Wendy’s Pink Lipstick Conversion, Chapter 1


    “When it’s good it’s wicked at the same time
    Cruisin’ all over in Pink Sunshine”

From “Pink Sunshine” by Fuzzbox, words and music by Margaret Teresa Dunne, Victoria Louise Perks, Joanne Dunne, Liam Hillard Sternberg
Sometime in the early 2000s


Week 1 — Wendy meets Sara and goes to the mall

Wendy Love sighed judgmentally into the mirror. The face staring back at her, a long oval triangle with pronounced cheek bones supporting delicate, almond-shaped pale blue eyes peering alertly at the world, judged equally harsh. She pursed her lips together to make her broad mouth smaller. Her shoulders sat too far apart below her head, she thought, making her a freak with broad shoulders and a football-shaped head roaming the hallways of Kid Lester High like a modern Quasimodo, searching in vain for his Esmeralda, still walking her goat through the narrow alleys of medieval Paris.

Quasimodo was a humpback, not hydrocephalic, she admonished. And Brad Blake was certainly no Esmeralda.

Moby, the janitor, had already been there. The heavy odor of pine cleaner permeated the air, and she curled her nose. But the stainless steel gleamed, and the tiled floor glimmered, and the trash cans were empty, and that was the way Wendy liked things.

At that moment Sara Oberlin, in her gold and blue cheerleading outfit, burst into the restroom, flung her backpack on the counter near the sink furthest from the door, leaned forward to squint at the mirror and muttered.

“Bitch.”

“I’m sorry?” Wendy exclaimed.

Sara turned to face her.

“My mother.”

Wendy understood. She had gotten her own looks, most of them anyway, from her mother. She never quite forgave that.

“I was supposed to have that party.”

Wendy drifted away. Parties belonged to another world, another layer of the social strata in which she moved. She liked her layer, small but filled with a few close friends. Maddy Springer, Gregory Gregor, the yearbook photographer, and Trina Something-or-other.

But not Brad Blake.

No, he moved at least two layers above her own, paced and ranged through it, a tiger in a cage. Or ordered it, arranged it, a lord among lords, disposing their own kingdom as they willed and keeping the lesser layers, the lower layers, in check.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

Startled out of her thoughts, Wendy turned to leave.

Sara, standing on her toes, pushed her face close to the mirror to apply a new coat of pink lipstick to her full, round lips.

“Why don’t you wear makeup?”

Sara spoke to Wendy, but she continued to coat her lips with layer upon layer of glossy pink and did not turn her head away from the mirror. Wendy eyed the shiny pink coating from the corner of her eye. Then she smelled it, faint but not entirely overwhelmed by the odor of pine cleaner, a spicy aroma, vaguely reminiscent of cinnamon.

Wendy didn’t answer.

“You should, you know. You’d look awfully cute.”

Wendy again turned to leave.

“Wait. Let’s try something.”

Holding the black and gold lipstick tube in her right hand, Sara approached Wendy, and, slightly embracing her with her left arm, raised the tube to Wendy’s lips. Being a little shorter than Wendy, Sara raised herself on her toes. Her chest and torso grazed Wendy, who pulled away.

“Hold still.”

“But.”

“Hold still. Open your mouth a little.”

Carefully and gently, Sara ran the glossy, pink lipstick over the length of Wendy’s lips, parted half open for Sara. Sara swept the lipstick back and forth a few times, wiping the edges with the pinky of her right hand. Satisfied, she dropped to the flats of her white sneakers, twisted the tube of lipstick, and closed it with its black and gold top. She used both hands to steer Wendy back to the mirror.

“What do you think?” Sara asked, biting her lower lip.

Wendy stood looking shocked at her changed face. Although her face itself remained plain, her lips leapt out, vibrant and zealous. Her blond hair, pulled back in a long, free-flowing and unbraided tail, no longer accentuated the height of her forehead but brought the rich, full, sensuality of her lips into stark relief. Wendy caught her breath and started to stammer.

“I look.”

“No. You look great. Hot even. Sultry.”

Sara continued to hold Wendy close with her left arm. Wendy grabbed a tissue from a dispenser just to the right of the sink.

“No. Please, Wendy. Would you do something for me?”

