Pathetic Jessica
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The End Of Jessica Munroe free porn video
Her heels clicked loudly across the linoleom floor of the school
corridor. There was a jaunty rhythm to the way she walked. A bounce. Her
long, curved legs were held tightly by dark jeans, almost too tight. She
wore a white, off the shoulder t-shirt that accetuated her ample
breasts, pushed up by the books she held across her chest. Her pink lips
were fixed into a smile, a smile that let everbody know she knew how
good she looked. Her dark eyes, that darted from student to student
without ever settling on one in particular, said the same. Eyes that
knew she was being looked at. Eyes that were keen to make sure no one
looked away. Her long blonde waves bounced as she walked, almost as if
gravity itself had fallen under her spell. Behind her walked her two
best friends, perfect, but importantly not nearly as perfect as her. As
she walked down the hallway students stepped aside. Girls looked upon
her with envy and awe. To most boys she was like looking directly at the
sun. Even members of staff had trouble holding themselves together
around her, especially the men. She knew it, and she revelled in it.
She was Jessica Munroe.
He was Art Bellows, and he hated her.
Art was short. That was the first thing anyone ever noticed about him.
He was very short. The second thing they noticed about Art was his shock
of bright ginger hair. The third thing you notice about Art was just how
uncomfortable he seemed in himself. His weight was always shifting from
foot to foot, his fingers always looking for something to fiddle with.
This was of course if you noticed Art at all. He knew his place in the
complex social standing at school. He was one of the nobodies. Not cool
or sharp or good looking enough to be revered. Not nerdy or awkward
enough to be shunned. He was nothing. He had friends but they were just
like him. Nobodies. He was 16 now, and and he knew this would never
change.
This is why he hated Jessica Munroe so much. Sure, he was attracted to
her and given the chance he would run a mile through broken glass to
sleep with her. Any boy would. He was only human. The hate he felt for
her was more powerful than his libido, though. He hated what she
represented. She was the epitome of vapid, shallow and vainglorious
attitudes made flesh. She touched a nerve in the most bitter and jealous
parts of his personality. She wasn't smart or funny or even interesting,
save for her looks. Art knew exactly what she was. Without those looks,
she would have been a nobody just like him.
As hurricance Jessica swept past and the hussle and bustle of the
corridor returned to normal, Art spied his second most hated person.
Linton Fearns. Jessica's boyfriend. He jogged past the scores of
students, bumping into a few, his 6'3 frame knocking them back a few
strides. He was flanked by his two cronies, Doyle and Marcus, two
students that seemed more gorilla than man. Catching up with Jessica he
snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her in close. She smiled and
pouted up at him as his face stretched into the wide goofy smile that a
man wears knowing that they get to kiss those lips. As Linton lent his
head towards hers Art turned away in disgust.
Art hated Linton almost as much as Jessica but for wholly more
reasonable and honest reasons. He and Linton had once been good friends.
They had known each other since they were 6, and had gone through all
stages of school together. However puberty had really driven them apart.
Whereas Art had barely grown more than four inches, Linton had
blossomed. His frame and physique was that of a much older man. His face
had lengthened and his cheek bones had sharpened into a handsome
profile. At only 16 he was showing signs of facial hair and had begun
sculpting the beginnings of a moustache. His curly, black hair was
always styled perfectly and his warm brown skin had been spot free for
years. Of course this change had not gone unnoticed, especially by
Jessica Munroe. Art had watched, dejectedly, as her and her group of
popular friends had expertly removed Linton from his own social circle,
lifted him out and inserted him into theirs. Linton, for his part, had
happily embraced this change. And now he was going out with her. Art
hated her. Art hated him.
That night Art sat in front of the family computer, the harsh white
light of the screen illuminatinng his dismissive expression. Once again
he had found himself stalking Jessica's Facebook pictures. Happy smiling
party pictures, duck faces and underage drinking. He scrolled through
the pages. Jessica. Linton. Jessica. Jessica. Jessica and Linton. He
could feel the bile and rage burning inside him. Why did she have it
all? Why was she allowed to be a somebody? He suspected that she didn't
spend her nights like this. Why was she so fucking happy and he wasn't?
He stopped scrolling. His mouse hovered over a photo of her. A selfie,
with perfect lighting, of her with perfect make up and perfect hair.
