Filling In For Beth Part 7 free porn video

Filling in for Beth - part 7 A few days before the surgery I took a walk in my old clothes, in broad daylight, to see if it was even possible to go back. My old jeans were snug in all the wrong places, thighs and butt, and were so loose in the waist I had to wear a belt. My old boxers were surprisingly snug around the hips as well and that loose feeling in the crotch? How was I ever comfortable with that floppiness? There's no support. My polo shirt fit well enough going on but that knit fabric is unkind to protruding nipples. They had been puffy, sensitive mushroom caps a few months ago, before the adjustments to the medicine. As the surrounding area grew out to meet them, my nipples hardened and took the shape of tiny pencil erasers. You could maybe ignore the excessive swelling in the chest area of the polo shirt but the sharp points sticking out begged for attention. I pressed them in with a finger and a jolt of pleasure shot down my middle. Of course they didn't stay in. It was like two tiny, sensitive penises in the most conspicuous place on my body and the shirt was like sandpaper when I moved. That's why I'd been wearing a bra all these months. Everything is protected and secure so I just don't have to worry about that area. That would only become more necessary after the surgery. I forced myself to walk all the way to the grocery store and back, with no makeup. My hair was tied back much like when I moved in and I even had on the same sneakers. If I kept walking and never turned around I could start life over from scratch with everything I owned when I first arrived at Tom's house. I know, the idea is ridiculous. Everything I wanted in the world was back at his house. As I approached the store a rotund man in a blue velour track suit stepped out the automatic doors, a cluster of plastic bags hanging from one beefy hand and a snack cake in the other. He looked like a giant blueberry. His eyes locked on my chest and never left. A woman stepped out and stood beside him, lighting a cigarette. She couldn't even wait to get out the door! She had huge, round glasses and a wide down-turned mouth that made her look like a catfish with lipstick. In a cloud of smoke. She flipped out a pink phone and appraised me with a squint. I gave them a wide berth. I try to teach the girls to be generous and non-judgmental but we all know how difficult that is in reality. I passed the couple and was berating myself for the unkind thoughts when the lady spoke. It didn't register at first that she was speaking to me. "Miss. Oh, Miss," she called in a husky voice. "Hello? Young lady!" I turned and instinctively pointed at my chest. Do you mean me? Blueberry's eyes locked on again. Catfish's mouth turned down even more. "Don't you have any shame?" She asked. "Parading up and down with you're little boobies out for everyone to see." She took the time to have another drag on the cigarette while I processed the question. I wanted to cross my arms but couldn't give her the satisfaction so we just stood there like idiots. Would it be rude to walk away? I mean, considering how rude she had already been? I kinda didn't want to turn my back on them. "The day is coming when you will be judged," she said, her voice rising higher with righteous indignation. She held the cigarette and phone aloft, moved by the spirit. Blueberry raised the cake and bowed his head in prayer. Then I turned and ran. That little encounter made up my mind for me, finally. People are going to judge, no matter what I look like. The same goes for Rachael and Susan. The only way to avoid that is to become invisible the way I was before Tom and the girls found me. Alone and invisible. No thank you. + The fight started in the living room although he'd been grumpy and irritable all evening, even when he kissed the girls goodnight. Hell, Tom had been weirdly irritable for over a month, since before my surgery. There were contract and budget negotiations at work that weren't going well and recruiting trips that apparently came up empty. That was part of it. Frankly, he needed to get laid. As far I knew, Amanda had been the last one and I kind of felt responsible for that. As first he talked about it in his room, making vague plans to 'bang some slut this weekend' a few times before trips but that never came to fruition as far as I know. He stopped talking about sluts and whores altogether and his work stories weren't entertaining either. In his room he typed and swore while I removed my makeup quickly and left. After the 'procedure,' as everyone called it, I wasn't in his room at all so couldn't tell you what he said. He seemed to grow more distant around the same time I finally made up my mind and, because he's a dumb-ass, he didn't speak up. I thought it was work problems. We hardly spoke on the drive to the hospital, both pretending this was all for the kids, like I was donating blood or something. When he picked me up he was helpful and nice but nervous. Was that guilt? There was an elephant on my chest, he wouldn't even look and I found that I didn't want to talk about breasts with him either. I'd been hiding them ever since. He lounged on his throne in sweatpants and a tight muscle shirt, despite the cold, clicker in one hand and a half full tumbler of whiskey in the other. Or was it half empty? After the giant steak he ate he should have been happy but the sour look on his face when I entered said otherwise. "You do know I'm going to be gone all next week?" he asked, as if I wasn't the one driving him to the airport in the morning. I sat the warm clothes basket on the coffee table, tucked my overlong bangs back under the ball cap, bundled the long skirt of my housecoat so I could sit comfortably and relaxed into the sofa with a sigh. The girls had been in bed for an hour and I'd been on my feet ever since. The fuzzy white slides are warm but don't have much support. "Yes, I know," I replied, equally irritably. "You can't just hole up in the house all week. The girls have to get out and meet people their own age. You said it yourself, remember?" "There's more involved than you know. And I don't need my own words thrown in my face," I