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Author’s Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
It was the breaking zipper that pushed Sarah Juarez to take action. It was her favorite skirt, a pale pink skirt that reached to just above her knees and in attempting to squeeze her bulk into it, the teeth of the zipper refused to hold fast.
The cream colored skirt showed the same signs of distress when she tried to zip it shut and Sarah was forced to slip into her cream colored slacks with the elastic waistband or risk being late for class.
She walked the five blocks from the apartment complex to the University of Louisiana at DeGarde campus, cursing the fact that she had to wear four inch heels with the slacks, or risk tripping herself on the hem of the slightly too long garment.
Sarah barely made it to Professor Huxton’s Algebra 101 class before the unpleasant man launched into his rapid-fire nasally delivered lecture. The teaching assistant nodded to Sarah, letting her know that she had been marked as ‘present’ for the class.
“Girl, I didn’t even know you owned any pants,” Ashley Melancon, Sarah’s best friend since eight grade teased as they both left the classroom.
“Shut up,” Sarah snapped, still in a bad mood over the damage of the skirt and the thorough confusion heaped upon them by Professor Huxton.
“Seriously, I can’t tell you the last time I saw you in pants,” Ashley said.
“Yeah, well,” Sarah muttered and waved good bye to her friend.
Sarah attended her Colonial Literature class and her Statistics 105 class before she could return to the two bedroom, one bathroom apartment she shared with April Adams. She was grateful; April was not home when she let herself into the cool interior of the apartment.
Closing her bedroom door, Sarah stripped off the slacks, and then slipped out of her pale green silk blouse. She turned and looked at her reflection in the mirror that hung on the back of her door.
At five feet, two inches, Sarah was average height for a Hispanic girl. She had long black hair that reached to the back of her thighs, a square face with dark eyes and full lips. Her skin tone was dark and her wide spread nose and full lips seemed to give even more credence to the claims by some that she ‘must have some coffee in her cream.’ As far as she knew, though, there were no African-Americans in her family lineage.
“Fat,” Sarah muttered, looking at her rounded belly. “I’m getting fat.”
Her belly did roll slightly over the top of her silk bikini panties and her cone shaped breasts were beginning to spill out the sides of her silk 34B bra. She sighed in frustration and unhooked the bra. Her breasts dropped slightly and the nineteen year old girl ground her teeth in frustration. Her dark nipples did point upward, but she could see that they were starting their downward droop.
She slid her panties down to her plump thighs and turned to peer at her chunky ass in the mirror.
“Fat, fat, fat,” she cursed her reflection.
She pulled the panties back on over her rounded ass, pulled on a housedress then walked to the kitchen.
Just as she had done hundreds of times in the past, whenever Sarah felt depressed, or frustrated, or melancholy, she got out the chocolate chips and the flour and made chocolate chip cookies.
Just as she was pulling the second sheet of cookies out of the oven, April Adams let herself into the apartment.
“Oh oh, what’s wrong?” April asked, peering around the corner into the kitchen.
Sarah looked at the pleasant face of her roommate and scowled.
“Why you say that, huh?” she demanded.
“Chocolate chip cookies?” April asked and tried to pick one of the cookies up off the wire rack. “You only make them when you’re upset about something.
“Wait; they’re not cool enough yet,” Sarah protested as April whistled, trying to hold onto the hot cookie.
April put the cookie back and tossed her Domino’s Pizza cap onto the kitchen table; a move she should know by now was seriously upsetting to Sarah.
April wasn’t even supposed to be living in the apartment; it had been Sarah’s friend Maria Montoyez that had agreed to share the apartment and expenses. A month after moving in, Maria, a beautiful, vivacious girl, had come home, pulling April behind her. The two girls locked themselves into Maria’s bedroom and proceeded to smoke several bongs of marijuana.
Sarah did not like marijuana; it didn’t get her high, it just gave her a headache. But because she didn’t smoke it, Maria assumed Sarah was a prude and so Maria locked herself in her bedroom when she wanted to get stoned.
That weekend had led to April simply moving in; she had a large connection to people she could get drugs from. Plus that, her job delivering pizzas meant she could pay her third of the expenses and usually had free pizzas to boot.
Although she was a slob, April had a sweet personality, did attempt to do her fair share of cooking and cleaning, and seemed to like the same music and television shows that Sarah liked, so Sarah did not canlı bahis insist that the stoned girl leave.
