was grateful that the special bandages had
expanded to cover his girl's larger knuckles). Grasping the thin fabric of
Sheila's lingerie, Jenny swung her towards the corner. The blonde hit hard,
and looked properly terrified. She flung her arms over the top rope for
balance, effectively tying her up. Her expensive new lace top drooped, showing
just a hint of her left nipple. Chortling, Jenny started pounding away with
both hands, using the nipple as a target. Off came the top, and the enraged
giantess began flattening the other tit for balance.

Shirley's guests were too stunned to move, but maternal instinct propelled her
out of her seat to the ring. "Stop it! This isn't the way it's supposed to
be!" She shrieked shrilly as Jenny's knuckles pounded into her tanned teen's
sunken stomach, almost reaching through to the spine. Sheila was slack-jawed
by now, lurching forward with each blow, her body still forced to cough up air
at each intruding fist. Her tits were already bruised and red and her face was
sickly pale beneath the bottled tan, splotching further every time Jenny
backhanded her head to keep the victim upright.

Espresso tripped the mother before she could reach her daughter. "Did you
think you was getting out of this untouched?" she hissed. The two women
squirmed across the red plush, Shirley burning her breasts, elbows, stomach
and knees on the carpet. Her former servant clearly enjoyed pounding the model
in the kidneys as she wriggled.

Rottman and the guests were still as waxworks. Not a cheer, not a word of
protest, not making a motion of protest. They'd come to watch a slaughter, and
their cruel desires were evidently satisfied as Jenny put her hands on the
second row of the ropes around Sheila and began to pound her left shoulder
into her enemy's stomach and pelvis. It was a sort of sexual frenzy, a desire
for greater and greater penetration not just of the genitals, but of Sheila's
whole body, as if the swollen redhead was trying to force her entire bulk into
and through that of her hated enemy. The skinny, would-be bully's eyes were
closed, a trickle of sputum hanging from her lower lip. It was as if Jenny was
punishing a corpse.

"Jenny!" cried her nurse at last. "The backbreaker! Just like I showed you,
girl!" The black woman had the older Ms. Mohns in a sort of camel clutch,
lifting her up by the chin to watch the finish helplessly.

The obedient giantess picked up her victim in her massive arms. By the
contrast between the two, it looked as if she was handling a spasmodically
twitching doll. She lifted Sheila effortlessly above her head, then slammed
her down across a bent knee. Poor Sheila hung there brokenly, her arms and
legs too short to even touch the ground. The gurgle that came from her limp
body was horrible, echoed by the sobs and screams from her mother outside the
ring.

Later, after a private ambulance drove mother and daughter to a hospital where
no questions would be asked, Espresso watched Jenny, naked, almost sobbing
from reaction, slowly lose her mass. Her arms and legs returned to normal
size, her wide shoulders lose their mountainous bulk and slump forward again.
The nurse draped a robe around the teenager, and handed her a mop and bucket.

"Well, c'mon child. You don't expect me to be cleaning this mess, do you?"

And for the first time that night, Jenny smiled.