Copyright © Robin Neal, all rights reserved, reposting without permission prohibited
Scene 1 - Awesomely Totally Great Chick Stuff Galore
Pan-Clorheptanol-D, it was called. Three tiny pills a day, and Shellie had enough for about another week, which should be EXACTLY right. It hadn't been hard to get one of her fans, Dr. Scheidler (in her mind, she always called him Dr. Stinky because of his cigar habit) to provide the magic medicine. He was an endocrinologist, which Shellie didn't have to be able to pronounce to know it meant hormone doctor. She didn't have to fuck him; he was putty in her hands, totally slutty for any kind of attention from her. Hey, that rhymed! "Slutty putty, slutty putty, slutty putty..." she giggled softly as she pranced up the walkway to the house, glowing with self-admiration.
Fifty thousand bucks, Shellie, you incredibly smart naughty wonderful brat! And for what? Doing what you already do five nights a week, just once and in a bigger showroom, for a bigger audience (WAY bigger counting the pay-per-view, and then the video), and it isn't going to do your fan club any harm either! She pinned the Neiman's bag between her hip and the wall, dropped the Bebe bag on the flagstones (nothing in there was breakable), shifted the bigger of the two Vicky's Secret bags up to the angle of her elbow, and tussled with her keychain (GOT to take some of that shit off of there!) until she got the door key lined up with the lock. Finally it turned, and without a broken nail. Her good karma was holding steady.
Carla was home, more good karma. Shellie almost never made it to the alarm control thingie in time when she came in from shopping. Then she'd have to figure out how to shut it up and find the number and call them and tell them it was her again. Life is just TOO hard on a girl. But Carla's Explorer was in the carport, so it was all good this time.
Nudging the Bebe bag ahead of her with a her foot as she tried to stuff her keychain into her purse, Shellie made slow progress toward the living room. She stopped to get her breath, puffing her unruly bangs off her forehead in a habitual gesture. The rest of her hair (well down her back and a chestnut-auburn-honeyblonde that was TOTALLY the look this month) was pretty out of control too, at the moment, a hazard of being out on a semi-windy day with a really big style. But hey, it goes with the territory and now that she was home, she could put it up, finally.
With her giant load of treasures dumped at last in their temporarily proper place on the floor by the couch, she collapsed in the Lazy Boy and called, "Hey, Carla, I'm home! I went to the mall, check it out!"
Carla came in from the kitchen, lovely, leggy and athletic in a little belly top, short shorts and tall wedgies, a wine cooler fizzing in her hand. "To the mall without me?" she smiled. "You suck, but I might forgive you as long as you didn't get anything good!"
"Hah, I got TONS!" Shellie smirked as Carla spied the loot and her eyebrows rose. "MAJOR damage. They gots new perfume in at Vicky's, purple stretch jeans at the Runway, don't EVEN get me started on shoes! You're gonna hate me so bad!" She indicated the pile with a limp wave of her hand, too exhausted to move otherwise but managing to exude extreme enthusiasm nonetheless. Carla looked appropriately blown away.
"Woah!" She genuflected before the shrine of Chick Stuff and dug in, paper fountaining over both shoulders. "You SLUT! You WENCH!" She opened a shoebox, the lid sailing across the living room like a Frisbee. "You back-alley, schoolyard, BARNYARD..." She held up a pair of elegantly painful-looking stilettos in a rich shade of fuscia and adored them, eyes wide. "What were you doing at North Beach?!!" she accused. "Their sale doesn't start 'til tomorrow!"
Shellie made her wait for a second while she dug in the chair cushions, came up with a reasonably new scrunchie, and constructed a voluminous pony tail. "God, I'm sweating like a mare in heat! It's like the Siberian Desert out there, or something. Hey, Babe, who needs a sale when you're the GUARANTEED future Best Chest in Vegas?" That got Carla's attention, and Shellie batted her eyelashes winningly, sat up in her chair and arched her back, throwing her hands in the air with a studied abandon left over from her cheerleading days. "Whaddaya think?" she chirped. "Ready to give up?"
Carla stared, the delicious shoes forgotten. "Woman," she asked seriously after a moment of disorientation, "what is UP with your tits!" She looked like she'd landed in an X-Files episode without Mulder to explain the madness. Shellie returned a sparkling smile that would have cost God-could-only-have-known-how-much if one of her fans hadn't been a dental cosmetic technologist. She offered not a word.