mumbled, selecting a pair of his underpants to fold first. I held them up so he wouldn't look at me like that. The boxers were green with little footballs all over. On the front were the words "hit 'em hard," What would be funny is if they said "Juicy" on the back. Am I right? He took a sip and studied me, chewing his lip while I worked. "It's been a month. You went out before. What's the difference?" "It's only been three weeks and my scars have barely healed. It's different, that's all. You wouldn't understand." He shifted in his seat and waved the glass at me. "You're exactly right," he said with an understanding nod of his head. But I could see the red ears and flared nostrils. "You are sooooo exactly right," he continued sarcastically. "I mean, what would I know, right? You said you would take care of all that girly bullshit. You practically begged me and I trusted you. Now look at you, stuck in the house, afraid to move." "I'm not ready yet," I said quietly. "So you just hide in the house all day? You never go anywhere. You don't have any friends except the girls. It's getting weird Morgan. I thought this was going to fix things, but it's worse now." His eyes scanned my body. He wanted to say more, it was obvious. What was holding him back? And yes, it was getting a little weird. I started another little pile on the sofa, keeping my hands busy. Three piles of colorful panties lined up on the cushions, large (the result of good food and hormones,) medium and small. They are so light and comfortable, like a second skin. Beside them, Tommy's boxers looked heavy and harsh, as if they might be called upon to contain a bag of groceries or something. How did those wide elastic bands not dig into my hips a year ago? "You don't have anything to say for yourself? Tell me what you plan to do all week while I'm gone," he ordered. "The same thing we do every week, whether you're here or not. School, homework, soccer games on the weekend. I've got to shop and cook and get their clothes ready. It's a lot of work. I just had an operation, Tom!" He shook his head, refusing to accept that argument. "Travon Williams had ACL surgery a week ago and he's back in the gym this week. I didn't ask him if it was easy or not." "I don't know who Travon Williams is," I said, genuinely confused. Sometimes the football stuff goes right past me. Tom sprang from his chair and stormed around the coffee table. The whiskey threatened to spill when he turned. "See, you don't even know anything about what I do for a living, not really. You won't meet anyone," he paced and waved the glass, on a roll. "You won't let anyone come in the house so how can the girls ever have friends over, right? I can't even have friends over!" He paused on the other side of the table. His tan lines looked weird in the little tank top. He doesn't have any hair on his shoulders so you could trace the outline of each muscle with the point of a fingernail. I couldn't look at his face. Everything he said was true. "You remember how all this got started?" he shouted, resuming his pacing. "Hell, you and Rachael don't even dress up anymore. Are you bothering with that at all or do you just let her wear whatever she wants while you ...just..," he waved the glass up and down at me and curled his lip. What restrained him? He tossed back the whiskey and chewed on it for a second, considering his words. His Adams-apple bobbed and he licked his lips. They glistened in the light from the hall, very full for a man. He had that look like he might grab me and then, I don't know, punch me? Throw me out? Kiss me? That wasn't scary in the way you might think. "You need to step up your game, buddy. Big time," he said, pointing the empty glass and a big finger at me. He picked up his stack off clothes and stormed out. I could hear him in the kitchen, opening a beer. Then he went upstairs. I went for another load of laundry. + When I carried the folded laundry upstairs his door was open. The only light was the shifting blue and green glow of the TV. No sound. I made deposits in Rachael's room, then Susan's and was almost to the stairs. "Come in here please," he called. I wouldn't have even slowed down except for the 'please.' I stuck only my head into the room. He was in his place, the dirty bottoms of his socks pointed my way. His stomach muscles bunched like pale rocks. "I don't think that's a very good idea. Do you?" I asked, trying to keep it light. "I think it's a great idea," he said, sitting up and swinging his feet onto the floor. When he slid off the bed I got a great view his right thigh and butt cheek, pale as the moon in the TV light. Why don't women run when they see that? As he approached I ducked out, just over the threshold. In the safe zone. He filled the doorway, one arm draped casually on the top of the frame, and smiled like a wolf. His boxers were red with little green wreaths everywhere and the words "Don't open until Christmas" written across the front like a gift tag. Is there a message there? Who knows if he even looked before he put them on. I held my ground. "Why don't you come in little girl," he said, trying to be funny. He waited and tapped his foot. "Come in and sit down. We can talk," he said more sternly, stepping back slightly but not nearly far enough. I could see the vanity seat, so close. My housecoat and probably the gown underneath wouldn't make the journey. "I'm good right here," I said in a whisper from the safe zone. "And keep it down, the girls are asleep." Suddenly his hand shot out and gripped my wrist. It was so fast he'd pulled my head and shoulders into the room before I could react. I gave a yelp, grabbed at the door frame, found it and held on for dear life, half in and half out. "Tommy, let go!" I hissed, somehow remembering to keep it down. There was a brief tug of war that he could have won if he really wanted then his free hand found my head, brushed off the ball cap that held everything up and and caught a fist of hair. I still had a foot and hand outside. I think. I twisted my wrist. No reaction. I put my shoulder into it. He wouldn't budge. "You let go," he said slowly, close to my ear. "That's all you've got to do," he pulled again gently. What