A couple of months after moving April in, Maria decided she’d had enough of living in boring DeGarde, Louisiana and decided to move to Houston, Texas. A tearful April asked Sarah if she could stay; she didn’t seem to realize that Sarah needed her just as much as she needed Sarah.
“Fuck, man, can’t move back home, you know?” April sniffled.
Sarah didn’t ask about April’s home life; it was none of her business and she could tell that April didn’t want to talk about it.
“I guess,” Sarah feigned reluctance.
“I mean, shit, I’ll pay half, you know?” April promised.
Now, peering into the kitchen, April did not realize why Sarah was glaring daggers at her, then at the offending cap on the table.
Finally, Sarah snapped, “Get that off the table.”
“Oops, sorry; forgot man,” April said and grabbed the cap.
She disappeared. A few minutes later, Sarah heard the shower start. April seemed to know that Sarah did not like the smell of Domino’s Pizza on April, the cloying tomato paste and garlic and olive oil smell was overwhelming to Sarah.
Sarah turned and began fixing their dinner.
“Let me guess,” April said, padding nude into the kitchen, grabbing one of the now cooled cookies. “Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy.”
Sarah turned to smirk at the girl; this was another thing she cooked when she was upset. She looked at the five foot five inch pale blonde and felt a wave of resentment.
April had shoulder length blonde hair, light blue eyes, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her too small nose, and a button mouth.
Her arms were slender, her chest small; April wore a size 30A bra. Her nipples were pale pink quarter sized bumps on the small mounds. Her waist was very slender and her hips swelled out only slightly.
Her mat of blonde wisps did not completely cover her labia; the pale pink lips peeked through the curls. Absently, April scratched at her pubic mound for a moment.
April yanked the refrigerator door open and bent over to see if there was any tomato juice left. Sarah looked at April’s tiny backside and fought the urge to give April’s small ass a hard, malicious slap.
“Damn it; drank the last one?” April complained and left the kitchen, not closing the refrigerator completely shut.
Twenty minutes later, Sarah called out that dinner was ready. She was grateful to see that April had put on her customary football jersey. The bright red jersey had a bright white number 42 on the front and back and the name ADAMS across the back, across the shoulders. It hung down to mid thigh on her and the sleeves hung down to her elbows, so Sarah knew April was not the original owner.
The one time she’d asked about the jersey, April pretended not to hear her, so Sarah did not ask about it again.
After dinner, April did her part; clearing the table and beginning on the pot the mashed potatoes had been fixed in.
“Let me guess,” she said as Sarah pulled a plate of cookies out of the refrigerator. “Marc?”
Marc Whitman was their next door neighbor. He was tall, at least in the eyes of Sarah and April, very muscular, and was very good looking. He had long brown hair that he kept in a pony-tail, light hazel eyes that always seemed to be laughing, and a permanent easy smile. He seemed to have an aversion to wearing shirts and often wore very snug and very short shorts.
Both Sarah and April surmised that Marc was probably gay; they had never seen him in the company of a girl. There were, however, a lot of men, similar in build and similar in their aversion to shirts and long pants that visited next door on a regular basis.
“Uh huh,” Sarah agreed and padded to the door.
Marc was just returning from a bike ride when Sarah opened the door of her apartment.
“Wow, talk about perfect timing!” she laughed.
“Oh yeah?” he asked, smiling.
“Yeah, I was just bringing these over,” Sarah said, indicating the paper plate of cookies.
He complained about carbohydrates, processed sugars, fat, but did not let go of the cookies. He thanked her, asked about Maria, couldn’t seem to remember April’s name, and then shut the door of his apartment.
Sarah returned to her apartment and decided to take her shower a little early. Her pussy was dripping wet; Marc’s body had shone with sweat, his muscles had rippled and the lump in his tight shorts seemed to thicken as she stood in the doorway of his apartment.
She grabbed her pale blue baby doll top and matching panties and dashed to the bathroom.
Pulling off her housedress and peeling down her moist panties, she made the mistake of looking at her reflection in the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door.
Fat, fat, fat,” she muttered to herself in disgust.
The mood to masturbate was gone so she did not reach into the cabinet to dig around behind the neatly stacked towels, did not pull the rubber dong she had secreted there.
Sarah was sure April knew of the Dong’s presence, bahis siteleri but April did not say anything about it.
Maria was not as accommodating; she’d pulled it out and shrieking with laughter, demanded to know what it was and why Sarah had it.
