Jenna in Tonya Part 7
Brooke in Tonya, bigger than life.
By Avida Dolor


Warning: This work of fiction contains frank language and explicit sex 
and violence. No one under 18 permitted to read without the express 
consent of parent or guardian. 

Copyright 1998 Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com) 

It's the next day, I'm back in my room taking my after-lunch siesta. 
Flung, my permanent silk bed warmer these days, went right to the gym, 
where she likes to hang out and soak up the vibe while her meal settles. 
I'm not working out today, I'm too fucking sore from the beating. I 
spent the night in the infirmary, terrified that Brooke was gonna slip 
in and kill me. Nurse Church gave me some kind of downer, otherwise I 
wouldn't have slept at all. Flung offered to sleep there with me, but I 
insisted she stay in the room. Why should two of us die if Brooke 
attacks? The High Command is not sure what to do with this totally 
fucking Tara development. Stef, who's overly preoccupied with her 
upcoming Sinfully Sinew photo shoot, is waiting for me to handle this 
one. Brooke has always been mainly my problem, except for the Hairy Mary 
part, which was mostly Bon's problem, and the Pissy Paula part, which 
was mostly Missy's problem, though she never knew what happened to her 
piss partner--I don't think. 

Anyway, none of us have run across Brooke yet; she wasn't at breakfast 
or lunch, she must be taking her meals in her room like all the top 
Nancies do nowadays. Speaking of all the top Nancies, Glo, Nora and Ice 
are in solitary, but Pretty Penny tells us it's no ordinary solitary. 
They have the cooperation of Scuzzy Ethel, the least liked guard in 
Tonya. Actually, everyone loathes her, even the other guards. They must 
be paying her off or giving her sexual favors or something. Penny says 
the girls all have a nice selection of bells, bars and plates in their 
cells, and she's sure they're getting their M Factor too, plus all their 
usual supplements. So they'll come out of the frig brig in two weeks way 
bigger than they went in. Just peachy. 

Bon comes over to see how I'm doing. "Why don't we go down the hall and 
pay a visit to Brooke and establish some ground rules," Bon suggests. As 
the biggest, strongest Hard, she naturally feels she's the one who has 
to stand up to Brooke, even though Brooke is supposed to be *my* 
problem. Plus she's got a hardon for Brooke over the suspected demise of 
Hairy Mary. 

"Maybe she'll be at dinner," I go. "We can invite her over to the table, 
talk out the whole thing, see where we all stand." 

"She apparently stands much taller than I do," says Bon petulantly. 

We don't have any hard numbers on Brooke yet; Marlow just said she's 
bigger than Bon, which was such appalling news we didn't pursue it. I 
mean, we'll find out in good time. Then the phone rings. It's her. 

"Hi, Jenna Takedown. It's Brooke, your old friend from Chucho. I guess 
you heard I'm in here." She sounds pert and perky like a prom queen and 
there's nothing 'roidy about her voice. Not that I expected otherwise. 

"Yeah, I did. Did you lie about your age? You can't really be 17." 

"I really *am* 17. I skipped two grades when I was little. I was a 
bright girl." 

"And you're still a bright girl. But you're not little anymore. Warden 
Marlow tells me you're, uh, on the large side. Like a fucking redwood. 
How come you didn't come to the cafeteria? You could have eaten at my 
table, we could talk about, like, old times." 

"I'll be there for dinner for sure. I've been trying to keep a low 
profile, but this meal-in-the-rooms business sucks. I need, like, 
fourths on everything, I've got a big body to feed, and the guards are 
real bitchy about wheeling the chow cart back and forth. Marlow just 
wanted me to chill for a while, until you and I got our thing worked 
out." 

"What *thing* are we supposed to work out?" 

"Marlow thinks there's bad blood between us. I'm not really sure why she 
thinks that. Do you have it on for me? Fightwise?" 

"Not at all. Live and let live is my motto." 

"Good. Mine too. So why don't you come down to my room and we'll shoot 
the shit. I'm in number 4, way at the end of the hall, right before you 
turn to Corridor E, where solitary is. I'm practically in solitary 
myself!" She giggles like she just checked into the Disney World Hilton. 

"Fine. I'll be over in five. Alone." 

"Great. I'm alone too. And I'm lonely." 

I hang up, and I realize I'm trembling. Between the death of Missy and 
the beatings that Sara and Wendy took yesterday, not to mention my own 
stomping, this is all starting to get to me. Having a Bon-sized Brooke 
show up when you're short-timed is just, like, really harrowing. 

"That was her, wasn't it?" Bon asks, her fists clenching in 
anticipation, her big chest heaving. 

"Duh. Yeah. I'm going over to talk to her." 

"Alone?" 

"Yeah, that's what I told her. She's alone too." 

"But she must be twice your size." 

"So what? I'm not going there to fight, I'm going to talk." 

"What if she attacks you?" 

"That's a risk I'll have to take. Same risk I took yesterday." 

"Yeah, and you lost out on that hunch." 

"Never mind, Bon. This is something I've gotta do. It'll be OK." 

I put on non-Ton threads; a sexy yellow tube top and tiny cutoffs. There 
are bruises showing all over me; my thighs, my back and sides are all 
blotched purple, black and green. I figure this might help get a 
sympathy vote from her. I take a slow stroll down the hall feeling like 
I'm Gary Cooper in Thigh Noon. I knock on the door to 4, and she yells, 
"Come in, it's open." 

She's standing there across the room in front of the window with the 
blinds up. There's afternoon light streaming in, she's silhouetted in 
the glare, I can't see her clearly. She's seems to run right up to the 
ceiling, her head is almost touching the air vent. 

"Close the door, Jen," she says sweetly. "It's good to see you." 

I push the door shut and shuffle slowly over to her, praying inside that 
I don't get clobbered. She could take one step and probably kick me full 
in the face, her legs must be that long. Unless she's on stilts. I look 
her over. She's wearing a plaid robe, she's all covered up. It's a full-
length robe, but her feet are showing and they look big enough to stomp 
cars with. I look up at her gorgeous face and I have to crane my neck. 
The same beautiful brown eyes and long silky brown hair, the same 
perfect natural tan, the same perfect natural teeth. But everything's 
straight out of Jill and the Beanstalk. "Good Christ almighty, Brooke, 
how tall are you?" 

"Oh, 6-8-1/2," she says airily. "I sprouted up some since our Chucho 
days." 

"Like, no shit." 