Wendy’s hand hung in mid-air, near her mouth, ready to wipe away the lavish color. The two girls in the mirror could not have been more opposite, Wendy thought. The one, feminine, beautiful in flowing auburn hair around a face from which Sara’s hazel eyes, slightly rounder than Wendy’s, gleamed at the world in confidence, wearing colors of her high school, proud to belong. Her full breasts filled the top, and when she stretched her shoulders out, a small red piercing peeked out from below the hem of her sleeveless cheerleader top, a belly button piercing.

The girl beside the cheerleader, taller, gangly, broad-shouldered, dirt blond hair pulled back, forehead looming over what could only be described as a horse face made human, eyes set too far apart. But that blue, that pale blue. Wendy had to admit the Almighty got that part right. They were lovely, and she knew it. Wendy wore denim jeans and a non-descript blouse. Altogether unflattering and unremarkable.

“What?”

“God, they’re right about you. You just shine.”

“What?”

But Sara already dropped that thought.

“Wear it. Just for the day. The rest of the day. I just know you’ll love it, you’ll see.”

Wendy’s lips tingled, and began to warm up. She edged the tissue closer.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice trailing off.

Sara held the pale blue eyes of Wendy’s reflection with her own hazel gaze and squeezed the girl closer to her.

“Just for the day. You’ll feel better, I promise. Please,” Sara said, imploring the last word in a whisper.

Wendy furled her brow. She didn’t understand why Sara was taking so much interest in her. Sara ran in Brad’s circle, two layers higher in Wendy’s meteorology of Kid Lester politics. They had not exchanged more than two words last semester. Or this semester, for that matter.

Suddenly Wendy’s lips began to burn fiercely. With her tissue at the point of wiping the lipstick away, the burning dissipated, just as suddenly as it flamed up, leaving Wendy feeling relaxed, happy, and carefree. What was there to worry about? She dropped her right hand and smiled at Sara in the mirror.

“Why not?”

“Oh Wendy, thank you,” Sara beamed. She leaned up to Wendy, again rising slightly on her toes, and quickly kissed Wendy’s left cheek with her glossy lips, leaving a faint set of lipstick marks. She reached for Wendy’s right hand and trailed her fingers along the outside of Wendy’s own fingers, who gave a short intake of breath. Then she snatched the tissue from Wendy and wiped away the kiss.

“Oops,” she said smiling.

Sara gathered her makeup together in her purse, stuffed her purse into her backpack and shouldered the backpack over her right shoulder.

“Come on, Wendy. You don’t want to be late.”

Wendy hung back and gave one last look at her image in the mirror.

“I don’t want to be late,” she said. Then she also headed out the restroom to her locker on the way to home room.

The morning of that Thursday passed uneventfully, until lunchtime arrived. The cafeteria hummed, students mulled about, running, shoving, shouting, and laughing. Lunch workers stood behind glass counters in hair nets and vinyl gloves, sullenly slopping lunch onto waiting student food trays. Wendy wove her way through them, holding her tray. Turkey and gravy, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and a stale roll. She held her tray steady, keeping the milk cartoon on the corner from falling off. As she set her tray down beside Maddy Springer, her friends hammered her with questions.

“That’s some pink,” Gregory burst out.

“You, you, you look,” but Maddy didn’t finish her statement.

“I like it.”

That last was said by Trina Something-or-other. Wendy gave her a quick smile.

“It’s the weirdest thing. That Sara insisted I wear it. Sara Craft.”

“Sara Craft!” Maddy exclaimed. “What’s she up to, I wonder?”

“I think she was just being nice.”

“Oh, Wendy, you think everyone is nice.” Maddy shrugged her shoulders.

“They’re not though,” said Trina Zschwinzscher.

“She is,” said Wendy. “I just know she is.”

Later that day, Wendy hurried toward 5th period Trigonometry, hugging the wall of lockers to avoid oncoming students.

Sara, still dressed in her cheerleader outfit, bumped into her.

“Oh, excuse me,” Wendy apologized quietly.

“No, it was my fault. I’m sorry. Hey, listen, can I ask you something, Wendy? I know we don’t really know each other, but maybe you’d like to hang out sometime?”

Sara bit her lip anxiously.

Wendy considered the invitation warily. Suspicious by nature, Wendy kept away from people she didn’t know. Even nice girls like Sara. Then she smelled a strange, wonderful odor, an exotic perfume perhaps, and her lips tingled for the first time since the morning.

“I’m going to the mall Saturday. Why not meet me there?”