did he mean? Like, literally let go of the door? Or something else? I was falling forward. "No Tom!" I said firmly, tightening my grip. He stopped! The hands released, hair first then the arm. I jerked my hand free and leaped back against the far wall. My chest heaved and I crossed my arms. Loose hair was all over the place. Bangs poked my eye. "You're an asshole sometimes," I said in a hiss. "You've got to loosen up!" he replied like it was all a joke. He crossed his arms too, mocking me, and filled the doorway again. His face wasn't joking. The stupid boxers made me look at his crotch, something that was becoming a bad habit. At least he was on his side of the line. "What do you want from me, Tom?" "I want you to do the job you asked for. There's a lot more to it than laundry and cooking and driving the girls around." "Don't you think I know that?" I shot back, too loudly. What was he getting at anyway? "I work my butt off around here. How would you even know what goes on since you're hardly ever here?" I glared at him and tried to get my hair back under control with one hand. We were too loud. The girls were going to hear us arguing. Tom looked around his room then studied the door frame for a moment. Why didn't he come out? He nodded, making a decision. "OK, fine, I'll say it. You're turning Rachael into an old maid," he said, sneering defiantly, breaking his own rule. "You're job is to teach her to be a women and instead you're turning into, like, some old bag lady or something." "You want her to be like that slut Amanda?" I shot back and regretted it even before the words left my mouth. Because I knew exactly the ideal he had in mind and it wasn't Amanda. Amanda wasn't really a slut either. More like a bitch. A cloud passed over his face. He worked his shoulders like they were heavy and he gave a weary sigh. He fought his anger and won. I realized I was shivering, in a flannel nightgown, heavy housecoat and slippers. He was standing there practically naked, like a Christmas themed cologne advertisement. "What are we even arguing about, Tom?" "We are discussing Rachael and the fact that you are not preparing her properly," he said, ready with the answer. "You can't keep throwing her in my face all the time," I mumbled. "Yes. Yes I can. That's the whole point. I'm never going to stop." He leaned ominously close to the doorway and I inched toward the stairs. "She's going to be in your face every day, until she's, I don't know, maybe 50 and married with her own children? Isn't she?" I hoped so. I couldn't imagine life without the girls. I nodded. "Soon we're going to be talking about Susan as well. You let her dress like a tomboy and that's cool and all for now, but that can't go on forever." "What are you saying?" I asked. All that sounded like a long time, far into the future. He actually smiled a little, a wistful smile. "Beth couldn't stop thinking about them either, just like you. That's why she made the rule," he said quietly. He indicated the interior of his room, like he was inviting me in. "She also took care of herself." There it is. That's what he's been wanting to say. I'm not 'taking care of myself,' as if I could ever replace Beth in that way. What did he expect? He stepped into the hall at last, lifted his shoulders and struck a stern pose, boring his eyes into mine, all coach. Think about it. Tom certainly takes care of himself and he doesn't mind showing it off. His job is motivating powerful men, often in locker rooms, maybe even while wearing nothing but underwear for all I know. I was up against an experienced professional. "You have to lead the girls, Morgan," he said with spirit. "You're their role model. You have to set a good example. I know you can handle the responsibility." He advanced like he might want to shake hands or maybe even hug. I retreated to the stair rail. He stopped and gave a sad shrug. "I'll be back in a week," he said then quickly stepped into his room and closed the door with a click. It always sounds like a switch being thrown. + Monday morning "I'm getting a new football! Autographed by the team!" Susan shrieked, catapulting into the back seat of the minivan. She has a dozen of them at home. Rachael climbed in more slowly, still grumpy from the early hour. I caught her eye in the mirror. "He said to ask you," she said with a sigh. There was a tap at the window. His stupid mug flattened against the glass wasn't funny. I pressed the down button and he leaped back with a grin, hamming it up for the girls The head entered and peered around the back seat with googly eyes. He smelt of the official team body spray, I kid you not, a mixture of grass, leather, athletic ointment and 'spring fresh' scented deodorant that instantly makes one think of sweaty men hiding their smell. "What's a poodle skirt?" he asked, right in my face. A poodle skirt? That's what Rachael asked for? His hand flattened a magazine clipping on the windshield showing a college girl with a large pink skirt. She had a ridiculously narrow waist and a tight sweater with a college emblem stretched taut across the front. Everything Tom brings home from a business trip has a college emblem. The model was probably a 32C with a pushup. Very high and firm. "It's the skirt, stupid. That's the part on the bottom. Just buy it for her. She's even circled the size for you." I refused to give up my head space but he was right there, grinning his stupid grin that says, 'I know I'm an asshole. Whatcha gonna do about it?' "OK. Thank you," he said, then he lunged forward and kissed me! Just a quick peck but my whole mouth touched his face! In public! Thank God I did my hair and makeup this morning. His chin was super smooth, like a girl, and he'd used a breath mint recently. "See you girls Sunday," he said. I could feel the puff of the words on my lips, all minty. Then he was gone, carrying the heavy suitcase in one fist rather then deploying the wheels. Showing off, the asshole. I dropped the girls off, touched up my makeup in the school parking lot then drove straight to the grocery store. Taylor was on aisle 6, stocking soup. Her hair was done up under a ball cap and the smock hide her curves. Her makeup was subdued as well. When