Scene 2 - Cheaters Cannot Be Allowed To Prosper
Carla's mind churned as she stumbled back into the kitchen, put down her drink, sat on the barstool where she'd left her Cosmo open to this month's version of "99 Positions He Never Heard Of" and distractedly lit a cigarette. Shellie had gone to take a shower, but not before smugly resisting Carla's pleas for an explanation. Those were NOT her real... um... her PREVIOUS breasts. Shellie was a "surgically improved" 36DD. Carla was a natural 36DD. It was the true order of things, a fundamental building block of their universe. Shellie was a former cheerleader, Carla was a former volleyball player. Shellie was a showgirl at the Bellagio, Carla was an RN who only OCCASIONALLY worked at Cheetah's, and only when she really wanted to buy something she couldn't otherwise afford. Shellie gleefully took jewelry and clothes and cruises and stuff from men, Carla took men (when she wanted them). Shellie's boobs were fantastic and artistically done by the best in the business, Carla's boobs were fantastic and original equipment. Carla was the Boss.
Today, with a thrust and a bounce, that had all changed. Shellie was at LEAST an E cup and they had a plump, ripe look, even stuffed into that sports bra, that Carla would certainly have remembered if it had existed a few days ago. So round, so firm, so fully packed, as the saying goes; Shellie was absolutely right about the guaranteed contest victory, and HOW had she done it? There hadn't been time for another operation, and besides the Best Chest in Vegas was in six days and the final judging was topless. Shellie couldn't have counted on recuperating that fast. And she WASN'T recuperating, she was SHOPPING. And the brat wouldn't TELL! Carla absently made a smoke ring, then swatted it into oblivion with her other hand. This was not good.
Casually torturing one another in the name of friendship was normal for the girls, but there was never any real jealousy. Their taste in men was diametrically opposed, so they had been practically perfect roommates for a lease and a half. When they had heard of the Best Chest in Vegas contest a month earlier, they had entered together without a thought of cattiness. If the judges went for sleek, sultry curves and unspoken promises, Shellie would have a good chance. She had already started working her magic on the sponsor, a pudgy, florid businessman of forty-five or so. If they wanted fitness-contest definition and magnificent natural charms, Carla would do better. Either of them might win, and it would be a great party afterward no matter what. But this... THIS wasn't fair. And Shellie wasn't going to get away with it, not if Carla could help it.
She wracked her brain. A change so pronounced, so abrupt, had to have a medical explanation, didn't it? There were certainly medications that could make girls' bodies react radically, but where had Shellie gotten the stuff?
From a man, of course. Everything was becoming clear. One of her sloppy old doctor customers, it HAD to be. And what was it? Well... that could be revealed too, now that they weren't playing fair.
Carla tiptoed barefoot into the bathroom, where pieces of outfit including the new and heroic sports bra were strewn everywhere, and listened to Shellie humming brightly to herself as she soaped and shampooed and probably touched herself inappropriately on the other side of the shower doors. A glance at the toilet told the tale. It was only justice that one of Shellie's stubborn bad habits was going to prove her undoing. Carla slipped the lid off of a little Tupperware cup that she had just taken from the dishwasher, easily sterile enough to do the job, and dipped it in. She could just imagine Shellie's shriek of "Eeeewww!" if she'd seen Carla purloining the urine sample. Carla was an RN, though, and this was NOTHING compared to some of the world-class grossness she'd been through in her Candy Striper days.
Now, off to the lab!
Scene 3 - Busted
Friday morning dawned bright and early. Shellie dawned somewhat later and somewhat less bright. She had really had her butt kicked at work the last couple of nights as her startling new dimensions led to sharply increased attention from sundry admirers in the audience, and her attempts to fend them off after the show had often melted under an assault of cash, waved by the fistful and stuffed into various parts of her costume and... elsewhere. Last night she had finally succumbed to an eleven hundred dollar bottle of champagne pressed on her by a dorky Saudi prince, and while she had eventually escaped his advances with the help of hotel security, she hadn't escaped the alcohol. The graveyard security supervisor, who was totally married and really sweet, had impounded her car keys and sent her home in a limo. How she had actually made it to her bed was something of a mystery.
.... There is more of this story ...