She's bigger where it counts
By Elascan  elaw3670@gmail.com 
He thought he was big and bad. He thought she was small.


Kent was new in school. It was the same old story, just like his freshman year
and his sophomore year: his foster parents couldn't handle him, they sent him
back. He got reassigned. Got put in a new house on a new block; went to a new
school.

He laid a beating on his last "father". He was a pussy anyhow. He tried to
"discipline" Kent with his belt. Kent disciplined him with his bear-sized
fists, then his Louisville Slugger. Kent told him if he went to the cops, Kent
would come back when he got out of Juevy and finish the job. Balled up on the
floor, with the six-and-a-half foot tall sixteen year old looming over him,
the tiny man saw the sense in keeping his stupid mouth shut.

Kent looked around the cafeteria. He knew how to play "new kid". He walked up
to the biggest boy in a table full of big boys.

"Did you see that hit?" The boy was saying, "I put him in the underbrush." He
threw his cinder block of a head, tossing his longish blonde bangs out of his
eyes.

Across the table, a black boy with tight, curly hair dyed blue laughed, "Yeah.
I thought Miller was gonna land in the Hudson!" His laughter died as he saw
Kent looming over his friend. He nodded. The first boy turned and looked up,
up, up, till his eyes met Kent's. He said, "Wassup, man? You lost or
something?" He gave his friends a bemused look. It met a bout of uneasy
chuckling.

Kent rocked back and drove his fist into the boy's face, connecting solidly
with his nose. Blood gushed forth and the boy wailed, holding his shattered
face. The front of his Georgemont varsity hoodie went from yellow to red. Most
of the boys jumped back.

One of them, a small red head, stood up, "What the fuck, man?"

Kent smiled toothily at him, "I don't like his face."

"You gonna be sorry about that," the boy replied.

Kent stared hard at him, "You think you can make me sorry?"

The boy shook his head. Kent spotted an adult in a suit and tie pushing his
way through the silent cafeteria. Kent was off and running in an instant.
Teens scurried or jumped to avoid the enormous boy as he charged the cafeteria
doors, which led directly outside. The adult called after him, "Stop, you! I
got a right to make you stop!"

The calls silenced as the cafeteria door slammed shut behind Kent. Luckily, no
one was in the small courtyard. He glanced around. A dumpster sat against the
far brick wall, half-a-story below the low hanging roof. Kent made a beeline
for it.

The calls returned as Kent pulled the last of his bulk onto the roof. He
bolted across the top of the school, they faded fast behind him.

Kent strolled along a foot path that followed the Hudson, less than a mile
from Georgemont High. He took a long drag from one of the smokes he lifted
from the town general minutes after the cafeteria. He liked that the school
was right next to downtown, it gave him stuff to do, stuff to take.

When he returned to Georgemont, it would be as the most feared boy in school.
No one knew him. He hadn't said word one. That was the key; kids try to figure
him out right off. Try to size him up. They don't know a thing about him. He
fills that void with fear, he's the boogeyman. They respect him. Kent learned
quick that fear was the road to respect.

As he considered, a soft, feminine voice manifested from behind. "Hey big
boy."

Kent jumped. He spun and, seeing nothing, looked down. Standing there was the
prettiest girl he'd ever seen. Her perfectly formed face framed a pair of big,
brown eyes, with full lips below, and a button nose between. She smiled at
him, twirling her long, curly blonde hair. She craned her neck, the top of her
head reaching his waist. No way she was over five foot. He scowled at her,
"Where you come from?"

She put her hand over her mouth and giggled, "Back there, silly," she said,
pointing down the path. "So, you must be the big, bad boy who beat up on
Brock."

Kent grinned, putting his thumb to his chest "Yeah, that's me alright. You
like bad boys?"

She smiled, "Bad boys are my favorite."

Kent's grin stretched to wicked proportions, "I can be real bad," he said and
he grabbed her by her Georgemont varsity hoodie. She stepped back, ripping
free of his grip. He couldn't understand how she did it. But he didn't care to
figure it out, instead reaching for her again. She ducked and spun away. "Come
on," he said, "lemme show you how bad I can be."

"You wanna show me how bad you can be?"

"Yeah."

She nodded toward a picnic table that sat just off the trail, "come arm
wrestle me then."

Ken just stared, "Armwrestle?! You? What the hell for?"

She shrugged, "oh I'm sorry. I thought you wanted to impress me. Never mind."
She turned and started to walk away.

Kent stared at her wide ass as her round cheeks swayed with each step. Drool
seeped out the corner of his mouth. "Impress you? I just beat up the biggest
guy in your stupid little school. What's so impressive about I beat a little
girl at arm wrestling?"