Not much more than a year ago the girl was 5-11. My height now. She 
steps away from the window and I can see her more clearly. Her robe must 
be big enough to cover a sports car. She takes me by the hands--her 
pinkies are about as long as my middle fingers--turns me into the light 
and says, "Oh, poor Jen, they kicked the shit out of you, I heard about 
it." 

"Yeah, that was your good buddy Glo. She's got quite a pair of legs on 
her, I'm lucky I'm not in the hospital like the other two girls who got 
beaten up." 

"What makes you think I'm tight with Glo?" 

"Oh, come on, Brooke. Let's not play footsie. Your toes are too fucking 
big for that." She looks down and wiggles them and the notion traipses 
across my mind that those gigantic piggies would feel great rammed up my 
pussy. "Sara, a very close friend of mine, had a fucking emergency 
tracheotomy with a pen knife yesterday," I continue, trying to stay 
focused. "Glo almost killed her with a throat chop. And a sweet and 
beautiful little girl named Wendy had her face smashed in by Ice, who's 
also tight with Glo now, which makes her tight with you too." 

"Shit, Jen, you're judging me already, we haven't even begun to talk." 

"So talk. You have some explanation for all this?" 

"Wait, I want us to calm down first. Let's blow some hash--like a peace 
pipe--and I'll rub your bruises down with this fabulous ointment I 
have." 

"Load Lotion?" 

"Fuck, no. I don't use that shit. This is way better than that, and 
guaranteed not to irritate your skin. It's a healing ointment, not a 
'roid. I'll cream you up real gentle, you'll love it. Trust me, Jen, I 
know what I'm doing. But first let's blow some good clay." 

Clay? I sit down and try to look indignant as Brooke and I trade hash 
hits on a big bong. Yes, she's actually got this sweet blonde hash that 
tastes and smells just heavenly, and after four deep tokes I'm mellow 
like this is fucking Woodstock and the rain just stopped. Hash is very 
rare in here. It's very rare anywhere nowadays. Then she says to me, 
"Raise your arms up and stand still," and I find myself standing with my 
arms overhead, like I surrendered, and I guess I did, as Brooke pulls my 
tube top off and works this faintly soapy-smelling white cream, from an 
unmarked jar, over all my bruises like buttered love. Her palms are so 
big they easily cover my good-sized titties, but her long strong fingers 
are so gentle, I'm drifting into a fucking alpha state. I can hear music 
from down the hall, KFBB is doing a Pink Floyd set and I'm starting to 
feel like another brick in Brooke's wall. Maybe she'll let me join the 
Nancies and she'll give me M Factor and I can be as big as she is: these 
treasonous thoughts actually run through my hashed out head in horsey 
merry-go-round circles. 

"I want to get your ass and hips," she says solicitously as she unsnaps 
my cutoffs and pulls them down with my panties. "I bet those nasty girls 
kicked you there too." 

They sure did. My ass has Glo's toeprints all over it, and my muff got 
roughed by Nora. I step out of my shorts, baby naked now, and stand 
there still and silent, nothing moving but my heart, which is beating 
like a rabbit's, as Brooke kneels behind me, working the ointment into 
big handfuls of springy-muscled butt cheek, running her fingers over my 
asshole and my cunt lips so sugary-sure my pussy is burbling with juice. 

"Is this stuff OK to put on genitals?" I inquire, trying to sound 
normal. "I got cunt punted by Nora, it almost made me pass out." 

"It's a great pussy rub," she whispers. "I'll work it in nice, it'll 
feel soooo good." Brooke oils up my mons from the rear, pushing her 
mile-long middle fingers up me to make electric contact with my G spot. 
G for giantess. My eyes are closed now, and my nipples have stiffed up 
obscenely with big mahogany tit hardons. 

"You got big, Jenna," she says, pulling firmly on a nip, which is making 
my whole boob swell with blood. I jerk the pec to make the tit rise into 
her hand, the distended nipple begging for her mouth. "You weren't 
nearly this big or muscular last time I saw you," she adds, like she was 
a kindergarten teacher talking to a pupil after summer vacation. 

"I do Largesse," I croak in ecstasy. "What about you?" 

Brooke ignores this question and comes back around to my front, puts the 
jar down and effortlessly lifts me under the armpits so my face is level 
with hers. My feet are dangling in space, my arms are dangling at my 
sides, my mind is dangling inside my head and Brooke holds me like that, 
blowing hot sweet breath up my nose, then she kisses me lightly on the 
lips, and as my mouth opens she flits her tongue past my teeth and 
tickles the back of my throat with it. It's a bigger tongue than 
Cindy's, it's a slab of meat like you'd see on a deli counter, my mouth 
is stuffed with it, she could probably bitch slap me with it. I'm 
thinking everything on this girl must be bigger than Cindy as Brooke 
puts me back down like I was a toy and pats the top of my head, smiling. 

"I've always loved you, Jenna," she says sadly. "It's thanks to you that 
I really started to work out. I was deeply moved by that scene we had in 
the locker room." 

"Funny, that's the same thing Cindy and Courtney said, except their 
scene was in the weight room." 

"Yeah, I heard they got real big on some drug. I hope it improved their 
acting skills. If they're like they used to be, they're not good enough 
to turn the letters on Wheel of Fortune." 

"Maybe not, but they're big enough to eat Vanna White. They're on 
Largesse too, and it really worked for them, but they're not as big as 
you got on `some drug.' If you won't tell me the name of the drug, 
Brooke, at least take the robe off and lemme see what you got under 
there." 

Brooke grins in mock embarrassment. "Oh, I don't know if I should do 
that, Jen. You might flip out." 

"It's a risk I'll take, Brooke. You can put some of that cream on my 
brain if I freak. What have you got on under the robe?" 

"Fucking nothing." She unbelts the robe and pulls it open. I think for a 
stoned second I'm looking at one of those prosthetic latex torsos like 
comedians wear sometimes when they want to play strongmen. Her abs are 
popping like the custom grillework on a Daytona Beach muscle car, and 
her chest cannot be real, her pecs are the biggest things I've ever seen 
outside of a Mr. Olympia show. Brooke is as flat chested as ever, except 
her chest isn't flat, it's rounded and mounded out of thick masses of 
muscle that have little mini muffins of tittie at the end, with small 
rubbery light brown nips attached, no bigger than half dollars. She 
flexes her chest and the nips fire in a lateral arc like they were shot 
out of a cannon as the whole pec mass swells and striates, a clot of 
thick veins making a blood rush for her bludgeon-big collarbones. 

