by Shirlee Jellum
Less than ten years ago, Mel was stuffing socks in her bra, padding her pathetically flat chest in hopes of attracting lustful stares of horny eighth-grade boys, one in particular—Stephan—who only had eyes for the busty girls. She shook her head in disbelief, then laughed at her teenage foolishness as she stared into the full-length mirror. Adjusting the packer stuffed into her leotard as part of the jester costume she planned to wear to the off-campus Halloween party, she hoped to catch the attention of Jazmin, the new frosh in the dorm down the hall.
Her heart did a quick tap dance, and her cheeks flushed. Jazmin, sweet Jazmin, with long curly black hair, skin the color of toffee, suckable lips, and curves that wouldn’t quit. She studied her own reflection—no boobs, thankfully, no hips, scorpion-tattooed shoulder, skinny ass, rainbow-tinted buzzcut, and a crotch bulging just enough to dare a second glance. She turned sideways, admired the contours of her new look, and shivered with anticipation. Only one more hour.
She put on her white peasant blouse with puffy sleeves, purple velvet belt, and red sequined vest, then slipped on her black satin shoes with the curled toes. Thank god my head’s covered, she thought as she secured the jester’s hat over her hair. The small bells tinkled as she turned her head this way and that, satisfied with her transformation. She grabbed her mask, studded with rhinestones, blew herself a kiss, and left.
The party was a seething mass of loud drunken students gyrating to thumping music in costumes that rivaled Hollywood. Several French maids in fishnets and stilettos, a gorilla sipping beer from a straw, Pennywise the Clown, a few strutting superheroes and the classic witches and ghouls, pirates and princesses, mingled throughout the house. Mel began to worry she wouldn’t recognize Jazmin until she heard her distinct laugh and saw her unmistakable hair teased into a wild mane to match her skintight lion costume. She was seated on a couch, snuggled up to a burly cop, rubbing his thigh and tickling his face with her tail. Mel pushed through the crowd until she was face to crotch with Jazmin.
“Mind if I sit here?” she asked, indicating the arm of the sofa. Jazmin stared at her bulge for a few juicy moments, eyes glittering through her mask, then shrugged. Mel sat down, straddling the arm. She raked her eyes over Jazmin’s breasts straining against the thin material. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She swallowed. “Nice costume,” she said hoarsely.
Jazmin ignored her, whispering something to the cop, then giggled. They both stood, swaying a little, and wove through the crowd toward the front door, his hand held tightly to her tail.
Well, that sucks. Mel slid onto the sofa, leaning back into the cushion, gulped her beer, and closed her eyes.
“Anyone sitting here?” a soft voice asked. Mel looked up into the face of a jaw-droppingly gorgeous girl dressed as a flapper—green satin dress shimmering with beads, fringe brushing rolled silk stockings on muscular calves, feather boa and pearls draped around her neck, spangled headband with matching mask, even a bobbed wig and T-strap sandals with chunky three-inch heels. Her makeup, what she could see of it, was flawless—fiery red nail polish sparkled on fingers and toes, her full lips were the color of rubies, her skin powdered and rouged, a sprinkle of glitter over strong cheekbones.
“Impressive get-up,” she said in her huskiest voice. “Have a seat, doll.” Mel felt her pulse quicken and heat rise as the girl sat close to her, thigh to thigh, boozy breath just inches from her ear.
“You’re not too bad looking yourself,” she whispered. “Nice tights. Emphasis on tight.” She tittered and fanned her face.
Melanie had a painful flash of Jazmin leaving the party, tail wrapped around the cop’s arm like a leash. She turned to the girl who was jingling her bells. “I’m Mel,” she said, fingering the fringe on the green satin dress. “How about a trick?”
“What a treat,” the girl replied, standing and holding out her hand. “I’m Steph. Your place or mine?”
About the Author
Shirlee Jellum is a retired English teacher who publishes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, most recently or upcoming in Gleam, Intervals, Wild Willow, Thema, Press 53, and several anthologies. Her work is most often inspired by unique people, wild places, and political events.
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