THE FIRST STEP
by John Castle - written for DTM / Amy's Conquest
Based on a true story, of when our very own author was first introduced to the world of tall, powerful, sexy female muscle.


This is a true story. That is to say, it's as close to the truth as a guy
who's 36 years old can accurately remember regarding events that happened over
half his lifetime earlier. The events I'm going to relate to you in this story
are the ones that set me on the path that led to me writing stories like this,
stories which I hope you've all enjoyed as much as I've enjoyed writing them
for you.

Every writer, musician, artist, actor, director, producer - really, any kind
of creative professional - has one event, or sometimes a series of events,
that he or she can look back on and say, "That's what started it." Well, for
me, a writer who pens stories about female muscle domination, wrestling, being
squeezed in the dangerously powerful thighs of strong, controlling, just
slightly (or maybe not so slightly) sadistic, horny girls, well... this is
what started it.

**********

I was sixteen years old and starting my sophomore year at John Marshall High
School. Although the school itself was and still is kind of famous in its own
right - it's been in I don't even know how many movies, TV episodes, music
videos, and it has more than its share of famous alumni - it's probably not
too different from any other high school, at least during my time there.

You have all the usual cliques - the nerds, the jocks, the goths, the emo
kids - well, they were just goths back in those days. And then you have the
kids like me, who didn't really fit into any of those groups. I would have
been a nerd, I guess, but I wasn't into the things the nerds were into. I was
more interested in Raymond Chandler novels than Dungeons & Dragons, and I
liked old Orson Welles flicks better than I liked the movie Hackers, or
whichever Star Trek spinoff was on the air back then.

Basically, I was a loner - but this was before Columbine, so back then being
a loner wasn't something people got all freaked out over. It didn't hurt that
my usual hobbies - reading old novels, writing short stories, watching old
movies, writing short films - put me in the same mold as a lot of the more
famous alumni of the school. I was weird, but I was an okay kind of weird, the
school's traditional, nodded-at-and-tacitly-approved-of kind of weird.

It was during my lunch hour, though - I believe it was mid September, we were
just getting rolling with the school year - that my nice little illusion of
being if not exactly popular, then at least accepted, came up against a brick
wall, hard.

The sun was bright and warm on my lunch hour that day - I remember that
because I remember having to try to think of a way to explain the bloodstains
on my t-shirt, first to my English teacher Mr. Ferguson, and then to my
parents later that afternoon when I got home.

Sorry, didn't mean to get ahead of myself there. Anyway, I sat alone on one of
the benches that lined the school's courtyard, idly munching on the BLT I'd
packed myself, Reacting to that odd sensation we all get when someone is
standing over you, I looked up. There were Mike Strickland, Sam Segovian and
Bobby Vincent. I didn't know their names at the time, of course, but
everything comes out in the paperwork.

"Hey." Mike smirked. "You're sitting on our bench." He stood there with his
arms crossed over his chest, flanked by Sam on one side and Bobby on the
other.

I guess my reaction wasn't what they were hoping for, and it wasn't a smart
one, but I couldn't help it - it was out of me before I could rein it in. I
laughed. "Seriously?" I asked. "Did you hear yourself just then? Do you know
what the word 'cliche' means?"

I didn't even see Mike's Converse sneaker moving, but it smacked into my hand
like a freight train and my one-third-eaten sandwich went flying in an
explosion of bread (with mayo), lettuce and tomatoes like a burst of unusually
nutritious fireworks. And, as sometimes happens in moments like that, my brain
actually manufactured that exact phrase, on the spot - "unusually nutritious
fireworks." That that phrase managed to surface just now, as I'm recalling
this for you, is to me equally as remarkable as the circumstances under which
it first came to me.

I sighed, shook a gob of mayo from the back of my finger, shook my head.
"Okay." I said in a resigned-sounding voice. They wanted a fight, they were
bound and determined - might as well get it over with.

I had a pretty good idea what Mike expected my next move to be - jumping up
off the bench. Well, that would have been the logical next move - so I made
an [i]illogical[/i] next move. As he raised his foot to try to pin me to the
bench, I reached out with my right hand to grab the Big Gulp sized paper cup
full of Coke next to me and pivoted my upper body counter-clockwise just as he
pushed his foot toward the bench's backrest.