I'm standing there gaping at her like I just got the gift of sight. 
She's as thin-skinned as Glo, maybe more so. She's got the serrated 
vasc'd-out abs, the apoplectic neck, then she shrugs partway out of the 
robe and I get a load of the shredded delts, big as cantaloupes, then 
the arms come up, they've vein-wrapped baseballs, but they're bigger 
than baseballs, they're bigger than softballs but they're hard, and 
goddamn it all if she hasn't got the same fucking tattoos, the snake 
around the anchor and the hooded executioner with the ax. Then I realize 
I'm standing up close and personal with her, lightly pounding the heels 
of my hands on her chest while mumbling something about "So big, so 
big," and KFBB has started a Pixies set and that hot honey Kim Deal is 
singing "Gigantic, gigantic, gigantic, a big, big love," and then I have 
one of Brooke's delicious little nips in my mouth, as hard and pointy as 
a yum-yum bullet, and I'm standing there gnawing on her nip so hard I 
could be sucking venom from a snake bite, it's very comfortable since I 
only come up to her chest and she doesn't seem to mind my roughmouthing. 
She has her heavy arms laid across my shoulders, she's kissing the top 
of my head again and making little cooing sounds while I nurse on her 
greedily, my sore nose pressed into the powder keg of her pec. Then the 
fucking phone rings and Brooke pulls her tit out of my mouth with a 
spit-soaked pop to cross the room and answer it and I'm standing there 
with my cheeks still pulsating like a blowfish. 

The robe has come back up, it only got as far off as hanging on her 
elbows, but it's still open and I'm looking at her brown bush, at the 
stiff clit protruding, but it's not a clit like Cindy's, it's about as 
big as mine, and I'm disappointed 'cause I wanted Brooke to fuck me with 
a giant clit, to rape me, I'm all hers, I've just been bowled over by 
her size and I want to let Brooke ravage me--like I could stop her--I 
want to be her slave. Then she breaks me out of this insane reverie with 
the words, "It's Marlow." 

"Marlow?" 

She talks for a few seconds more, I don't get a word of it, I'm not 
fully back yet, then she hangs up. "That was Warden Marlow. She wants to 
see me. Now. I'd better go. We can pick up where we left off later, Jen. 
OK?" 

The robe is still open. The abs and the chest are beckoning, the muscle 
slapping her skin on every breath, like big waves hitting a perfect 
beach. I can feel the hot saliva in the back of my throat, I can feel my 
pussy lips twitch and my clit throb like it has a migraine hoodache. 
"Brooke, I don't know what to say. Your body is so totally the bomb, you 
could win any of a number of state titles tomorrow--" 

"But I'm in jail. For a year." 

"And why the hell do you have the same tattoos as Glo, Nora and Ice? Who 
got them first?" 

"Jen, let's talk about it at dinner. I can sit with you? I won't get 
shit from your compadres? I better go see Marlow. I don't wanna keep her 
waiting, I've got to stay on this lady's good side." Brooke has belted 
her robe up, and she holds my panties and shorts as I step into them and 
she slides them up over my hips and I can't help kissing her on the 
mouth again, she's like a human aphrodisiac, and my sore nose is pressed 
hard into her exquisite face but I'm so narcotized with hash and horn-on 
that I don't feel a thing. Then she's sliding my tube top over my arms, 
then she's ushering me out the door, chattering about how she'll explain 
everything later, then we're both in the hall and there's this Nancy 
walking by, some nondescript little Nancy, I don't even know her name, 
and Brooke says to her crossly, "What are you looking at?" 

The little girl stops, her mouth drops open in bewilderment, then she 
says, "Nothing. I mean, I wasn't staring." 

"Why wouldn't you be staring?" Brooke complains. "You mean I'm not worth 
staring at?" 

"No," says the little girl, "I just thought--" 

And Brooke grabs this girl, she can't be more than 5-2, 110, and she's 
holding her against the ceiling, her palm pressed against her chest with 
one hand, the girl's legs are kicking like a baby's, while she's 
punching her in the stomach with the other, and I just stand there and 
watch as the girl gets hit five or six times, which makes the ceiling 
shake so plaster comes down and it also makes the girl's lunch come out 
in a yellow-orange shower that just barely misses Brooke on the way down 
but it's splashing her feet and the bottom of her robe as it hits the 
floor. Brooke drops the girl face down in her mess, the girl is gagging 
and heaving, she can't even catch her breath, and Brooke, looking put 
out, says, "Fuck, I've gotta clean myself off now. Later, Jen." 

And she strides into the bathroom. I'm standing there like a moron 
looking at this pathetic Nancy who's flopping around in a pool of hot 
puke, I think she needs CPR. Well, she's not getting it from me, the 
little vomit bag. Some other Nancy I don't recognize pops her head out 
her door, and I say, "Call a guard, this girl needs help," then I march 
back to my room and pour myself a double Stoli, my heart still racing. 

Five seconds later Stef and Bon burst in like they're on a commando 
raid. "We heard there was trouble down the hall," says Stef, her fight 
face on. "We thought it was you and Brooke." 

"It was Brooke and some Nancy. I had no problem with her. If I did, I 
wouldn't be standing here right now. I'd be on a gurney heading for 
Rauncho County." 

"You're fucked up, Jen," says Bon disapprovingly. "Did you get stoned 
with Brooke?" 

"She has this killer hash. I got totally zonked. Excellent shit." 

"No one has hash anymore," says Stef. 

"She's got more than that," I go, sounding way too enthusiastic. "She's 
got this fucking lotion that's making me buzz all over, it feels great. 
It's some kind of fucking healing unguent for my bruises. She's a 
fucking witch doctor." 

"You got that right," says Stef, "and apparently you're under her 
spell." 

"What are *your* panties in such a twist about, Stef?" 

"You come from your first meeting with Brooke, you're stoned and 
carrying on about what a great fucking rubdown you got like you just 
came from an hour with Tracy Scoggins' personal masseuse. Shit, Jenna, 
this is the girl who got you in here, had you capped and killed some 
friends of ours. Remember?" 

I guess this would be a bad time to mention the fact that I had my face 
attached to her tit like it was milk break at the La Leche League. 
"Girls, have a drink and mellow," I go, pouring them both Stolis. "You 
really wanna chill with all this. We don't wanna go to war with Brooke 
unless we really, *really* have to, and I'll tell you exactly why." 

"Why?" they both demand. 

"She's huge, absolutely fucking humongous, and so muscled up she's a 
Sinew centerfold right now, doesn't even need to pump it. She could snap 
me in half like I was a breadstick, I bet." 