she smiled the tooth was gone. Eww. I mean, she still looked good, for an older woman, but a missing tooth is a turn off anywhere, right? "Morgan, I'm so glad to see you! I thought maybe I scared you off," she said, standing and brushing her hands on the smock. She did scare me off. I'd completely avoided the store since our meeting at the soccer game, afraid she might pressure me about my hair or say something about the obvious changes in my figure. I'd also driven by the place on the pink card a couple of times. There was nothing to see from the outside except the sign on the solid door sandwiched between a karate school and a pawn shop: "Nadine's," I pictured the place at the mall, "Eve's Lounge," with it's bright lights and rows of girls with clippers. Nadine's didn't even have a window. "Does your daughter do, like, private appointments?" I asked waving my fingernails vaguely. They'd been a nice pale blue at one time but the edges were chipped horribly from housework. Taylor positively beamed. I couldn't help staring at the black gap but she didn't seem to notice. "Sweetie, you've come to the right place," she said reassuringly, holding her arms wide. I kinda wanted to walk into them and lay my head on her breasts, the way Susan does but, I mean, I hardly knew the woman. Plus, that would have been a lot of breasts in a small space. + Tuesday Afternoon "I'm just saying you have to keep a man happy, that's all!" Taylor said, spinning slowly in the chair and kicking her peep-toe pump up and down. Behind me, Nadine let out a frustrated sigh. "Mother, please. Why is he the first thing you always bring up? Someone else if keeping him happy now. Why are you even here?" She lifted my hair and dropped it again. Her hands with their perfect red nails reached around to part my bangs and I dreamed the front of her bulging smock might touch the back of my head. So close. Her dark eyes studied my forehead in the mirror. So far my most coherent line had been, "Hello, my name is Morgan," right after Taylor had already introduced me. Nadine is simply the most beautiful woman I've ever seen and I was completely tongue-tied and alone in a strange sort of way without Tom or one of the girls there to do the talking. Fortunately, Taylor didn't mind filling in the silence. Normally I would be wondering what Tom will think of the beauty I'd found and instead I found myself calculating how to avoid that possibility. That rat would steal her in an instant. "I have to keep Morgan company. You can see she's a frightened little deer," the mother said. She hopped out off the chair and clicked past her daughter like she was going somewhere important, purse swaying in the crook of her arm. Everything echoed in the empty room. She pointed a long fingernail at the far corner. "And I need to call your father to fix that light." "Oh, don't bother daddy. He's probably working," Nadine begged, the way Rachael does. She left me to follow her mother. She wore clogs and loose pants with a long smock over it all, like the nurses at the hospital always wore. The curves were there, vaguely. "He has some lecture thing tonight. This will calm his nerves," Taylor said, whipping out her phone. "Oh, you're gross, mother," Nadine replied. She made a half-hearted grab for her mother's phone, they glared lovingly at each other but with talons out then Nadine surrendered with a sigh and returned to me. Taylor turned away and punched buttons. "I'm sorry about that," Nadine said, our first words alone together. "What am I doing for you today?" All business. She pulled my hair back and inspected the bangs in the mirror again. She could do that all day long and I would have been quite happy. "I was just thinking about my nails. Toenails are a problem," I poked the toes of my Uggs out. I didn't know what to wear and Taylor said to be comfortable. That means leggings, Uggs and a baggy sweatshirt that makes clear in no uncertain terms what team I'm rooting for, right? The drape covered it all anyway. "Yeah, that's easy enough. We'll talk about color and some other options later. Are you sure you don't want your hair styled?" She lifted and dropped the back again. "It's very ...umm ...natural, right now," She said it like 'natural' wasn't a good thing. "It's a long story but no, I don't think I'm ever going to cut my hair," I said. She nodded and played with the bangs again. "Cancer?" she asked like she'd heard the story many times before. I nodded slightly. "But you let someone give you bangs, right?" "That was a special case. And it was just the front," I said, smiling at the memory. She fluffed and pulled in back. She held her hands over my shoulders and bounced imaginary curls. "Well, it's up to you but I think the right style could really soften your jawline and some body would give you that feeling of a full head of hair without all the length. Length isn't everything, you know." She caught my eye in the mirror and we both smiled at the joke. Taylor clicked off her phone. "You have to do something with those bangs, either grow them out or cut them properly," she said loudly, one hand on an ample hip. "Mother, this is my salon!" Nadine shouted. "Go wait for daddy out front so I can attend to my customer." Taylor gave that same know-it-all smirk Tom does. It says, 'you like it when I'm a jerk.' Nadine didn't like it any more than I usually do. "In fact, go wait in your car," she added without conviction. Taylor sashayed through the curtains and found a seat. Through the part I could see her pump bouncing rhythmically. Nadine started with the pedicure, leading me to the special chair and offering me a hand to step up. The hand was soft and cool. The details after that are a happy blur. My feet rested in warm water, she scrubbed each in turn, which tickled a lot, poked at my cuticles with sharp motions that made me flinch then clipped my nails at a pace that made me very nervous. There were magazines to read but I could hardly sit still through the whole process. At one point Taylor returned and sat a cup of hot mint tea at my elbow, which helped me relax. The water drained, Nadine dried my feet and slid on pink foam slippers to protect her work. My feet buzzed pleasantly