That was why. It was because she looked like that. It was because she
looked perfect. Her soft large eyes were rimmed by intense, glittery,
black eyeliner and accentuated by long lashes. He strained his vision
gazing into them. The eyes stared back, inviting and unblinking. He
jerked his mouse over towards the cross in the corner, commited to
closing the page and wanting to end his self inflcited suffering, for
tonight at least. As he did his finger bumped into a small plastic
object. His eyes gazed down on a tube of mascara his mum had left on the
computer desk before she had left for work that morning. Art stared at
the tube, for longer than he had indended to. The black and gold of the
make up glinted in the cold light of the computer. On the screen the
eyes of Jessica Munroe still stared out. Art looked back up and met them
one last time. Slowly he closed the page, shut off the computer and went
to bed.
The next afternoon Art sat with his friends at lunch. He had been quiet
and reserved all day, his brow furrowed and his mind elsewhere. He had
found himself gazing into the bathroom mirrors more often than he
usually did, examining the countors of his face. He didn't engage with
the conversations his friends were having, as he purposefuly ate his
food. He didn't take in any lessons or facts in classes that day. In his
mind an idea was forming.
"Art! Art, where have you gone man?". His friend, Danny, asked him
quizzically, his eyes narrowed from behind thick rimmed glasses. Danny
had known Art for almost as long as he had known Linton, but while
Linton had evolved and grown Danny had stayed chubby, bespeckled and
teenage. He was short but still taller than Art, something he rarely let
his friend forget.
"What? Oh. Sorry. Just thinking about something."
"You've been thinking about something all day, man. You've hardly said a
word", Danny reached his arm out and placed it on Art's shoulder in mock
sympathy, "Is it drugs?"
"Piss off!" Art said, laughing. It was the first time he'd broken a
smile all day.
"Art, I'm your friend! Let me help you!"
"Danny, if it was drugs you'd know. I'd be the king of drugs!"
"You'd be rubbish at drugs."
"Rubbish? Rubbish!?" Art feined anger at this. Obviously he had never
taken drugs. He was just playing about with his friends. He had to admit
it, even though he was a nobody and his friends were nobodies too, at
times he could just forget about Jessica and Linton and all the other
shit that came with school. This was one of those rare fleeting times.
This time would prove to be especially fleeting.
"Yeah rubbish," Danny resumed his fake sympathetic voise, pleading with
Art, "That's why you need to let me help you! We all love you!" Art
laughed.
"I don't need your help! I'm the fucking drugs master!" With the last
word Art sprang out of his seat, his arms held high above his head. Just
high enough to clip the head of the student behind him with his closed
fist. The hollow thud of knuckle on hard jaw sent a shudder through
Art's arm. Idiot.
Slowly Art turned around to see who he had hit. He was greeted by the
dark, angry face of Linton, his eyes shut tight in discomfort as his
large open palm rubbed furiously against his face to numb the pain. For
Art this felt like it went on for an eternity. He stood there unnoticed
and unmoving, racking his brain to think of any way out of this before
the rubbing stopped. But it did stop, and when it did Art was still
stood very still. Lintons eyes shot open, ready to search for the
offender. He was clearly ready to put all his large muscular frame and
rugby training to use. Whoever had done this was not getting out of this
well. His gaze fell on Art, a foot shorter than him and frozen to spot.
He paused. Everyone sat around the two boys also paused, waiting for the
inevitable explosion from Linton. Danny winced, cursing his friends bad
luck. Doyle and Marcus grinned their big apelike grins, ready to join in
with inevitable beating. But it never came. Instead Linton looked away,
his hand went back to rubbing his cheek awkwardly. He could feel the
stares of everyone on him. He knew what was expected of him as the 6'3,
built, captain of the rugby team but he couldn't do it. He couldn't hit
Art.
"Sorry, Linton," Art was the one to speak first. Linton still refused to
look at him.
"S'okay," he mumbled.
"I mean it. I didn't mean to hit you. I was just..."
"It's okay. Don't worry about it," he stopped rubbing his face, "Didn't
hurt anyway. You barely even reached my head." A slight smile played
across his lips. It was a smile Art had not seen from his old friend in
a long time. This was the most they had spoken in years. One by one the
students returned to their own conversations and turned away from the
two boys. Doyle and Marcus were visibly dissapointed.
"Well I'm sorry anyway. Hey..." Art began. He was cut off mid sentence.