"How big *is* she?" asks Bon, looking pained. 

"She's 6-8 and a fucking half. I'm not kidding. Two inches taller than 
Cindy. But not built like Cindy. Not voluptuous, just pure athlete. 
Ripped like Glo, only better. I mean chopped, diced and sauteed. You 
getting the picture here?" 

This is met with an uncomfortable silence, while they both sip their 
drinks and grimace. Finally, Bon asks, "What does she weigh?" 

"I don't know. Maybe not as much as you. She's all muscle, no fat. I 
mean, she's razor sharp, she's got pecs bigger than my fucking head with 
more definition than I thought possible. You can count the muscle 
fibers, except there are too many to count. It's the ultimate rack. No 
tit, just pec, more pec than I've ever seen in my life. She can't see 
her feet 'cause her pecs are in the way, twin trophies--" 

"OK, I *get* the motherfucking picture. You know what she benches?" 

"No. A ton? I don't know anything else. We didn't have time to talk, she 
got a call from Marlow, she had to go. We'll see her at dinner, get all 
the details." 

"We'll see her at dinner?!" Bon is aghast. 

"Yeah, we'll see her at dinner. We've got to talk to her. Girls, I know 
everyone's in battle mode after all the beatings, but we've gotta try to 
extract some info from Brooke. Not just about the tapes, but about M 
Factor. Brooke seems to like me so far, she was being nice to me. Real 
nice. If we get M Factor from her, or even just a source for it, that's 
the great equalizer." 

"What was this thing about the Nancy?" Stef asks. 

"Oh. As I left her room, there was this little Nancy in the hall staring 
at Brooke, and Brooke got pissed out of the blue and held this girl up 
against the *ceiling* and gut punched her so hard she puked. I mean, her 
entire stomach came out. Brooke can turn it on and turn it off just like 
that. She's still insane and extremely fucking dangerous." 

"What Nancy was this?" 

"No idea. Must be new. Can't recall ever seeing her before. Probably got 
internal damage now, was taken to County." 

"So Brooke might get brigged for this," Stef muses. 

That's something I hadn't thought of. "Might. I hope not. I'd like to 
iron some shit out with her now, before Glo and the others get out of 
solly and they form some kind of an army. Well, we'll see if she's at 
dinner. I can tell you one thing, I'm going to dinner Bobek Oksana. Or 
at least Oksana. You're not gonna believe the size of this girl." 

I go to dinner Oksana, but well short of Bobek. I've got to keep my wits 
about me around Brooke. So I'm not slurring or anything, but I'm real 
happy. Stef and Bon are the same way, but I wouldn't call it happy. More 
like tight. Lee Ann, Tiff and Flung are tensely sober, they spent the 
afternoon working out, then napping. We're all sitting already when 
Brooke enters. It's just like in a movie, the buzz of conversation stops 
cold all over the room and everyone gawks. Brooke is all covered up in a 
bright blue shiny Nike warmup suit that must be big enough for NBA power 
forwards to wear, but it's tight enough on her to accentuate the 
stunning flying vee of her torso, and she's so tall she has to duck 
under the hanging banks of fluorescents, which is unheard of. I wave her 
over and she sits down at the Hard table between me and Stef. I 
introduce her all around, and everyone is really uncomfortable about it 
except me and Brooke. But they all keep a civil tongue. 

"So, Brooke," I go, before anyone can mention the snuff tapes or any 
other touchy situation, "what happened with that little girl you hurt in 
the hall?" 

Brooke seems blown on hash, her eyes are red, wet and sparkly, and she 
pauses before answering, looking at me with a quizzical smile. "Her? 
Nothing. I don't know." 

"Was she still in the hall when you came out of the bathroom?" 

"No. Someone must have dragged her back to her room. They threw 
newspapers all over the puke. I guess the girl's OK. Is she here now?" 

"I don't see her," I go. "I don't think she'd have much of an appetite 
right now. Assuming her stomach still works." 

Brooke brushes off the notion with a wave of one immense hand. "I think 
she'll be fine, I didn't really hit her that hard. I mean, I don't want 
to rub Marlow the wrong way, that's the last thing I want to do. I don't 
think the incident was reported. At least I hope it wasn't. You didn't 
report it, did you?" 

"Me? Of course not. I don't care what happens to Nancies." 

"We care what happens to Hards," says Bon threateningly. 

"So what did Marlow want to talk to you about?" I jump in. 

"The situation here. She already gave me a briefing when I got 
processed, but now she went into detail. She doesn't want any trouble, 
the higher-ups are coming down on her, something like that. She doesn't 
want any fighting unless it's in the ring." 

"Oh, there's gonna be a lot of fighting when the Nancies get out of the 
brig," Stef mutters. 

"Brooke, tell us all about why you're in here and your size and 
everything," I blurt before we get into the nitty-gritty of the feud. 
The story, or as much as Brooke will tell of it, is this: She got busted 
by the She Roids for drug possession. Never mind what drug. She's been 
on her particular growth drug for a year, and the results speak for 
themselves. No, we couldn't get it even if she wanted to give it to us, 
there's not enough to go around. She won't admit to supplying anyone 
else, not even the Nancies. She insists whatever drug Glo, Nora and Ice 
are doing is not coming from her. We're all rolling our eyes, but she 
ignores us and plunges ahead in real dramarama trouper style. She weighs 
266, she doesn't know what she can bench, she doesn't go for max 
poundages, she's a bodybuilder not a powerlifter. She doesn't know what 
her arms run either, she's not a measurements freak. She guesses they're 
about 21, which is fine, she doesn't care about having the world's 
biggest arms. She just wants to have a smooth run in Tonya, hone her 
physique--like, if it was any more honed it would cut your hands when 
you touched it--and start a drama club. This gets a good laugh all 
around, but then the subject turns to the tapes. 

"What about my good friend Hairy Mary?" Bon demands. "What happened to 
her?" 

"I don't know, I lost touch with her," Brooke says innocently, batting 
her gorgeous stoned eyes like a silent-movie star. "She was following 
me. We got to talking, we liked each other, we became friends. Good 
friends. Then she left town, she went north, I think she was headed into 
rain country. I haven't heard from her since." 

