City Girls
By Karma
A country boy learns a lesson from two young city girls.


Several years ago I spent a summer working for a neighborhood farmer.  I did 
many jobs for him that year, many of which involved hard, tasking manual 
labor.  I helped him milk the cows twice each day, morning and evening.  I 
was responsible for feeding the cows as well, ensuring that they had enough 
hay and feed, and also cleaned up what came out of the other end when they 
were finished eating.  I worked in the fields, doing much of the plowing, 
seeding and cultivating.  I did odd jobs around the farm, from sharpening 
blades to welding equipment to cleaning up after almost every task.

The most physically demanding tasks came during haying season, when the 
fresh-cut alfalfa was baled and the bales stored in the barn’s haymow for later 
use.  This was in the days before the use of over-sized bales became 
common, and before the use of ‘bale-throwers’ that made baling a one-person 
operation.  In those days a person (usually me) would ride on a wagon pulled 
behind the baler, taking each bale as it came from the machine and stacking it 
on the wagon for later removal and storage.  This work was hot, dusty and 
hard, as I spent much of each day carrying, stacking and lifting 30-50 pound 
bales of hay.

I was proud of my increased strength and stamina.  I wasn’t very tall - only 
about 5’ 6" - and weighed about 150 pounds, but I had a wiry strength that 
the work soon enhanced.  My boss - let’s call him Frank - was an overweight 
chain-smoker who was barely able to walk across a room without becoming 
out of breath, so most of the difficult work fell on my shoulders.

One day, when we were in the midst of haying season, Frank announced that 
we were going to have some company.  His sister and family would be 
coming to visit.  I was less than excited by this news, since they were city 
people, and I was afraid that I would end up being enlisted to entertain the 
kids.  The next day the visitors arrived.  To my dismay and disgust, the family 
consisted of the mother and father and two daughters.  The daughters were 
named Amy and Rebecca (while this is a true story, the names have been 
changed to protect the not-so-innocent).  Amy was my age, 15, while 
Rebecca was a year older.

At lunch that day, my worst fears came true.  Frank suggested to me that one 
of the girls could help us as we unloaded several wagons of hay bales.  I 
made my reluctance perfectly clear, earning glares from Frank and the girls.  I 
rather grudgingly agreed, and after lunch we headed for the barn.  Rebecca, 
the older daughter, volunteered to be my ‘helper.’  We went up into the 
haymow (a cavernous storage area above the main barn) while Frank 
maneuvered the first wagon into position and started the conveyer belt.  The 
theory was simple.  Frank would put the bales onto the conveyer, which 
carried them into the haymow.  At the top, the bales would drop onto the 

floor, where we would pick them up, carry them, and stack them with the 
others already there.

I gave Rebecca a rudimentary overview of the procedure then signaled Frank 
to begin.  The bales arrived with monotonous regularity, and establishing a 
rhythm was necessary so one didn’t fall too far behind. The bales began to 
arrive.  Rebecca, dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt (necessary to prevent 
any scratches from the dry hay), boots and gloves, watched for a while.  
Soon, she too began lifting bales and carrying them.  I was surprised when 
she seemed to have little difficulty in keeping up with my pace.  I was further 
surprised when she seemed perfectly capable of lifting the bales up into place 
on the stack.

I finally managed to both compliment her and stick my foot in my mouth at 
the same time.  "Not bad," I said.  "For a girl!"

This earned me an icy glare, and she renewed her efforts to keep up the pace.  
Successful efforts, I might add, as I was soon racing to keep up with her, and, 
when the first wagon was unloaded, collapsed thankfully to rest while Frank 
pulled up another wagon.

Rebecca almost sneered as she watched me.  "What’s wrong?" she asked 
disdainfully.  "Can’t you even keep up with a girl?"

I just glared at her.  Finally I got up.  "Look," I explained carefully.  "The fact 
that you can lift a few little bales doesn’t mean anything.  I have to keep this 
up all day..."

"What do you mean, it doesn’t mean anything?  I’ve been throwing these 
bales around just as easily as you have.  I’m pretty damn strong! Maybe as 
strong as you are!"

I grunted.  She stood over me, hands on hips, glaring at me.  I looked up at 
her.  She was about my height, though I outweighed her by a good twenty 
pounds.  "Yeah, I’ll admit you’re stronger than I expected.  But stronger than 
me?  No way!"

She glared at me some more, then a gleam came into her eyes.  "Tell you 
what," she said.  "Let’s see who can stack the most bales for the next load.  
That’ll settle the issue."

I laughed and agreed.  A few minutes later the conveyer started up again and 
we were off.  I must regretfully admit that she worked incredibly hard and 
incredibly fast, since when we were done she had stacked five more bales 
than I had.  To make matters worse, when I was lifting the last bale up, I had 
trouble hoisting it, and it fell back to the floor.  With a grin and a flourish, 
Rebecca lifted it and tossed it effortlessly into place.