Sarah did pull out one of the fluffy towels and a clean face cloth. She frowned at the sight of April’s blue jeans and panties, wadded up on the floor, instead of in the hamper in her bedroom. She did frown at the sight of the cap to the shampoo bottle, sitting on the floor of the tub, instead of on the shampoo bottle.
In the shower, she lathered up her hair with her own shampoo, and then made quick work of scrubbing her body with her perfumed soap. Her make-up was carefully removed with a separate soap, a medicated scrub.
Sarah had always been a girly girl, preferring dresses and skirts to slacks or shorts. She owned no jeans at all; they just weren’t feminine enough for her. There was not a tee shirt in her closet or chest of drawers. Her only pair of tennis shoes were bubble gum pink in color and served very little athletic function.
Her fingernails and toenails had always been filed meticulously and polished. Even before her mother would allow her to wear color, Sarah put a coat of clear polish on fingernails and toenails.
Lip gloss had been a staple item in her purse from the moment she had been given a purse and she carried a purse, dreaming of the day the purse would contain make-up, foundation, powder, blush, eye shadow, lipstick, mascara. She did not need any of these items; her dark skin tone was without blemish and her lips already naturally full. But Sarah loved the trappings of womanhood.
Make-up removed, Sarah grabbed the can of perfumed gel and her razor blade.
From the moment her body began sprouting hair, Sarah had taken her mother’s razor and shaving cream and removed the offending wisps of hair. From time to time, she would skip a day, but very rarely did she skip two days before dragging the razor over her body.
Almost as if she had been monitoring her progress, just as Sarah began the contortions to whisk the hair from her anal region, April knocked lightly on the door.
“Just about done? I’ve got to potty,” April called out.
“Two minutes, please,” she yelled back. “Just give me two more minutes.”
Just as she passed the razor blade over the last bit of foam around her perineum, April opened the door of the bathroom.
“Sorry; I really need to go,” April whined and plopped down on the commode.
“And pick up your clothes, huh?” Sarah demanded, rubbing baby oil into her skin.
A week into her new-found resolve to lose at least thirty pounds, Sarah determined that it was going to take a little more than just yoga. She only knew five basic yoga movements and none of them seemed to target her rounded belly, or flabby thighs, or pudgy ass.
Sarah checked the local listings on-line for exercise equipment and was appalled at the prices people were charging for used equipment. It was April 27th, which meant it would be at least one more week before she got her monthly check from the trust her maternal grandfather had set up for her and for his eight other grandchildren.
Deciding that she could not afford any of the equipment listed, she clicked on the link for ‘Household’ in hopes of finding another cast iron skillet. She wasn’t sure what April had done with hers (she said she had done nothing to it) but it had not tasted right for a few weeks now.
Whoever had done the listing obviously had not seen the category for ‘Health and Fitness’ because the stationary bike was listed in ‘Household’ and Sarah blinked at the price. The ad said simply, “Old stationary bike, $25” and a telephone number.
“Hi, yes, that bike; you sell it yet?” she begged when a gravelly voiced man answered.
“The bike? No; no one seems to want it,” the man said. “Still got some old cooking stuff too.”
“Be right there; wait, where are you?” Sarah excitedly said.
He gave her directions to a house in Bender, Louisiana, and she ran down the stairs to her car.
The older man that opened the door smiled sadly as he let her in.
“Yeah, my mother passed away four months ago; this is all that’s left,” he said as she stepped into the empty house.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the old man.
“Yeah, well, hell, she was eighty seven, not like it was a big surprise after her last stroke, you know?” he said and closed the door.
“Now, you were looking at that skillet?” he asked, pointing to the kitchen.
“No, well, wait, what kind of skillet? I was really interested in that bike,” she said.
“Oh yeah, the bike,” he said and gestured to a second door.
It was a squat bike in an ugly green color, slung low to the ground. There were no wheels visible, just a long metal rectangle with a post where a leather saddle sat, two pedals, and two separate handles.
‘Astro-Cycle’ in flat black letters adorned the ugly green rectangle.
“Never heard of that brand,” Sarah said.
“Yeah, well, she bought bahis şirketleri it in oh, must have been nineteen sixty seven or eight, you know, when the race to the moon was on?” the man chuckled. “Everything had some kind of connection to the space program. Even orange juice. Ever heard of Tang?”
“Tang? Yeah; it’s all right,” Sarah shrugged.
