Grace's Anatomy (bespectacled schoolgirl futa) One Shot

This was a "One Hour Challenge" that absolutely got away from me. I blame a few friends who decided last night was a good night to look me up for some RP. Its hard to watch a clock and juggle a half dozen para RPs at once.

At any rate, I fully admit there's a bit of wish fullfilment here. Consider this a fantasy to which you are all invited. This is a stand-alone story (hence its own thread,) but I like to think the characters involved would not mind a revisit sometime in the near future.

Melody Felicity Grace hated her name. It had a weird sort of stuttering rhythm to it that made it tumble awkwardly off the tongue, like a skydiving nudist. You could loop it all you might like on the back of your notebook. You could adorn it with all sorts of heart shaped punctuation in purple, pink and a lovely silvery-blue.

It still looked like the sort of name Lifetime might use for a doomed pilot. Melody Grace, hippy attorney, defending the rights of women abused by an uncaring world. Come to think of it, standing before her new class, fingers tightening nervously around her satchel's grip, she already felt on trial.

They were all looking at her, looking with those judgemental eyes.

They were measuring, comparing, coming up short, and they hated her for it. The girls simply could not help but feel as though puberty was a cruel matriarch and apparently, liked Melody best. Arms folded over chests not half as developed, while legs fidgeted within dark blue tights, extended from bottoms that were no where near as ripe as Grace's own.

She had seen the reaction before and had come to grips with the ire it fueled. Their cheeks might burn in devastated blush, or they might slink a bit in their chairs, feeling as though it were their measurements on trial, but later they would lash out. Every new transfer was the same. They would form gangs of head-bobbing, neck-whirling geese, looking for the slightest imperfection in her appearance. Cruel eyes would seek out every scruff on her brand new shoes, every run in her well maintained tights, and somehow rationalize mocking the fashion of her wardrobe, as though they were not all wearing the same damn uniform.

And her hair, oh yes, they would definitely make mention of that. It was too curly, too bouncy, it spilled like a wild and rapturous thing. Their straight, neatly kept, slavishly bound and beaten follicles would never be allowed to run so free.

Skin? Too tan. Freckles? Too numerous. Glasses? God, nobody got called four-eyes past the fourth grade, unless one happened to be a physically intimidating, puberty leapfrogging, male ensorcelling sorceress of a teenage transfer student.

Weight? Yes, that is what they would settle on. She could have been considered plump, though anyone with an ounce of sense would keep the term to themselves. The more tactful would say full-figured, while the romantically inclined would opt for voluptuous. Whatever the case, her full h