Standing back and brushing the dust off her gloves, she grinned at me.  
"Okay, admit it!  I’m better than you at stacking!"

I shook my head.  "I’ll admit you stacked more, but that still doesn’t mean 
that you’re stronger than me."

She looked at me for a second, then took off her gloves.  "Okay, then, I’ll 
prove it!  Come on over here and let’s settle this."  As she said this she 
walked over and stacked three bales so the surface of the top bale was a little 
more than waist-high.  She took off her gloves and put her elbow down on the 
bale, hand up and open.

I laughed again and refused her invitation.  "Chicken?" she asked.  That did 
it.  I removed my gloves and walked over.  We gripped hands and began to 
arm-wrestle.  I thought it was quite a joke, but her expression was serious.  
For several seconds we remained motionless, and I was impressed with her 
strength.  I began pushing harder against her arm, but couldn’t budge her.  
She grinned at me as I began to show the strain.  "What’s wrong, Tommy?" 
she asked mockingly.  "Can’t even beat a city girl?"

I strained even harder and her grin slipped.  I began forcing her down, but she 
stopped my progress and unbelievably forced me back up to even.  By now 
we were both trying our hardest.  Rebecca’s face was getting red, and I was 
starting to sweat.  We had been struggling for more than a minute and were 
still where we had started.  I could feel my strength slipping away, while 
Rebecca seemed as fresh as when we had started.  Rebecca’s face grew calm, 
and I felt her gather her strength.  Then, with one long smooth motion she 
forced my arm down until it was almost pinned.  I desperately tried to resist 
her, but couldn’t, and a few seconds later my hand was pinned firmly to the 
bale.

She grinned widely at my stunned expression, then she turned away.  It was a 
much-humbled boy who finished unloading the wagons.

Later that day at supper I was still nursing my wounded pride and praying 
that Rebecca would make no reference to my earlier humiliation.  Thank God 
she didn't, and the conversation stayed in safer areas.  After we finished 
eating, Frank and I went to the barn to do our evening chores.  As we left the 
house, Amy grabbed her jacket and announced that she was going to help.  
Never one to learn any lesson quickly, I sneered at her, but Frank invited her 
along.  

In the barn I explained the tasks to Amy.  Frank put the milking machines on 
the cows in turn, and, when each cow had finished, he would call one of us 
over to empty the machine into buckets.  We would carry these buckets of 
warm milk to another room where the bulk storage tank was kept.  This tank 
cooled the milk and kept it cold until it was collected later in the week.  
Again, this was manual labor before the days of pipeline milking systems and 
automation.  We carried the brimming buckets of milk, hoisted them up and 
emptied them into the bulk tank.  Any spillage was lost income for Frank.

Amy did surprisingly well.  In fact, I was the first to spill part of a bucket of 
milk, and got a disdainful grin from Amy.  It was a warm night, and Amy 
took off her jacket and proceeded to work in shirtsleeves.  I immediately 
noticed her arms.  When she carried the pails her arm had a definite swell that 
even I, in my ignorance, could recognize as a real muscle.  I couldn’t help but 
stare at that tanned arm with that noticeable bicep, and, of course, she caught 
me staring.  She gave me a quick grin and, to my shock, flexed!  A hard ball 
of muscle appeared in her arm, and my jaw hit my chest.

Later, when most of the work was done, Frank left to check on something in 
the silo.  Amy and I were left cleaning up the milk house.  Amy lifted up the 
last pail of milk and easily poured it into the tank as I watched.  She glanced 
over at me.  "I guess it’s not just the older sisters who have muscles, huh, 
Tommy?"

I groaned, and her smile broadened.  "Rebecca told me all about your little 
contest earlier.  Wanna try again against her little sister?"

I didn’t have a choice.  We sat at a nearby table and gripped hands.  Her grip 
was strong, and I watched her arm tense in anticipation.  She counted to 
three, and I cheated.  At about two-and-a-half I jerked her arm, hoping to pin 
her quickly.  She gasped and glared at me, then stopped me dead.  I had her 
almost halfway down, but couldn’t move her anymore.  For several seconds 
we struggled in that position, Amy halfway down and fighting to recover, me 
with a definite advantage and desperately trying to maintain that advantage.  I 
watched Amy’s muscle grow and become even harder than it had been 
before.  

With a small grunt she jerked my arm up a little.  Another grunt, and another 
gain.  There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, and both of us knew it.  
It was close enough that Amy couldn’t gloat about it, but the result of our 
match was a foregone conclusion as soon as Amy got her arm back up to 
even.  She then gave me an evil grin and began forcing my arm down in small 
increments.  I knew that she could easily pin me as easily as her sister had, 
but she apparently felt more in control by jerking me down bit by bit, as if to 
tell me, "Look what I can do, asshole!"