Brooke denies all knowledge of the snuff tapes, and the only tape we 
have that she appears in is the love tape with Mary that I stole from 
Glo. But she already admits to getting it on with Mary, so she's got 
that covered. As to why she mailed this tape to Glo, she says she's old 
friends with Glo from before high school and wanted to cheer her up with 
some really hot video, that's all. We can't really argue with that, it 
*is* some really hot video. And that's why they have the same tattoos, 
and Nora and Ice copied them. The designs don't mean anything special, 
they're just "decorative." Brooke declines to show the assembled 
audience her arms, despite repeated pleas. She's got nothing on under 
her top--which is pretty clear now, since her nips are popping like 
champagne corks ever since she ran her hands over Stef's enormous biceps 
when the conversation came around to the impending Sinew shoot--and she 
doesn't want to make a scene. So we can't get anything useful out of 
Brooke, and we can't pin anything useful on her, and we're all sitting 
there having a protein feast--it's roast chicken night and we're up to 
fifths--when Brooke, out of the fucking blue, asks if I want to room 
with her. 

A small piece of chicken flies out of my mouth in shock, but before I 
can answer, Flung leaps out from behind her bamboo curtain with, "Jenna 
rooms with me, Brooke. She doesn't need a roomie." Really scrutable for 
Flung. 

Brooke looks genuinely saddened, and she bites her lip like she's 
considering reaching across the table and squeezing Flung's head till it 
pops like a pimple. "Who the hell am I gonna room with?" she whines. 
"It's gotta be somebody I really *like*, you know?" 

Stef says, "Look Brooke, speaking of who you really like, when the 
Nancies get out of solitary in less than two weeks there's gonna be a 
war here. The question is, what side are you on? You might as well 
answer it now." 

"I'm not on *any* side," Brooke says, shrugging her huge shoulders like 
a hypertrophic ingenue. "Marlow specifically told me to stay out of all 
the in-fighting around here. If you're doing ring of judgment deals with 
Glo and Nora, that's your business. It's got nothing to do with me. I 
just got here." 

"So if they have nothing to do with you, how come you all have the same 
tattoos?" Lee Ann wonders. "You have the same tattoos as *Ice*, Brooke. 
You expect us to believe she just copied Glo for the hell of it? If 
you're planning to room with Ice, who's a single, this is all gonna have 
a lot to do with you. She's got big payback coming for the capping of 
Betty and what she did to Wendy's face yesterday. She's going to be 
spending a lot of time in the hospital." 

"Is it really OK with you, Brooke, if Ice gets beaten to a fucking 
pulp?" Tiff inquires. 

Brooke snorts and tosses her gorgeous brown mane. "I don't even *know* 
Ice. What's it to me? The tattoos don't mean shit on her. I'll find 
someone else to room with." 

"And what about Glo?" I ask. "I've got a personal grudge against Glo now 
for what she did to Sara. Do you have a problem with this?" 

Brooke pauses while she chews her chicken. "Not as long as you settle it 
in the ring. If you were to gang up on Glo in the hall or something, I 
might have a problem with this. She's an old friend of mine, as I said." 

"What about Nora?" Stef asks. "She a friend of yours?" 

"Same thing goes for Nora," says Brooke. "She's a friend of Glo's, so 
she's a friend of mine. Keep it in the ring, it's fine." 

"The thing about the ring," Stef points out, "is there are gloves and 
booties there now, and no knees or elbows. You can't really hurt anyone 
bad in the ring. So we can't really get our payback there." 

"I was talking about that with Marlow," says Brooke. "We may be able to 
make special arrangements for, like, private grudge matches with the old 
rules back in place. No headgear either. As long as everyone agrees that 
after these fights the air is clear, no more feuds." 

"You're kidding," says Bon. "Marlow said that to you?" 

"Yeah. We were exploring ways to make long-term peace in this place, 
before Marlow loses her job." 

"Why would she talk about that with you?" Tiff bristles. "You just got 
here." 

"Because I'm the biggest girl who's ever been in this place, and I can 
be, like, an enforcer. That's what Marlow said." 

"Then I want *you*," says Bon quietly. "No gloves, no booties, no pads, 
no headgear. You killed Mary, and I know it. You're gonna pay for that 
like a motherfucker." 

"Now, wait a minute, Bon," I start, but Brooke cuts me off. 

"You've got to believe me: I did *not* kill Mary. I did *not* kill 
anyone. And Marlow does *not* want me fighting in the ring. I'm not 
supposed to be part of this whole Nancy-Hard thing you have going. I'm 
outside all that. But if you want me that bad, Bonnie, you'll find a 
time and place to get me. And I don't have a problem with that." Brooke 
smiles malevolently, her perfect teeth glistening, the incisors so big 
she looks like Dracula's Olympian daughter. 

"This is getting out of hand," says Stef. "Let's all chill. We'll talk 
to Marlow tomorrow and see if we can work out a fight deal. Until then, 
let's consider the matter closed and talk about something else." 

"Good idea," says Brooke. "Like why don't you all come to my room 
tonight for a hash party. Even you, Bon." 

"I don't think so," says Stef. "Let's keep a cordial neutrality, at 
least for the moment. OK, Brooke?" 

"How about you, Jen? You need another rubdown, babe?" 

"Brooke, Jen is a Hard," Stef explains. "When I say the Hards are 
keeping their distance from you, that includes Jen. Right, Jen?" 

I want that rubdown so bad I can taste it, but Stef's looking at me like 
our lives depend on my answer. I say, "Absolutely, Stef. I'm a Hard 
above all else, Brooke. Though I wouldn't mind if you'd let me borrow 
the cream and Stef could rub me down." 

Brooke nods, trying to look sincere. "Sure thing. As a token of good 
faith, I'll bring the cream over to your room right after dinner. You 
can keep the jar, I've got more. We want to get those bruises healed as 
fast as possible, Jen. You may be fighting Glo in a few weeks." 

Yeah, there's a thought. Glo, who kicks like a mule on steroids. Glo, 
who kicked the shit out of Missy's thigh, and that's *before* she had 
any muscles. This reminds me not only of Missy's hanging, but the 
stomping I got yesterday, which reminds me of what happened to Sara and 
Wendy, and I start to get upset, so I quickly get up and get on line for 
dessert. Apple pie and ice cream. Actually, I go right to the front of 
the line. One of the perks of being Jenna Takedown and a top Hard. 

Anyway, Brooke comes by after dinner, as good as her word, and hands me 
the cream. I don't ask her in, she doesn't ask to come in. Flung's in 
the bathroom taking her traditional after-dinner shit. It's some kind of 
Chinese thing, like getting a fortune cookie after the meal. So Brooke 
is standing there in my doorway, *filling* the fucking doorway, and she 
unzips the top of her warmup suit to below her bellybutton, which is a 
tiny incredible edible pucker in a field of rippling steel. She's got 
nothing on under there, of course, and I'm suddenly eye level with those 
pecs, those spun strands of mounded, rounded industrial muscle with the 
little brown nips popping off them, and my throat floods with hot saliva 
again and my heart starts pounding, and Brooke says, "Shit, Jen, it's 
really too bad we can't get it on. Like, I really want a piece of you, 
girl." 