all over. They were in heaven. The manicure at a new station was similar except it didn't tickle so bad and Nadine was close enough that I could smell her hair. It was black and thick and smelled like honeysuckle. She'd just started when the door opened and my nervousness rushed back. There was a mummer of voices and Taylor pushed through the curtains with the tall, owl-like man, her husband, close behind. So much for a private appointment. "Hi daddy," Nadine said, barely looking up. "Hi sweetheart," the man said in a deep voice. He stood just inside the doorway, peering around the room nervously and shifting side to side like he had to pee. The dude was very tall. His plain blue dress shirt was buttoned all the way to the top. Taylor pointed out the faulty light and he seemed to relax. He adjusted his glasses, pulled a small toolkit out of a back pocket and approached the problem, suddenly in his element. Taylor smiled and clicked over to study her daughter's work. Nadine's assault on my cuticles intensified. "Don't you have anything to do, mother?" she asked, focused on her work. "Have you picked out a color?" Taylor asked, ignoring her daughter and holding out her hand. "How about orange?" They were very long and very orange. They looked good with her orange maxi-dress but were not practical at all. I shook my head. "I'm going to use Pink Opal," Nadine said. She reached for a bottle, waved it and sat it down. "It'll match her skin tone best, without being too outlandish. Does that work with what you plan to wear?" She looked me in the eye. Does the nail artist select the color? That didn't seem right but she was smiling and beautiful, so she should know. I nodded eagerly. She applied the polish by pinching each finger in turn and spreading a bead in three quick, deft stokes per nail, without a single bubble and without painting the cuticle the way Rachael still does sometimes. Not that I can criticize. Nadine painted a better nail than I ever could in a quarter of the time it takes Rachael or I to do a messy job. While I dried Nadine set Taylor to work, folding towels on the other side of the room. She returned and applied another coat then a clear finish that made them shine like five perfect opals on each hand. She hardly spoke until the end. "This should look a little more mature than the glossy green," she said when she was done. She stood up and indicated another chair. "While I finish your toenails you can think about letting me do your hair, and maybe some makeup." I perused a few magazines while she applied the layers to my toes but didn't see any styles, hair or makeup, that jumped out at me. Honestly, I wasn't interested in cutting my hair. Plus, I was distracted by Nadine's smock when she bent at the correct angle. It was dark in there, but, you know, there's always hope. That's all I had done that day. As a reconnaissance mission it was a complete success. The most beautiful woman in the world knelt at my feet and scrubbed sugar up and down my legs. Can you believe that! She massaged and pampered my feet and hands for over an hour and she never asked the awkward questions I feared. And my nails never looked so good. It was worth every penny plus about 40%. While I paid, Taylor ordered Jim to escort me to my car. "Oh, that's OK. I'll be fine. I'm parked very close," I said. Why would he need to do that? "Don't be silly," Taylor replied, coming from behind the counter quickly to meet her husband. She stood on tiptoes, pressed herself against him and offered her lips like he was leaving for sea. Nadine rolled her eyes but with a happy smile. I didn't want to walk all that way with a strange man I didn't know but what could I do? He helped me with my coat, which was nice, then pushed open the door, looked both ways, stepped out and held it for me to pass through. It was very bright outside after so long in the dim room and I was afraid of damaging my nails, so that was actually very nice of him as well. Then, half way to my car, a skinny, heavily tattooed man appeared from between the cars. He was dressed in black and was carrying a battered guitar. It was probably nothing but the way he looked at me was creepy. Jim's silent presence was reassuring. He loomed nearby while I fished car keys out of my purse and unlocked the door. For a moment I could see myself standing on tiptoes and offering my lips in thank you. Weird right? "Thank you, Jim," I said, offering my hand. He grabbed my fingers and gave a quick shake. He bobbed his head and thrust out his chin the same way Tom does. Tom used to say "No problem, bro!" but that's been a while. Jim just turned and shuffled away. His hands worked the air as he walked, like he was building something invisible and complex. Driving home I couldn't help noticing all the nail salons, spas and beauty parlors along the way. There's at least one in every strip mall and more than a half dozen in the large mall downtown. The hospital even had a hair salon when I thought back. I always assumed they were places of torture, with all the waxing and plucking and the chemical smells. Are women in all those places soaking in warm, scented water and receiving foot and hand messages? What else is going on that I didn't know about? + Wednesday evening, "But why do I have to go?" Suzy chanted, bouncing in circles and still out pacing Rachael and me. She wasn't listening to my answers. "You'll understand soon enough," Rachael said, playing the wise older sister. That was a phrase I used too much. She pulled her shoulders back, gripped my arm tighter and gave me an excited smile. We're buddies today because, with Tom away, she gets to be 'all grown up' and wear 3" pumps. That means I have to wear them too because we're wearing matching outfits: long cotton skirts, blue with large white hearts, white button up blouses and bulky leather purses in the same blue. Plus, I'm not going to be shorter than a 12 year old girl if I can help it. She was excited by the prospect of being measured and fitted. I worried about being judged, so I needed two girls for moral support, there was Suzy's real answer. The doctor's office set up the fitting with a specialist at a department store and I'd postponed