Grace's Anatomy (bespectacled schoolgirl futa) One Shot

Story by Bishiebunny

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 hips and slightly round belly would be more then enough for the calorie-phobic to latch onto. She was by no means fat, but by the time they were done tearing her apart, she would feel like Captain Ahab's tannest, most freckled, mortal enemy.

She gritted her teeth and bared their inconsiderate gaze. The boys were not much better and currently, equally cowed. They would approach more slowly, more cautiously than the girls would. They would come, one by one, each with flushed cheeks and stammering lines garnered from unsuccessful older brothers. Tongue-tied, they would spit out the most ludicrous come-ons and then hate her, just as the girls had, when they were denied.

Maybe if they could string together a coherent sentence, she might be flattered by the attention. No. They would all be short circuited by curves the likes of which they could only really appreciate when the navel and the rib cage were properly separated with a centerfold's staple.

Eventually, the boys would side with the girls, sharing a laugh at her expense, repeating untruths to make them both feel better. She would be fat, four-eyed and covered in freakish dots. At least, she would be while they gathered in gossiping groups. But later, when the lights were low and they were alone in their own beds? The girls would cup their smaller breasts, wondering what such large ones might feel like, while the boys ruined freshly laundered sheets with fantasies so obnoxiously intricate, it made her head spin.

The thing was, none of them knew the half of it.

Not a one of them could guess at the straining flesh that pressed painfully against a double layer of panties and tights. It pulsed angrily under her skirt. The uncooperative flesh seemed to want everyone to see, to recognize what was before them. Her cock throbbed while her mind spun about how easily the script could be flipped. The girls pondered inferiority while the boys pondered unrealistic conquest. How easily those boys might be made to quest

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