Finally my arm lay flat on the table, and I was an embarrassed and humiliated 
young man.

However, the fun wasn’t over yet.  That evening Frank and the girls’ parents 
went to visit neighbors, leaving the three of us home alone.  I had showered 
and changed into a T-shirt and jeans, and the girls had cleaned up and dressed 
for bed.  We had watched TV for a while when Rebecca looked over at me 
and said, "Tommy, go make us some popcorn."

I looked at her.  She looked at me, then glanced at Amy.  Simultaneously they 
burst into laughter.  Still laughing, Rebecca apologized.  "I’m sorry, Tommy, 
but you should see the look on your face.  I bet you thought that we would be 
lording it over you for the rest of our stay, huh?"

I had to nod.  I was afraid that one of them would make some comment to 
one of my friends, or to another family member, and my life would basically 
be over.  Now, maybe my fears were groundless.  Amy confirmed this.  
"Don’t worry, Tommy.  We won’t say anything to anyone.  This is our little 
secret and no one will ever know unless you tell them."

I was relieved, and had no qualms about showing my relief, to their renewed 
laughter.  Finally, I voiced the thought that had been bouncing around my 
brain all evening.  "Okay, I admit that I underestimated the two of you.  I will 
also admit that you are both stronger than I am.  That is a blow to my ego, but 
I can live with that.  But now, let me ask you - Which of you is stronger?"

Immediately they both said, "I am!"

I couldn’t believe my luck as they glared at each other, then dissolved into 
giggles again.  "Come on, you two," I said, motioning them over to the table.  
"You’ve had your kicks at my expense.  Now it’s time for me to have a little 
fun.  Get over here!"

They came over to the kitchen table and sat down across from each other.  
Amy stood up and slipped off her robe.  She was wearing a short-sleeved 
teddy.  She grinned and mock flexed for a few seconds, showing off her hard 
muscles.  Rebecca watched her for a second, then, not to be outdone by her 
little sister, she took off her gown and displayed just as respectable a set of 
muscles as Amy had.  For a couple giddy seconds they flexed their arms at 
each other, then sat back down.

Carefully I positioned their hands.  The grins were gone as both girls began 
taking this seriously.  They moved forward until they were sitting on the very 
edges of their chairs.  They linked their left hands between their elbows so 
neither would have any leverage advantage.  They stared at each other until I 
finally had to count them down.

At the signal both arms leaped into action.  Biceps swelled and their forearms 
looked as if they were carved from stone.  Neither moved.  They still stared at 
each other over their slightly quivering hands.  Arm against arm they battled, 
but neither was able to move the other back the smallest amount.  Amy finally 
broke their mute staredown as her head went down as she stared at the table, 
concentrating furiously.  Rebecca’s gaze drifted past Amy as she gazed 
blankly at the wall behind her.  Amy adjusted her grip slightly.  Rebecca 
wriggled her fingers as if to relieve the growing numbness.  

Finally, a movement!  Amy slowly began forcing Rebecca’s arm down.  
Neither had been able to bend the other’s wrist, yet, so this was a pure 
contest of arm strength.  The muscles in Amy’s neck were corded and her jaw 
was clenched tightly.  Rebecca’s mouth was slightly open as she gasped for 
more air.  I watched a single bead of sweat form on Rebecca’s brow and 
slowly run down her cheek..

They had been battling for almost two minutes, and Amy maintained her 
slight advantage, but could not build on it.  Rebecca finally closed her eyes.  
With an explosive breath she wrenched Amy’s arm back up to even.  Amy 
gasped, then tried to recover.  For the next several seconds their arms jerked 
back and forth, first Amy with an advantage, then Rebecca.  Both girls were 
gasping for air now, their arms quivering from the strain.  Just when I thought 
Amy’s arm couldn’t get any bigger, it did, and Rebecca’s arm started down.  
Rebecca battled valiantly and held off Amy for another intensely grueling 30 
seconds.  

Finally, though, Amy slowly and almost gently forced her older sister’s hand 
to the table.  It was over, and Amy had proved the stronger.  I helped the girls 
disengage their clenched hands, and gave each of them a massage afterwards.  
I would like to say that we went into the bedroom and participated in an 
incredible menage-a-trois and made love all night, but, unfortunately, all that 
happened is that we eventually went to our own beds.

We never arm-wrestled again.  The girls left with their parents a few days 
later, and, although we exchanged notes and cards that grew more and more 
desultory over time, I never saw them again.  I mentally thank them often, 
though, for that first exposure I had to strong women.  I can probably trace 
my current admiration for muscular women and my infatuation with female 
arm-wrestling to that late night match at Frank’s kitchen table.