it twice already because really, most of Beth's bras fit pretty well and they were expensive too. But I wasn't finding what I wanted in Beth's lingerie drawer. It had to fit perfectly. "Right here. This store!" I shouted to Suzy. Still spinning, she saw my gesture and bounced through the entrance, threading her way between a short lady with a tiny dog on a leash and a rack of clearance shoes that didn't appear very well balanced. My heart was in my throat. Rachael and I separated and made our way inside with extra dignity to make up for her. Susan was much more subdued inside the store. She fell into line behind Rachael and followed us through the perfume aisle, past the shoes then into the lingerie section without a word. When we reached the counter in the back she locked onto my arm and peered around at the racks with wide eyes. "I'm not wearing any of this!" she said in a pretty good imitation of Tom. It made me laugh and even relax a little. Rachael flitted through the racks, touching the delicate underthings. Some of the cups were larger than her head, way bigger than even I could wear, which kind of made me feel better about my figure. A short woman in a tight, cream sheath dress, cinched at the waist by a wide belt, stood behind the counter. She couldn't have been more than 5'3", nicely plump with a short blonde bob. The dress clung to every curve and proudly displayed her ginormous breasts. What I noticed was how there were no lines, like she had perfectly round, nipple-less breasts under there. Here was a woman I could trust. "Hello. What can I do for you this evening," she greeted us in a vaguely German accent. Her name tag said "Ms Bohnslager, Fitting Consultant." How does one get a job title like that? I introduced myself and the girls and she promptly led us into the back where she measured each of us quickly and efficiently, once around the chest and once around the boobs, with our blouses still on. I got the distinct feeling that Ms Bohnslager could read our sizes by sight and the measuring was all for show. The bras she brought us didn't have the same numbers as the tape measure anyway. "The girls can share a fitting room if you don't mind," I said, putting my hand on a door handle to indicate the room I intended to use. Dressing rooms are awkward enough since I'm just learning the etiquette. With the girls in tow, clerks often assume I'm the mom and want to put us together in the same dressing room. "Of course, Ma'am," Ms Bohnslager said without batting an eye. "I'll get the girls situated and then check on you." She handed me a bundle of hangers holding a complex tangle of straps and cups, kind of like the bundle Tom thrust at me so long ago except Ms B was much more polite and organized and prettier too. Then she turned to the girls and began explaining what would happen next in the chipper voice of a teacher. Both girls hung on her words. Here was someone I really could trust. There can be a big difference between 'size' and 'fit' in a complex garment like a bra. Beth's had the correct band size for me and the cup size was close enough too but they didn't exactly 'fit' most of the time. Now that it's my own flesh in there I can feel the poke of a misaligned under wire or lace that's pretty but itchy. I don't mean to brag but I might be a bit higher and firmer than Beth. Ms B was a genius. The bra I'd been looking for was in the bundle, like she could read my mind. I had to try it on first and it fit amazingly well. I set it aside nervously and tried the next one, a beige support bra with wide comfortable straps and ample padded cups. Another good fit. It was like laying in a comfortable bed, no pinching or poking. Ms B knocked at the door and I let her in. She fiddled with the straps and band in back, pulled down on the sides with a quick snap then stepped in front of me with her eyes fix on my ample cleavage, almost at eye level, while I tried to 'stand naturally.' She suddenly grabbed the tops of my cups in her little hands and lifted! Her fingers were cold on my breasts and I tried to jerk away but it was already over. She jotted notes on a little card with a complex, stylized drawing of a bra. I could still feel her her cold hands. "Don't look!" Suzy shouted on the other side of the partition. "Your hands are cold!" Exactly a what I wanted to say. "Hold still and let me finish," Rachael replied in a creepy imitation of me when I brush Susan's hair in the morning. "Let go! Hold still! Stop it! Morgan!" voices shouted. There was a loud bump. Ms B smiled knowingly, slipped out of the room and knocked on their door. The noise stopped suddenly. I tried the next bra, a stiff pink plunge that mashed my boobs together. They quivered and felt about to fall out when I moved but they held. Taylor was probably wearing something like this under her overcoat on Jim's birthday. I had an urge to stick my finger down my own cleavage. We ended up with two apiece; light silk camisoles for Susan, T-shirt bras for Rachael in a slightly larger size than expected and a pair of solid every day bras of me with good support and coverage. While I paid the hefty fare (Tom had been fairly warned) the girls wondered off and I saw my opportunity. I tossed the other bra on the pile, the one I wasn't ready to explain. Ms B rang it up and hide it in the bag with a knowing nod. Right beside the register was a rack of shaping panties on sale, something I'd been meaning to try. I searched the area. Rachael was pretending to be a dignified Princess on an urgent lingerie mission while Susan marched around her with a comically huge bra held to her chest. "Let's try a couple of pairs of these as well. Different sizes," I said quietly. Ms B smiled. She flicked through the rack quickly and rang up the new items then reached under the counter. "Do you need these as well?" she asked. "Same color?" I nodded twice. I assumed she knew my size and Ms Bohnslager, the fitting consultant, didn't disappoint. + Tom called when we got home, I could hear Rachael talking to him in the living room. "Uh, huh. Yes, we just got back from the mall. All of us. Yes. Umm, just shopping," She listened for a bit, nodding her head. "Morgan got her nails done