"Linton? What are you doing?" It was her. Jessica Munroe. Immedietly
Art's back was up. He felt himself become tense.
"Nothing, Jess. I was just speaking to Art."
"Who?" The rage in Art boiled. Who? Who? He hated everything about her.
Everything she stood for and everything she was and she didn't even know
who he was. Linton waved an arm lazily towards the shorter boy. Her
intense dark eyes drifted across, considering him. Looking down on him.
"Oh," She paused, "Look Linton we've gotta go. I wanna drop by Mr Adams'
office before next lesson. He said he would redo my English essasy for
me."
She reached out and grabbed the muscular forearm of Linton. With a
slight tug she turned him and marched him out of the canteen. Art just
watched them go. Inside the bile and the anger seethed. He wanted to run
after them. To grab her hair and shout in her face. To hit Linton hard
for being weak and cowardly. The idea, the idea that had been forming
and growing since he had first considered the mascara on the computer
table, now cemented itself in the boys mind. He would show her. He would
show just how normal and pathetic she really was. That anyone could be
Jessica Munroe. Even him.
His mum usually worked late on weekdays. Often she wouldnt return home
until eleven, and then she would eat a simple meal and go straight to
sleep. Art would have the house to himself for hours, easy access to his
mothers wardrobe and make up, as well as his older sisters room. She was
away at unversity. She wouldn't be back till christmas now. Neither of
them would ever know what their son, their brother, was planning on
doing. To attempt in some way to prove that Jessica Munroe wasn't
special. That she was just good at manipulating her looks to her own
advantage. If she could do it so could he. It was a mad idea, and
somewhere in the back of Art's mind there was a small voice. A voice
that confirmed it was a mad idea. A voice that reminded Art that he had
never desired to wear womens clothes or make up before. A voice that
told him even with the clothes he could never truly experience the way
Jessica feels, and that even if he could, how would this experience help
him? This voice was the logic and reason in Art's head, but he was far
beyond logic and reason. Somewhere in the swirling mix of hate and
bitterness and ambition this idea was going to happen. This was
something he wanted to do. This was something he had to do.
Art threw his coat and school bag into a pile at the end of his bed. He
pulled at his shirt and ripped it off over his head revealing his
chubby, but not fat torso. He pulled off his trousers and underwaer,
allowing his short but thick cock to flop freely. He didn't leave
himself time to think. Turning around he purposefully marched to the
door of his mum's bedroom. Steeling himself for a second he breathed in
sharply. This felt like something big to him. Stepping over the
threshold into the room he was greeted by the familiar surroundings of
his mums bedroom. The large king sized bed had been left unmade on one
side, the other kept neat for a man who had not been there since his dad
had left. The vanity table was stocked with make up, jewelery and
perfumes, scattered across the surface of the table as his mum left for
work. And at the end of the room stood the wardrobe. Art breathed in
sharply again.
Opening the doors of the wardrobe he was greeted by dozens of colours
and fabrics. Dresses and skirts and trousers and blouses all hung there,
unordered or intentionally placed. It was overwhelming to Art. He had no
idea where to start. The burning idea that had formed in his head hadn't
considered what clothes he would wear or what style he would choose.
Tentatively he reached in the wardrobe. He grasped at a dress, black
with white polka dots. He had never seen his mum wearing it. Why did she
have it if she never wore it? To Art this seemed as good a dress as any.
He lifted the dress over himself and slid his arms into the sleeves. The
material swished around his lower thigh as the dress fell over his torso
into place. The neckline dipped into a deep v-neck that stopped just
above the centre of his chest trying to display cleavage that was just
not there. A lack of breasts left the fabric loose in the chest of the
dress itself. The waist was higher than Art was used to, and cut into
the fat at the sides of his body slightly, and the skirt swung as he
turned brushing his legs, occasionally catching on his leg hair. Art
looked in the mirror. This certainly wasn't the kind of thing Jessica
would wear. He shrugged internally. For now it didn't matter. He was
testing the waters. The make up would be the next test.
Art padded back into his bedroom and collected his phone from his jeans
pocket. He opened Youtube and typed in "Make up how to". The sheer
number of videos that he was presented with shocked him. Clearly make up
was a bigger deal than he had ever understood. The first one would have
to do, a tutorial on the most basics of make up application. Well, Art
thought to himself, he was nothing if not a beginner. A pretty young
girl appeared on the mobile phone screen. She was peppy. Art sneered.