She flexes her chest and her skin is pulled taut all over as heavy bands 
of muscle rear up and bulge, straining against the drumtight flesh, 
making thick blue veins skitter and pulse every which way in a vascular 
riot. There's this trembling between my legs like I'm having a pussy 
quake, and I just want to throw myself on my bed and beg Brooke to jump 
on me. 

"All in good time, Brooke," I manage to husk. "The Hards are my best 
friends, and I've gotta stick with them. Thanks for the cream." 

She shrugs the huge shoulders, takes a deep resigned inhalation that 
makes her abs coil like bales of concertina wire and hands me the jar, 
letting her long fingers linger lovingly on my knuckles. Then she turns 
and struts down the hall. I watch her walk away, and I'm aching all over 
with regret. The explosive vee of her back, the tiny waist, the narrow 
hips, the tight high hardbutt, the legs from here to Chicago with 
stiletto ankles knifing out of her sockless Air Picabos. Oh, Tonya. I 
intend to get Bobek in the lounge later and I hope I can forget about 
her, though at the moment all those swirls of knurled pec cleavage are 
ghosting my vision like a flashbulb just popped, and I already have a 
hand in my wet pants, my mouth making involuntary suckle puckers like I 
was a toothless old lady with a pickle craving. I take the cream over to 
Stef's, in desperate need of relief. 

Stef is lying on her bed in just a pair of panties, her big tits 
pointing almost straight up, despite their size, which tells me she's 
doing isometric chest flexes, something she does frequently to help her 
relax. She calls it tit yoga. "Workin' the kinks outta your rack, Stef?" 

"Yeah. And digesting dinner. I ate a *ton* of chicken." 

"You seem a little down." 

"I'm thinking." 

"About Brooke?" 

"About the photo shoot, really. What if Brooke fucks it up?" 

Stef's Sinfully Sinew shoot is the day after tomorrow. Editor at large 
Denise Massey herself is gonna be here to interivew Stef and lens her up 
righteous in the sealed-off gym. Only Marlow, Penny and the Hard Command 
will be in attendance. "Fucks it up how?" 

"Like parades herself before Denise Massey naked or something and gets 
the shoot instead of me?" 

"No way, Stef. You've got a contract. Can't happen. Stef, don't let this 
Brooke thing psych you out. You've got some of the best arms in the 
world right now. It'll be fine." 

Stef sighs, and her tits settle down onto her arms, then they spring 
back up again as she flexes. "Yeah, I guess. Whatever." 

"Where's Bon?" 

"I think she's playing backgammon with Lee Ann and Tiff again. They 
never should've watched that Hugh Hefner biography." 

"So we'll party later in the lounge?" 

"I guess so. I can't say I'm in much of a mood to party." 

"Are you in a mood to rub me down with this cream? Brooke came over and 
gave it to me, she was as good as her word. The stuff is fabulous. My 
bruises are already fainter. Look." 

Stef sits up and presses down with her palms on the bed frame so her 
triceps bulge big as thighs. She eyeballs me as I model my bruises, 
which are distinctly fainter. She nods, but her mind is elsewhere. "You 
saw her arms, Jen? Are they bigger than mine?" 

"In raw inches? I don't know. Maybe not. It's hard to tell, since she's 
so tall everything seems smaller than it really is. But her shape is 
awesome. A really rounded mass, real baseball biceps, but much bigger. 
The whole bicep is one big peak." 

"Fuck. I was hoping she would take her top off, but I wasn't sure I 
wanted to risk getting outgunned in front of everybody, especially right 
before the shoot. I'm supposed to have the biggest arms in this place." 

"Stef, don't worry about it. She's on a different drug than you. She's 
turned into a sideshow attraction." 

"And she's got two great sides to show." 

"Like, whatever. It's not your problem if she's bigger than you." 

Stef curls her fists up and watches her biceps inflate, the brachial 
arteries straining against her skin as she rotates her wrists. She's 
still swollen from all the curling she did before dinner, anticipating 
an arm showdown with Brooke. I quickly slip off my shorts and panties 
and tiptoe myself onto Stef's left arm, letting my wet crotch rub up and 
down her forearm. The veins run so big right up to her elbow I can feel 
them against my thighs. Stef works her arm up under me and I ride her 
bicep as she flexes the big muscles in a slow, steady rhythm. I'm making 
great clit contact with her peak, and I slide into a hypnotic hunching 
mode, standing up on my toes, gripping Stef's massive shoulder with both 
hands while I frig myself with her immense arm, which is now slick with 
my cunt juice like she coated it in muscle rub. When I start to get 
close, I step off the arm and start sucking Stef's big tits, trying to 
push them together and chew both huge pink nipples at once, but her tits 
are too big for that now, and there's too much heavy pec on her chest to 
get them that close. Stef starts moaning and pushes a hand into her 
panties, plunging fingers into herself, and I'm moaning too, rubbing my 
pussy against her knee as I suck. 

Then I climb on her right arm and hunch that muscle bunch for a bit, 
then Stef pulls her arm out from between my legs, practically rips her 
panties off and spins around with her head on the bed, her gorgeous 
full-blown ass in the air, the glutes flexing in anticipation. She wants 
a toss, she wants me to pay homage, and I understand, it's more than 
just her horniness. She's worried she's losing control, the Hards are 
over. I reassure her that everything's OK with a deep probing tongue up 
her sweet ass, my chin dripping in her lap sap, and after I ream her so 
good she's groaning with the pleasure, I turn her around, put her on the 
bed on her back, hold her bulging legs in the air and munch her cunt so 
fine she comes like a vise getting screwed down and she clamps my head 
so hard it nearly pops between her mighty thighs. I'm pinned between her 
legs like that, watching the violent contractions of her abdominals 
cycle down like concentric steel circles when Bonnie walks in. 

She doesn't say a word. We're on the same frequency, there's nothing to 
say. Bonnie snakes out of her t-shirt so she's titloose, then she pulls 
my top off so I'm bruised-all-over naked, takes me off the floor like I 
was a child with her hands firmly under my ass and sits me in front of 
her face with my legs over her shoulders. Then she starts flicking my 
stiff clit with a fat pink tongue that's vibrating like a tuning fork, 
and then Stef is behind me blowing hot air up my ass as she thumb-strums 
my clit like it was a Fender Twatocaster and in no time at all I'm 
coming like the dam broke, a wrenching spend that has me 
hyperventilating, my chest heaving, snot running out my nose and drool 
hanging off my lips like I was a moron in heat. 