His foot glanced off my shit and planted itself to the backrest as my hand
arced up along a diagonal line and pegged him full in the face with the cup,
which exploded in a red-brown spray of carbonated fizz. At the same time, I
pushed off the back of the bench with my left hand to launch myself up and
toward him -

But the aim wasn't to hit him. Hard-headed idiots, which most bullies are,
tend not to be fazed in the slightest by a good stiff punch in the jaw,
regardless of what Hollywood likes to pimp out. When it comes to a bully,
especially one that's bigger than you are, their egos are involved - and when
somebody puts his ego into picking a fight, he'll keep right after it until he
just flat-out can't fight anymore. So you don't go for a punch in the nose.
You get right down to the business of making sure he can't fight.

That's why I slammed my heel into his kneecap with everything I had and hoped
like hell it would be enough. It was enough - at least enough to put him on
his ass long enough for me to get my feet under me. As far as taking the fight
out of him - he climbed to his feet, favoring the other leg enough for me to
be satisfied that - bare minimum - I could have outrun him.

And then we get to the other Hollywood myth about bullies - that when there's
a group of them and you put the leader out of action, his friends will just
pull a quick fade. Well, dear reader, I'm here to tell you that that is not
how it works in the real world. They hang out together for a reason. That
reason is, they're buds. They see the world the same way. They have a unity of
purpose. And every single one of them thinks that he is the leader,
apparently, or at the very least, every single one of them wishes he was. And
failing that? Even if they are just henchmen? They all want to make the grade
with the leader.

Which is why I didn't get three steps before Sam and Bobby caught my t-shirt,
and then me. "The fuck do you think you're goin', huh?" Bobby barked, and
before I could answer, Sam dropped an atomic bomb of a punch square in my gut
that saw me sag in their tandem grip.

It didn't take Mike too long to get back to his feet. That was more than a
little disappointing, but not unexpected; he was a big guy even for a high
school sophomore - and I remember thinking, in another of those detached,
clinical thoughts, that it must've been because he'd been one until he was 19
years old.

He didn't say anything. We'd moved beyond pre-fight banter and wisecracks. I
remember seeing him wind up for the punch, but I don't remember seeing him
actually throw it. There was just a loud 'crack!' and white light throughout
my field of vision, then I felt a little sick.

The next thing I remember was hearing a totally new voice, "Hey! Stop it!" I
looked up - from just in front of the bench, and at the time I couldn't even
remember how I ended up there. It was a girl's voice, and as my head began to
clear, I figured that would be the end of the fight - well, there was a 50/50
shot of that.

Bullies fall into two camps - there are the ones that are trying to get
popular, and they don't quite have the confidence to do much more than pull a
threaten-and-fade deal when they're discovered. They're not really sure of
themselves yet, see. Then there are the bullies who are popular. They're the
ones who either don't give a rat's ass if anybody sees them up to their
villainy, or they go out of their way to turn the villainy up to 11
specifically because they have a crowd to play to.

Well, this sounded like just one girl, and just one girl doesn't make for a
crowd - okay, most girls don't. This girl was a very possible exception. My
lip was split and beginning to sting - I wiped it with the back of my hand,
not even to pull the cliche move of looking at it. That sort of faded away as
I saw her, though.

Her. There are a million words and no words for her. I've tried four dozen
times, in various stories, to capture the image I saw that day in the
California sun as the trailing edge of summer faded away at the advance of
fall. I don't think I've ever really done her justice. I don't think anybody's
mere words can, but I'll give it another try.

It might not be flattering, but the first word that came to my mind when I saw
Molly was giantess. Nothing else really captured the game my eyes and my brain
were playing with each other as she approached the bench in the courtyard,
because while her build was that of a girl half again too muscular to be a
cheerleader but with all the right curves and plenty of them, my eyes and
brain couldn't resolve exactly how far away she was.

A gust of wind kicked up and brushed my hair over my cheek and neck - I had
long hair back then, down to my shoulders - it barely touched hers because
she was blocked from it by a tree that I knew was about twenty feet away. That
didn't jibe with what my eyes were telling me, which was that she was only
five feet away. But as she got closer, she got... bigger. If she'd been five
feet away, she'd have been a petite 5'2" or so, though her face seemed
unusually small for that height.

But by the time she reached us, her face was a normal size. The rest of her,
however, was anything but. Mike, Sam and Bobby had to crane their necks back,
and each one of them had a good six inches on my scrawny, runt-of-the-litter
5'6". "What are you," Mike sneered, "his girlfriend or somethin'?"