She looked over her shoulder, "I'd be impressed. And I am not little, I'm 14
and I'm a freshman."

Kent gave her a skeptical look, "yeah but you're," he waved his arms,
encompassing her body, "small. You'd just get hurt trying to arm wrestle me.
I'm bigger than most full grown men. I hurt them all the time."

She turned around, "I'm not small everywhere. I'm just short. And I like
hurting. But I guess you don't want to give me what I like."

Kent figured she meant her boobs, which seemed a good size, though it was hard
to tell with her hoodie being three sizes too big for her, hanging down past
her knees. "Let me see where you're big."

She shook her finger at him, "Not yet. Do what I want and you'll find out soon
enough."

It was all the convincing he needed. "Fine, you want hurting, I can give you
hurting. I can give you whatever you want, 'cause I'm the biggest and the
baddest." He walked over to the picnic table and sat down.

She sat across from him and put her arm up. Kent didn't even look at it, just
reached out dismissively and grabbed her tiny hand. His enveloped hers, his
forefingers nearly touching his thumb. She smiled innocently. "Ready?"

Kent grunted. She said, "go."

Hell, if she wanted get hurt, Kent was more than happy to do it. He decided to
slam her tiny fist to the table, make her sorry she asked for it. He pushed
his arm forward with all his might. Somehow, in some way that didn't make a
lick of sense, it didn't move. Kent heard something stretching. He looked down
and gasped. Her forearm was stretching the fabric of her hoodie. "Jesus," he
said, red faced and straining, unable to budge the tiny girl's arm, "what
kinda trick you pulling?"

"Trick?" She replied calmly, no hint of effort in her voice. "I'm stronger
than you."

"No goddamned chance," Kent shot back, between grunts.

"Oh yeah?" She asked, "let's see whose forearm is bigger, then."

Kent eyed the stretched fabric on her forearm, doubt starting to chip away at
his bravado. Nah, he thought, she probably washed it too many times. He threw
her hand away in disgust, rolled up his sleeve and slammed his forearm down.
"What you got? My forearm's half as wide as a ruler is long."

She yanked her sleeve up past her forearm, tearing it in half. She put her arm
down next to his. Her forearm dwarfed his. His voice was a whisper, "how the
hell..."

She smiled, "I told you I'm not small everywhere. My forearm's wider than a
ruler is long. I guess that makes it more than twice as big as yours!" She put
her hand to her mouth in mock shock.

Kent's face went redder with rage. He slammed his elbow back on the table. "I
don't care how big your little forearm is. I'm gonna slam your little hand so
hard your fingers end up in a different state!"

She eagerly snatched his hand. He pushed with everything he had. His body
shook, he leaned his shoulder to the table. The girl just sat there and
smiled. The veins in her massive forearm surged. They looked like vines
growing up a tree. The middle of her forearm sunk deeply as the muscles
exploded with power. He pushed against it with all he had. It never budged. It
was like pushing a wall.

She motioned to their arms, "now who's 'small'?" He did feel like the small
one when he watched their arms. Her tiny, manicured hand and petit wrist lead
to a forearm that was half as wide as his chest. His arm looked like a
toothpick next to hers.

"Ready?" she asked. She forced his arm a quarter of the way down, her
foot-wide forearm easily overpowering his. "Come on, big boy, can't you stop
me?" She asked in a flirty tone. Then she forced his arm halfway down, never
taking her eyes off of him. His eyeballs were about to burst from his skull,
yet she forced him down effortlessly. His hand was almost on the table now;
his arm shook as he desperately tried to keep it off. She pulled his hand back
up. He tried to press the advantage, but she forced his arm back down. She
pulled him back and forth over and over, faster and faster. His arm screamed
in pain, brutalized by her thicker one.

"Knock it off," he growled.

She smiled, "remember when I said I like hurting?" She eased off. He instantly
brought them back to even. His arm stopped dead. Her forearm bulged to even
greater proportions. Her tiny hand squeezed his in a bone crushing grip. She
grunted loudly and rocketed his arm into the picnic table. A sickening crack
sounded as wood splinters exploded into the air. She pulled her hand away and
he gaped at what was beneath. Four inches into the shattered wood lay a skin
pancake. For a long minute he just stared, his eyes wide as an owl's. Then he
screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed. Tears ran down his cheeks.
Looking at her gorgeous, terrible, smiling face, he screamed, "You bitch! You
bitch!"

She shook her head. "I'm not a bitch. I'm Brock's bitch."

She started climbing over the table.