She was probably just like Jessica Munroe. Another girl in another
school acting as if she owned the world.
The first thing Art was instructed to get was the foundation. He watched
as the girl spread the smooth liquid evenly over her face with two
fingers. Art followed her instruction. Squeezing the tube he wondered if
perhaps he had applied too much, a worry significantly increased as the
end result barely matched the girl on screen. While hers was bright and
even his face looked lumpy and his neck was left an entirely different
colour. Perseverance, Art thought to himself. Next the girl suggested
blush,a light pink or bronze. The only blush available to him was red.
That would have to do. Art dabbed a wide brush at the tub, sending a
small cloud of scarlet into the air. After shaking a little away he
brushed the rest onto both sides of his face, along his cheekbones as
the girl in the video had instructed. Two fat dark pink streaks
stretched out wide across his cheeks, much more noticable than the video
had instructed. Perseverance.
His eyes were next. Online, the girl showed how light eye shadow at the
brows and darker shades nearer the eyes themselves could make them pop
and create an intense and attention grabbing look. Attention seeking.
That's exactly what Jessica was. Art did his best. Again the end result
only vaguely matched the girl in the video. Art considered he had used
far too much of the darker shade. His eyes were more like the goth kids
he saw at school. Attention seeking in a whole other way. His attempts
to use eyeliner left him with a blotchy and uneven line across both lids
and a sore left eye from where the pencil had slipped in.
Art was begining to question to himself why he had done all this. That
little voice of reason had begun to whisper even louder in his mind. He
could see from the mirror staring back at him he could never hope to
match Jessicas looks. He didnt yet feel the surge of power and
superiority that Jessica must feel every day. He was starting to doubt
he ever would. His attempts to prove to himself that anyone could be as
"special" and as "perfect" as her were faling at the first hurdle.
"Ok! So now we're gonna move onto the lips!" The peppy Californian
accent of the girl on the video expertly derailed his train of thought.
He considered his face caked in make up and the dress he was wearing. He
had come this far. He should at least finish this step before deciding
to carry on or not. The girl instructed him to take a nude lipgloss and
apply an even layer to his lips. This step was simple, much to Art's
relief. His finished lips shimmered in the lamp light from the dressing
table as he pursed them into a pout. Not bad. Perseverance.
He stood up from the table, satisfied that he had at least completed his
make up. After rummaging around under the bed he found a pair of shoes,
summery sandles with large cream straps and a high cork wedge heel. Even
to Art's untrained eye he could tell these shoes and this dress did not
belong together, but they would do. He stood up, the shape of the shoes
pushing out his bum slightly and elongating the length of his calves. He
stumbled a little, reactively catching the bed frame to keep his
balance. Walking in heels was a skill he had never needed to learn. If
he was going to continue down this path he would need to learn quickly.
Art switched off the bedroom room light, leaving the light from the
bedside lamp to illuminate the room. He figured the dim light and
shadows would probably aid him in his attempts to pass. Tentatively he
edged into the path of the mirror on the bedroom door. What he saw
suprised him. He was no Jessica Munroe. There was a small amount of
belly fat that pushed out from the middle of the dress. His hair was
messy and uncombed and wholly too short for passing as a bombshell like
her. His make up was uneven and didn't compliment his looks and the
shape of his face. And yet, there was something there. For the first
time in his life his height was working to his advantage. The clothes
fit him well. The dress sat on his hips and stopped just above the knee
as it was supposed to. His legs, while hairy, were shapely and
complimented by the upward force of the heels. His face was badly made
up but the shape of his eyes, the bow of his lips, the uniform tone of
his skin were feminine even in only the littlest way. He was no Jessica
Munroe, but he had potential. A smirk played on his glossy lips. He felt
his heart lift a little. Something about seeing himself like this was
fun. It was as if in this moment he wasn't himself. He was someone new.
Someone exciting. His leg cocked to one side. He stood in a way he had
seen Jessica stand in countless pictures online. His arms lifted and his
hands came to rest on his hips. He held them there, posing for no one
but himself. His mild surprise turned to shock. The illusion was there,
in his mind at least. He could pass. He could be a girl. Most
importantly he could finally show what he already knew. She was not
special. He hated Jessica Munroe and he was coming for her.
Sherry
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