Bon puts me down gently on the bed and smiles. "Shit, you came like a 
bitch, Jen." 

"So did I, just before," says Stef. "We needed that. Too much tension 
over Brooke. You want some lovin', Big Bon?" 

"I'll wait for the party in the lounge, babe. And I don't have any 
tension over Brooke, anyway. I'm gonna go barefists with her and I'm 
gonna beat her to a bloody mess. That's all there is to it." 

"So I guess I fight Nora," says Stef philosophically. 

"She wants you for sure," I go. "She's hated your guts since that 
strangling. And I guess I fight Glo." 

"And who fights Ice?" Bon wonders. "Flung? Her ex-girlfriend? That would 
be fucking ironic, after she fought Betty, her *former* ex-girlfriend. 
But Lee Ann and Tiff aren't big enough to take on Ice, not the way she's 
grown." 

"I'm not sure Flung's big enough either," says Stef. "That's up to Flung 
if she wants to tangle with Ice. But someone's got to. Ice has got to 
get her head handed to her for what she did to Wendy. Sara could maybe 
fight her when her throat heals." 

"Sara won't be big enough, either," I go. "But girls, speaking of 
fights, I was just in one yesterday. Rub me down with this cream, my 
body's cryin' for it." 

So we party in the lounge that night, and we even watch the tape with 
Brooke and Mary getting it on, and we all marvel at how much bigger 
Brooke is now, less than a year later. Ridiculous, it's fucking 
freakshow. Brooke stays down the hall, she doesn't bother us. She 
doesn't bother us at all. She goes back to taking her meals in her room, 
we never see her in the gym or the yard. We almost never run into her at 
all. 

The next day we meet with Marlow and try to work out the fight 
arrangements, and Marlow says she *does* want Brooke in the ring, Bon 
should call her out. Stef and Nora, me and Glo, Flung and Ice are just 
fine with our wonder warden. She'll nail down a date ASAP. Then we try 
to find out what charges Brooke is in on--like we ask Marlow to access 
the files for specific drug references--and Marlow shoos us all out, 
she's got an important videoconference with the commission, she claims. 
We suspect something's up, and clever Stef can guess what it is. "Marlow 
is taping all these fights, right?" she points out back in Hard Command. 
"She's gonna sell the tapes to collectors and make a bundle. That's why 
she wants Brooke to fight Bon. Battle of the Behemoths. People will pay 
a hundred bucks easy to own that tape." 

"Yeah, but won't Marlow lose her job when so many girls--all Nancies, by 
the way--are hospitalized all at the same time?" I muse. "Won't this get 
an investigation by the state into illegal boxing?" 

"Maybe Marlow knows her days are numbered here, and she just wants to 
cash in," Bon guesses. "Now I don't know if I should fight Brooke or 
not. It sounds like I'm doing it for Marlow." 

"What if we stipulate that we get the videotapes, no copies allowed?" 
Tiff suggests. "See if this sours Marlow on the whole idea?" 

"That's a good idea," says Stef. "I'll try it out on her tomorrow, after 
the shoot." 

"And what's up with the Brooke drug charge?" adds Lee Ann. "Marlow was 
holding out on us there. You think she plans to deal Brooke's drug too?" 

"Deal it to who?" I inquire. "Us?" 

"I wouldn't put it past her," says Stef. "What we need is inside 
information, like a tip from someone on the She Roids. We oughta call 
around, see if Michelle From Hell or Cindy and Courtney know anything. 
See if maybe Rhoda's on bail, or if that Chili chick who deals Largesse 
has any ideas. But let's get the shoot out of the way first." 

The photo shoot. The day Stef's been waiting for and training for. It 
was so clever of us to send Polaroids and a letter to Denise Massey back 
when Stef got so big. It's the morning of shoot day now. Denise and her 
crew are gonna be here at noon, and we're all as excited as schoolgirls. 
We jabber about it all through breakfast, teasing Stef about her 
impending stardom, then right after we eat things go instantly Tara. 
Stef is in the bathroom, while me, Flung and Bon are in her room just 
sitting around farting and belching from our usual morning pigout when 
we hear this intense commotion, grunting and groaning then screaming. We 
rush in, but we're too late. Stef is standing there, her eyes streaming 
tears, her face swelling up around the cheeks and brows like an angry 
volcano, and there on the floor is a new Nancy we don't know from a hole 
in the wall, who looks like she just *made* a hole in the wall. She's on 
the floor wailing in agony and kicking wildly with what must be two 
broken arms, they're hanging all funny off her, bent and useless. 

"Those fucking Nancies got to me after all, even from solly," Stef 
snarls, splashing handfuls of cold water on her face. "She Maced me or 
something! Then she combo'd my face so fast and hard it was like I was 
in a cartoon getting whiplash. I just had to charge into her, grab on 
and break stuff, I couldn't see a thing. I still can't! Is she compound 
fractured? Tell me she's bleeding bad with bones sticking out of her." 

"Nah," says Bon, "she's got no bones showing. Yet. But you put both her 
arms out of commission, for sure. She must be out of her mind to do 
something like this!" Bon shakes her sandals off in a rage and starts 
kicking the busted Nancy in the head with her big bare feet, making 
really nasty thudding sounds, the girl's eyes are spinning like fruit in 
a slot machine. Then she stomps down hard on the girl's nose twice with 
her sledge hammer-sized heel and gobs of blood squirt out all over the 
Nancy's white v-neck tee like Bon had stamped sideways on a plastic 
ketchup bottle. This turns my stomach and makes me think of the stomping 
I got or could have got, so I step in. 

I push Bon away and try to pin her bulk against the wall. "Stop it, Bon, 
you're too big for this, you're gonna kill this girl, and anyway there's 
no time for this shit, we've gotta get ice bags on Stef immediately and 
keep the swelling down." Bon comes to her senses and nods at me 
urgently, then she and Flung rush Stef off to the infirmary as Pretty 
Penny enters and calls for a stretcher for the Nancy on her walkie 
talkie. She seems to grok the whole scene in an instant. She bends down 
and searches under the sinks and comes up with a can of pepper spray. 
"I'm so sorry, Jen," she says, her voice cracking, overcome with emotion 
again just like when she looked down on my kicked carcass in the hall 
after my stomping. "You shouldn't have let Stef go anywhere alone, not 
even the toilet stall. It figures Nora would do something like this. She 
hates Stef's guts and there are plenty of new Nancies who'll try to make 
a name for themselves like this. It cost this stupid girl dearly. What a 
fucking waste." 