yesterday. Yes. I don't know. I got an A on my history test." I stopped eavesdropping. "He wants to talk to you," Rachael said, walking into the kitchen a few minutes later with the phone pointed at me. Her caller ID said 'Daddy.' "How's everything going there? Do you need anything?" He asked like he really wanted to know something else. There were loud voices in the background and a whistle, football on TV. "We're fine. Just getting some shopping done after school today, you know. They both have some homework to finish up tonight," All generic stuff. "And how are you doing?" He asked. "Rachael says you went to a beauty parlor the other day. How'd that go?" "It was fine. You know, just checking places out," I replied, attempting to sound casual. Tom didn't need to know about Nadine or what went on inside a beauty salon. There was a loud roar on Tom's end and another sharp whistle. Someone called his name in a deep, resonating voice. "Look, I gotta go," he said, shouting over the noise. "I bet you're beautiful. Can't wait to see you," He was gone before I could reply. 'Beautiful?' What the fuck did he mean by that? + Thursday afternoon "Those were his exact words? 'I bet you're beautiful?'" Tammy asked, stroking her chin with a long black talon in deep contemplation. Her lips were thin lines of black framing gaped teeth. Nadine's 19 year old nail tech was the thinnest person I'd ever met, thinner than I ever was, like maybe she had a drug problem. You want to feed her a sandwich. Somehow she avoided piercing me with the sharp nails as she worked to repair a chip on my left hand. Heavy concealer, probably Nadine's work, smoothed her pimply face and magenta hair gave her complexion a pinkish glow. "It was loud but yes, I think those were his words," I replied, beginning to regret telling the story. She nodded sagely and dove back to work, pulling the file across my nail in long, elaborate stokes. "Well, I don't know about you but if it was me," she said, sitting up again and poking the front of her smock with the file. She's quite thin up top as well. "I'd take it as a compliment, especially from hot piece of man like, you know," She winked at me. "My employer," I reminded her. "Oh, right, sorry. I thought ya'll were close friends. I didn't mean nothin'." She bonked her head with the palm of her hand and flashed a crooked smile. Nadine combed and snipped in back while I was distracted. Scissors flashed at my right shoulder and her dark eyes studied the back of my head intently. She finally spoke. "That's probably enough buffing for now Tammy, thank you. Check on your other customers, please." Tammy bustled away, used to taking orders. The other customers were two older woman in their 70s, lounging in plush chairs on the other side of the room with their naked feet propped on pillows and wine glasses in their hands. They had bluish hair and the conservative clothing I was used to seeing on a lot of church ladies around town, so I was surprised at the wine and their friendly manner with someone as flamboyant as Tammy. Nadine cut quickly in front, combing my bangs straight and trimming a scant quarter inch right in front of my eyes with the same intent look. It would still poke me in the eye. The look in the mirror was blocky and plain. Next, Nadine escorted met to the back where she shampooed and conditioned my hair. It felt outrageously decedent to lay back while a beautiful woman worked her hands though my hair and messaged my head. The warm water and her gentle hands almost put me to sleep. Up close, I could see that her skin wasn't a perfect light brown without a little help. The shadows under her eyes might have been from sleepless nights, I had the same dark rings, but she'd balanced the look with long, heavily mascaraed lashes and thick liner that made her brown eyes deep and mysterious. Then it was back to the chair with a thick towel wrapped around my head. Nobody laughed. One of the older ladies waddled by on her heels like a penguin with poofballs between each toe and a head full of multi-colored curlers, so I probably shouldn't have worried. The old gal lifted her wine glass in salute as we passed. Nadine set to work with a fury, working slowly around the chair, dryer in one hand and brush in the other, her full attention focused on my head. She'd turned the chair away from the mirror so I got to watch Tammy's pale pink calves when she leaned over the ladies feet. There was a lot of laughter. It looked like they were having a good time over there. The dryer was replaced by scissors and a large comb. Then the dryer again. Scissors and comb, then a curling iron appeared and clacked near my neck. I could feel the heat. Tammy waved what appeared to be a small cheese grater like a baton and the ladies laughed. I swear, it looked exactly like a cheese grater, with a pink handle. Nadine's fingers worked styling mouse into my bangs. They were gentle and cold on my forehead. A long bob they call it. The effect wasn't as feminine as I expected. I wiggled my head. The bangs shivered but held, a solid wave of brown hair across my forehead. A thick, glossy sheet of hair exposed my ears with their tiny imitation pearl studs and curled to points under my chin, like two aiming devices. To be honest, there was so much product in my hair it felt like a helmet but I liked the way it bounced when I moved and it stayed out of my face while I prepared to leave. At the counter I juggled my purse, a new curling iron and a large bag of expensive and now absolutely necessary hair products with a huge smile on my face. It had been another wonderful visit with the woman of my dreams and the certainty that my hair was perfect, because Nadine and the other women said so, was surprisingly reassuring. If Tom doesn't like it then he's just stupid, right? "I'll walk you to your car. It's not safe," Taylor said when I tied to leave. She lifted her coat from the hook and handed it to me. I took it without thinking. "Then you just have to walk back alone," I said, mindlessly holding the coat open for her. It gave off a whiff of lemon verbena perfume that I needed the name of. "No. You're going to give me a ride," she said slyly, threading her heavily padded