“Well, that’s what the astronauts drank,” the man smiled. “And Mom thought anything that was associated with the moon helped with the moon project and bought it.”
“Seat’s all torn up,” Sarah said, looking at the cracked leather. Chunks of foam rubber had been torn away from the saddle’s padding.
“Yeah, well, almost forty years, you know?” the man shrugged.
“It work?” Sarah asked.
“Pretty sure it does; do last time I tried it,” the man agreed. “Thing’s all metal, none of that plastic stuff to break, you know?”
Sarah gingerly got on, afraid to put too much of her weight on the tattered seat. She pushed the front of her skirt down, protecting her modesty.
She put her feet on the pedals and gave a cautious push. The left handle came back toward her while the right handle went away from her.
“Oh, the handlebar moves too?” she asked and pedaled a little more.
The left handle reached the end of the cycle as did the right handle bar and the two began to reverse their trajectory.
“Yeah, and if you don’t want that, you push this,” the old man indicated a thumb lever on the right handle. “It’ll lock them in place.”
Sarah noticed a thumb lever on the left bar and pointed to it.
“Think that controls how hard it is; you know, you want it to be easy, you push it all the way up,” the man said.
“You mean the resistance?” Sarah asked and eased the left thumb lever down.
Immediately, the pedals became a little harder to push.
“I want it,” Sarah said and pulled her wallet out of her purse.
“Good, good, was afraid I’d have to just leave it here,” the man said.
“Now, let’s see the cookware you got,” Sarah said.
“Right here, still in the box; just found it the other day,” the man said. “Mom had it up in the attic, underneath all her Christmas lights.”
Sarah gasped at the sight of the three cast iron skillets.
“How much?” she asked excitedly.
“Tell you what,” the man said. “Forty bucks you get it all out of here.”
“These pans are brand new,” Sarah protested. “I can’t…”
“They’re not brand new,” the man said. “My brother Johnny gave them to Mom about twenty years ago as a joke.”
“Cast Iron skillets?” Sarah asked, confused.
“Yeah, Mom couldn’t cook,” the man chuckled. “So, Johnny would give her stuff like recipe books, kitchen knives, that kind of stuff.”
Sarah pulled two twenty dollar bills out and handed them to the man.
“Mom’s recipe for vegetable soup? I’m not making this up,” the man said, absently pocketing the two bills. “Take a big can of V-8 juice, a big can of mixed vegetables, heat and serve.”
“Ew! And y’all would eat that?” Sarah grimaced.
She put the box of assorted pans on the front passenger seat while the man put her bike into the trunk of her car.
(She had insisted he wait until she could help him, but the old man was trying to show off for the pudgy young girl. He regretted it; the all metal unit was quite heavy.)
Sarah was grateful to see that Marc’s car was in front of the apartment building; she had seen how the old man grunted and strained with the heavy bike.
She left the box of pans in the car as she traipsed up the stairs to the apartment.
Marc smiled and showed off for Sarah’s benefit, easily lifting the forty seven pound contraption out of the trunk.
“Real bike’s better,” he commented as he followed her up the stairs.
“That bike’s safer,” she said.
She quickly closed April’s bedroom door, not wanting Marc to see the deplorable condition of the room and guided him to her room.
He looked around, amused at all the frilly lace and stuffed animals.
The bike sat at the foot of her bed, facing the wall.
When Marc had brought it in, he had put it facing the door. The first time Sarah used it, she had been disgusted at the sight of herself grunting and sweating in her bedroom mirror, so she twisted it ninety degrees the other way.
Marc had looked at the remnants of the old saddle, told Sarah he’d be right back and rushed out of her bedroom.
Moments later, he returned with a much smaller saddle.
“Bought this; supposed to be the same kind Pierre Savantier uses, fucking hated it,” he said as he squatted down, wrench in hand.
“Who?” Sarah asked.
“Pierre Savantier? Won the Death Valley two hundred and fifty K?” Marc asked, incredulous that she did not know who Pierre Savantier was.
He grunted, cursed, and trained mightily against a nut that had been rusted into place over several decades. Sarah examined the hard leather seat. The pebble grained leather was light beige in color and had thick stitching joining the two pieces of leather, the stitching running from front to rear straight down the middle of the seat. She felt the seat and saw that there was absolutely no padding or cushioning in the seat. She resolved to buy a different seat as soon as she got her Grandfather’s check.