"Who is this girl, Penny?" 

"Her name's Risa, she just got in a couple days ago, hasn't even got a 
handle yet. Was a star lacrosse player at Santa Netta. Pretty rugged 
girl. Must have a screw loose, though, or else they threatened her with 
death." 

"Yeah," is all I can say as they strap the now blood-soaked and 
unconscious girl down and cart her away to County. This Risa looks about 
5-8, 170, has at least 15-inch arms and must hit pretty damn hard. 
Fucking lucky thing Stef took her out so fast. "So Nora has no problem 
communicating with the general pop from the brig?" 

"Are you kidding?" Penny harrumphs. "That fucking Scuzzy Ethel can get 
the Nancies anything they want. And she's done just that. I'm thinking 
about taking her out myself. She deserves it." 

"Does Marlow know what Ethel is doing?" 

Then Marlow pushes through the door, looking stricken. "Do I know what, 
Jen?" 

"That Scuzzy Ethel is the go-between that made the deal with Nora and 
this new Nancy who just got her arms busted to work over Stef?" 

"If that's true, I'll have Ethel fired. Or I'll try to. There'll have to 
be a hearing. The guards have a union, you know. Unless I get fired 
first. How am I gonna explain two broken arms to the commissioner and 
the cancellation of the photo shoot that was gonna put this place on the 
map? The good map, for a change." 

"The shoot has to be cancelled?!" I blurt in a panic. "Stef is so bad 
she can't be photographed?" 

"I don't know. Let's go to the infirmary and see." 

It's too late to cancel, the Sinew team is already on their way. We keep 
Stef on ice till Denise Massey shows up, and we also put some of 
Brooke's cream on her. It can't hurt. We'll let Denise make the call, 
this is her show. She's wearing a Sinfully Sinew official sports bra and 
bike shorts, and she looks even better than she does in the picture that 
runs with her monthly column. We all fawn over her and tell her how much 
we love her writing and her pictorials, and she fawns over us and tells 
us how much she loves our bods, then she checks out the star after 
getting the lowdown on the attack. Stef is bruised pretty badly on the 
right side of her face with a black eye swollen half shut and a lumpy 
purple cheek. The other side isn't as bad. She wasn't hit in the nose or 
mouth, thank Tonya. Denise turns her head this way and that way in the 
light, then announces, "All we need is a pair of hip wraparound shades 
on her. The bruised cheek and brow that'll show will look cool. I'll 
explain in the copy that she was jumped the morning of the shoot. It'll 
sound good. This is prison, after all." 

What a relief. Stef, on a massive adrenaline flood, pumps up her guns 
superbig and we go ahead with the session, which lasts about an hour. 
Stef works her way through a range of sexy getups; the stylist puts her 
hair up, back and down; she handles bells on camera, gets measured on 
camera and just generally poses so long and hard she can barely move 
when it's over. But we all have a total fucking ball. Denise does her 
own photography, and she's great behind the lens, really psyching Stef 
up to project every ounce of her size and charisma. 

Denise, who is not the least bit stuck up despite her rep in the muscle 
world, has lunch with us at our table afterwards, and is really generous 
in her praise. She knows about me from my wrestling days, and she 
implies that I would make a great shoot one day too, not to mention Big 
Bon. Then Brooke shows up, in the usual warmup suit. I was afraid this 
might happen. 

"Jesus H. Christ, who's the 50-foot woman?" Denise exclaims, as Brooke 
is making a beeline for our table. 

"Hi, everyone," she says, towering over us. There's no available chair 
for her to sit in, thank Tonya. "I heard all about the attack on Stef 
from Penny, and I just want you to know I had absolutely nothing to do 
with it. I didn't know about it, and if I had known about it, I would 
have prevented it. I'm glad the shoot came off anyway, and, Stef, your 
arms look great." 

Stef, who's sitting there in her wraparound Speedos and filled-to-
bursting Sinfully Sinew sports bra--a gift from Denise--smiles. She's so 
superpumped, every time she brings her fork to her face her bicep gets 
there first. Denise brought a Weider Meter, and Stef hit an official 
21.8 righty and a 21.7 lefty, and I'm wondering if Brooke can match 
those massive numbers. "That's mighty big of you, Brooke," Stef says. "I 
appreciate it." 

"Mighty big indeed," says Denise, extending a hand way up to the giant 
girl. "I'm Denise Massey from Sinfully Sinew. They didn't tell me there 
was a human tree in here." 

Brooke smiles and does her big brown eye-batting routine, turning on the 
charm. "I'm Brooke, I'm new here. Nice to meet you. I love your 
magazine. The Amy Fisher layouts make me cream my Calvins. Maybe I could 
do a photo shoot someday too. I've got a pretty good body." Then she 
goes one better than my doorway display and unzips the top *all the 
way*, leaving herself bare down to her silky brown pussy thatch, where 
her sweatpants are riding low and tight. She's got her back to the rest 
of the room, so the show's just for us, and the pecs, which are rolling 
in amazing sinuous waves--the nips bobbing like corks in a jacuzzi like 
Brooke has spent years tit dancing at a fit-strip club--are making 
Denise's entire face bulge, and then Brooke *flexes* the abs, she 
doesn't just inhale, and the gut muscle pops out in such a fucking 
defined ultra washboard it makes me feel grubby like I need a scrubbing. 

"Fuck me with a lamppost!" Denise exclaims poking the solid granite of 
Brooke's midsection with a sturdy finger. "This girl's kind of put 
together, wouldn't you say?" The next thing we know she demands that 
Brooke pull a chair up to the table and we spend the rest of the meal 
talking about her 6-8-1/2 spectacular self and her mind-boggling 
transformation. She won't tell Denise anything either, though, like what 
drug she's on, so we still don't find out anything useful. In the 
meantime, she steals Stef's thunder, but at least the shoot went OK and 
Denise says Stef's pics will be great. After lunch Denise gets 
permission to drop by Brooke's room to "check her out" and take some 
test shots for a future shoot. 

"Good," says Stef, back in the room, rubbing the mystery cream all over 
her sore biceps. "This means Brooke has a reason to keep her face 
pretty." 

Denise already pointed out that bruises are cool in prison pics, but I 
don't say anything. 

--30--