arm into mine and pushing the door open. I saw the sense of her words before we made it half way to my car. Two bearded young men, maybe 20 years old, carried a heavy looking wooden bed frame on their shoulders down the other side of the row. They couldn't take their eyes off of us. It was a relief to get inside the car. They were at the door of the pawn shop when I pulled up to the curb in front of Nadine's and they paused to watch Taylor cross the sidewalk. She made a show of it. They exchanged familiar looks when she disappeared inside. It was nice to see that someone other than Tom and I appreciate an older woman but I was glad they weren't looking at me like that. + I could hear Rachael talking to Tom in the living room. Giggles told me all was well. She wondered into the kitchen a few minutes later and climbed onto a stool, clutching her knees to her chest and spinning slowly. "Dad says Reggie will drive him home from the airport. He's going to stay for dinner." "Who's staying for dinner?" I asked, keeping my voice calm. "Reggie. He was like daddy's best friend before, you know, everything. I think dad said he got married." She tucked her hair back and traced lines on the counter top with her finger. By 'everything,' she could be referring to her mother or to my presence keeping people away all these months, or both. I tried to think of what to say. She suddenly lunged across the counter, slapping her palms loudly on the marble and staring at me with wide eyes. "What are we going to wear?" She asked seriously. "We should, like, you know, get dressed up and all!" We were on familiar ground. My own outfit was coming together well and it was time to think about putting the girls together, especially with company coming in a few days. And Rachael had a plan, I could tell. I relaxed against the counter and dried my hands slowly, making her wait. "Well, what are you waiting for? Let's see what you have in mind." She whooped and dashed up the stairs. She returned a few minutes later, barefoot in a cocktail dress with frothy tulle skirts and a loose sequined top. No, too big and umm, too mature. There was another cocktail dress and what looked like a bridesmaid's dress - both disallowed for the same reasons. Then came a lavender pantsuit from the 80s with the pleats and big shoulder pads and everything. Somehow Beth would have been beautiful in the outfit but we both laughed until we cried. All this was a warmup for the dress she wanted, long and flowing, deep blue and light as a feather, a basic long sheath with half sleeves. You'd call it plain if it weren't for the womanly mounds, courtesy of the T-shit bra. Tom was going to flip, so it was good that Reggie would be here. Susan watched a cartoon in the living room, oblivious to the horrors that awaited her once we settled on Rachael's outfit. She was saved that night by bedtime. + Friday Susan eyed the dress warily from the doorway while I straightened the mess in her dresser. It had a long sleeved black velvet bodice and a black and white checkered cotton skirt. Simple and easy. She helped pick it out at the mall, sort of. Party dresses are required for a school event. "You and Rachael like dresses. Why should I have to wear one?" She asked in a whine. She stumbled forward and flopped on the bed limply, exhausted by the very idea. I reviewed my last three answers to the same question and tried a new tack. "You know how boys don't normally wear dresses? " I asked, watching for her reaction. "A lot of people get upset if a boy just has long hair or wears makeup, right?" Her legs weaved through the air, chasing a soccer ball. Was she even listening? She flipped onto her belly, looked up at me with those wide, blue eyes that make me feel weightless and shrugged, uninterested in the mundane. "So everybody should be allowed to wear whatever they want, right?" She asked, so innocently it seemed rehearsed. She batted her lashes and the weightless feeling intensified. It's difficult to argue with a beautiful angel, even if her halo is slightly tangled and you know you're being set up. "Everybody should try new things from time to time too. You might want to look like a girl some day and then where will you be? That takes a lot more practice then you think, believe me." I waved my nails and tossed my hair as examples, as if I'd created them. She looked up uncomprehendingly, waiting for me to relent like I do so often. But Suzy would look super cute in the dress, especially alongside Rachael and I, all dressed up. We'll look great together when Tom comes home and he'll see how mistaken he's been, not that I expect an apology. I folded the heavy housecoat around my legs and perched on the edge off the bed. "You know that girl Greta? The one who always plays right forward?" "Yes! Because she can't shoot with her left!" Suzy hopped up and stumbled about, flapping her arms and rolling her eyes, imitating the hapless Greta, "So coach has to put her on the right all the time. It's not fair." "So you think she should learn to shoot with her left?" "Well, duh. She has two feet. She just has to practice," Her left slipper found a ball beside the dresser and rolled it out instinctively. "Not in the house," I said quietly. "So it's a good idea to learn to use all your tools, right?" The ball rolled up her foot and balanced. She flicked it back to its place by the dresser and turned to me with pursed lips and eyes rolled back. "Can I at least wear shorts underneath?" she asked sullenly. "Well, that's the cool thing! Since nobody is supposed to see what's under there, you can wear anything you want. As long as you keep your knees together and your skirt down. That's what we're practicing on Sunday night. OK?" Her body went limp and she collapsed on the floor, a pile of knees, elbows and hair. "Fiiiiinnnnee," she moaned as she fell. We'll call that an enthusiastic two thumbs up. +Saturday Soccer game, grocery shopping, soccer game, soccer game (yes, three of them.) By time we got home and everyone was showered and feed it was dark and we were all exhausted. We snuggled warm on the sofa in our nightgowns, watched a movie and turned in early. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.