She flicked her vibrant green eyes down at me and the corner of her lips
twitched upward. But as quickly as she'd looked at me, those eyes were back on
Mike - and then she said something that both confused and excited me.
"Jealous?"

He stood there visibly fuming. Clearly, he didn't like being outsmarted,
although I was pretty sure that most kitchen appliances could do that job. For
my part, I couldn't stop staring. She wore a miniskirt - though I couldn't
figure whether it was supposed to be so mini or whether it just couldn't help
being that way on her. Her hips were as wide as two of me stood shoulder to
shoulder, and her legs were just insane. There was no way human legs could be
that big, yet I was staring at mind-altering proof that I was wrong.

Her thighs were monstrous, and I mean that at the time they looked like
something you'd see on a monster. Each one was as thick as Mike's linebacker
chest, never mind my puny torso, and the muscular definition in them was
something I'd never seen before, anywhere. Cords of marble muscle as thick as
my forearm descended from the hem of the miniskirt to divide the inner thighs
from a teardrop shaped muscle bigger than my head. The sides of those thighs
were deeply creased with the division between quadriceps and hamstring. Her
outer thighs seemed to stand a full foot out from her knees like
gravity-defying walls, and her calves were the size of basketballs.

Her upper body, though not as large as her lower body - this girl was all
legs - and hips, and ass, and tits... but I digress. Her upper body, sheathed
in a sleeveless olive-green turtleneck, was equally as well developed, with
broad shoulders and thick upper arms sporting softball sized biceps, gigantic
horseshoes of triceps. Her forearms sported thick cords of muscle that tapered
to almost strikingly slim, long-fingered hands tipped with nail polish the
color of carbon to match her lipstick

Her tits... good God, I still lay awake at night trying to fall asleep against
the memory of her tits. I never did have the balls to ask her, but there's no
way in the world they could have been natural. For one thing, no girl with abs
that are not only etched but stand out like hers did could have enough bodyfat
to have tits that size. For another... they were that size, and that size was
twice the size of my head, each. I'd guess somewhere in the neighborhood of 54
H. The rest of her measurements, by the way, were 42-58, at a height of 6 foot
8 and a weight of three hundred twenty pounds

Her face wasn't exactly pretty in the conventional sense - maybe it was the
raven-black page-boy hairstyle she wore, but her prominent, slightly angular
cheekbones, wide Irish face and rounded chin made her look severe, stern, like
a goddess but one of war, not love. Of course, her reaction to Mike's next
remark didn't do a thing to dispel that impression. Not a thing.

"Well, that figures," he smirked. "only piece of ass freaky writer boy here
could get would be a circus freak."

"Sweetie," she smiled, and it was a smile of sweetness and light that parted
her plump lips and showed off pearly white teeth. "I think I misunderstood you
just then. Would you mind repeating that?" She took one step closer to him,
and with that one step, covered the four feet of distance between them to
stand towering over him. I did some quick math in my head, not believing what
I was seeing. He was a good head and shoulders taller than I was - she was
head, shoulders and almost tits taller than he was, and if she'd stepped even
a little bit closer, his face would have been buried between them.

As it was, he stepped back - he had to in order to look her in the eye over
the colossal promontory of her breasts - and said the most stupid thing he
could possibly have said. "I said," he growled, "you're a freak. You should be
locked up in a c-"

He didn't get the rest out. I'd thought he'd thrown a punch fast, but I didn't
even see her hand move until she was returning it to rest on her hip. I heard
the slap, though - I'm pretty sure people inside the nearby buildings heard
it; it was so loud that Sam, Bobby and I all together winced as though it had
been us who had been slapped.

Mike, on the other hand, probably never heard a thing, because that slap took
him off his feet and drove him to the ground hard enough to knock his left
shoe off and leave him laying there like a discarded toy. She bent down, felt
his neck, and ascended to her full height again, which was astonishing. She'd
actually slapped him so hard she was worried she might've killed him. He was
only unconscious.

Sam, for his part, stood there frozen. Bobby looked down at Mike, at the
runnel of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, and wasn't much smarter.
He charged at the towering figure with a roar of, hell, I don't even know what
he was thinking. Manly outrage at seeing a girl so handily pound his jock
friend into the turf with a girlish slap. Loyalty to a complete douchebag. I
don't know what it was, but whatever his dumb animal motive was, he charged
right at her like a brainless bull.

What happened next was actually hilarious and set me off laughing again
immediately after I saw and, more importantly, heard it - it was really the
sound he made that was so funny. Just as it looked like his hauling-ass,
arms-spread-wide tackle was going to connect, she bent slightly at the knees,
caught him by the collar of his shirt and the crotch of his jeans, pivoted on
her heels, took a step and threw him bodily through the air. The sound he made
was something like, "Rrrrrrraaaaaaaawwwwwaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiigghhhhh!!!"

He sailed clean over another of the benches, then continued on for a few feet
until he was caught by one of the tall, Christmas-fruitcake-thick hedges that
line the outer perimeter of the courtyard, where he immediately set about
yelling like a scalded cat as he tried to extricate himself from the rough,
tightly-interwoven branches and spiked leaves.

Sam, who hadn't moved during the brief but brutal battle, still couldn't; not
even when she took another step back from launching his friend to tower over
him now. "Your friends are retards," she remarked to him mildly. "Are you?"
And poor Sam, who had probably been corralled into the whole thing by Mike,
who I found out later after we actually became good friends hadn't even had a
problem with me in the history of ever and who only went along with it so he
wouldn't get beat up himself... poor Sam just whimpered as a dark spot at the
crotch of his jeans started to grow, and then to stink.

"You should probably run now." she suggested, and so he did.

She looked down at me - I still sat on the bench, and all I could do was
stare back. "You're bleeding all over yourself." she remarked. I looked down
and saw that my split lip had decorated my t-shirt a bit. I nodded. "Looks
that way."

"Come on," she half-turned and started to head back toward the rotunda; she
paused when she noticed that I was still frozen in place. She reached back and
seized my upper arm in a grip that was painfully tight and hauled me after
her. It took some quick footwork on my part to stay on my feet.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, though it came out more as a squeak than as the manly
expression of indignation I might have liked. She turned and flashed a smile
down over her shoulder at me.

"Would you rather I carry you?" I stared up at her slack-jawed, not entirely
sure what I would answer something like that with; it didn't much matter,
though, because she spun and with feline grace and speed scooped me up into
her arms, those bright green eyes framed by long lashes and black eyeliner
staring down at me with a fusion of mirth and what I would come to recognize
later as triumph and satisfaction. "Got you now." she smiled.

There was a whole catalogue of things I began to notice as the pain in my lip
began to subside. First there was the fact that I was late getting back from
lunch; next, that I hadn't gotten to finish my lunch and I was still hungry.
Then I began to notice things more specifically about her. She held me tightly
enough that I knew there was, first, no way that she would drop me and,
second, that there was no way I was getting loose until she was good and ready
to put me down.

Then, as a light breeze whispered her bangs across her forehead a little, I
began to notice the scent of her. Mostly it was just soap and water - she
didn't use much makeup, and apparently she didn't use any perfume or perfumed
bath stuff. Under the scent of soap there was the scent of girl. There was a
little hint of perspiration, light and sweet, though as she smiled down at me
again I knew it wasn't from carrying my scrawny hundred and forty pounds. And
there was something mixed into that that at only 16, I couldn't identify.

The next thing I noticed about her was, well, that she was cradling me right
up against those magnificent tits of hers and that, more significantly, I
could feel something small and round and hard pressed tightly against my upper
arm. I knew what that was - I might've only been a nerdy high school kid, but
I'd seen enough of my old man's Hustler back issues to know a hard nipple when
I felt one. Instantly, the erection I'd been unaware of - or maybe tried to
ignore - went from quarter-mast to full-on flagpole.

And then the thing I feared most happened. She looked down - looked right at
it - and giggled. "I guess you like big girls, huh?"

I didn't know what to say. My mind was a blank, and for a guy who even then
fancied himself the next Stephen King, that was a hell of a thing. When I
finally opened my mouth, exactly the wrong words came out of it, "I don't
know..." A frown flickered across her pretty face, her brow furrowing a
little, and I tried for a Hail Mary pass of a save, "I just mean, I never met
a girl as big as you before. But..."

She huffed, but she didn't put me down. She just gave me a look of
long-suffering patience. "Do you want me to put you down?"

"No!" that came out clearly enough. She let a smile tug at the corners of her
mouth but didn't let it bloom. I couldn't fight my own. "I think maybe I do
like big girls." I confessed. "It's just... most girls don't even notice me,
so I guess I never thought about..." I trailed off, worried I'd say something
else that would do damage.

"You're adorable." she stunned me again by letting her smile show, her green
eyes sparkling.

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