That perfume. It reminded her of, well, what did it remind her of? Wendy’s lips tingled and grew warm. Something cinnamon and spicy. Wendy’s suspicions passed.

“Okay, I’ll come.”

Sara smiled brightly at Wendy, eyes gleaming with joy.

“Oh, you’re still wearing it! See, I just knew you’d like it.”

Then she drew close to Wendy conspiratorially. She leaned up into Wendy’s ear.

“Did you notice anyone staring at you today?” she whispered.

Wendy’s mind raced.

“No. Who?”

“You’ll find out. See you Saturday, Wendy!”

Sara squeezed Wendy’s hand before she ran off.

“Gotta go now. Practice.”

Wendy’s gaze lingered after her, watching as the hem of her short, blue and golden flutter skirt bounced against the back of Sara’s muscular, athletic thighs. Some girls just have nice bodies, she thought. No wonder all the guys fall over themselves around her.

At home in her room, Wendy lay on her bed, flat on her stomach, with her legs crossed and kicked up behind her, flipping through her Sophomore yearbook. Halfway through the book, the section opened to photographs of last year’s football season. She quickly found her favorite picture of Brad, helmet off in victory after the District Championship, lifted up on the shoulders of his teammates after having thrown a last-minute Hail Mary. The photographer captured Brad with his head thrown back in triumphant laughter, his sweat-soaked hair flat against his head and hanging until it the tips touched his shoulders.

Then Wendy noticed Sara in the background, caught in the moment of leaping and waving her pom-poms, one of her legs stretched high over her head, flutter skirt raised past her hips, the crotch of her white panties showing, stuck like that forever in a high school yearbook. Wendy couldn’t imagine showing off that much skin. She’d simply die of embarrassment.

The District Championship. It was as far as they’d get. It was as far as Kid Lester High ever got.

The garage door opened with a loud grumble. Wendy’s mother, Mary Love, was home from work. A few minutes later, Wendy sat up when her mother knocked on the door and opened it.

“Wendy, I’m home!”

A private joke, Mary intoned the phrase in the manner of Ricky Ricardo, the Desi Arnaz character. Wendy smiled at the lame joke and cringed inside, glad that her friends were not with her.

“Mom,” she protested.

But the smile on Mary’s face vanished when she saw Wendy’s lips.

“What on earth are you wearing, Wendy Love? Is that lipstick? And hot pink of all things. You know I don’t like you wearing make up at school. You just turned sixteen.”

“But Mom.”

“You have no business wearing that kind of lipstick at school young lady.”

“Fine, I’ll take it off.”

“But why are you wearing it in the first place?” Mary Love gained a reputation for not letting go of a subject once she hooked in.

“It was a dare, all right. Just a friend of mine. Just the last period. No one saw, okay?”

Mary stared at her daughter, then she sighed.

“It just doesn’t suit you. You’re pretty enough without it.”

Wendy’s mother closed the door, leaving Wendy to stand in front of her closet door, hesitating to wipe the lipstick off.

“No,” she thought. “I definitely look better with it.”

But she wiped it off and went downstairs to help with dinner.
A phone call from Sara

It turned out Wendy didn’t have to meet Sara at the mall. On Friday night the phone in the kitchen rang. Wendy ran to get it.

“Hey, it’s Wendy.”

Mary, overhearing from the living room, exclaimed, “Wendy Love, that’s not how you answer a phone!”

Wendy covered the speaker with her left hand.

“Mom!”

“Hey Wendy, what’s up? It’s Sara.”

Sara’s voice sounded different over the phone, deeper and breathier.

“I found your number in the phone book. You know, I was thinking. I could pick you up tomorrow. I mean, if you still want to go to the mall with me?”

Wendy feared that Sara would cancel. Relieved, she said, “Oh, yes. Yes, of course I do. That’d be great. Do you know where I live?”

“The phone book has your address, silly.”

Wendy chuckled.

“Oh gosh. I forgot.”

“So I’ll pick you up in the afternoon, then. Around two?”

“Sure. That’d be great.”

“Fabulous. It’s a date, then. See you at two.”

The phone line on the other end clicked. Then Wendy hung up.

“Who was that, Wendy?” asked Mary, curious.

“Just a friend from school. Sara. She’s going to pick me up to go to the mall.”

“Do you need money? How much?”

“I’ve got some left over from Grandma’s birthday present.” Grandma Emily didn’t give presents, she never knew what to buy, but she did give cash. Not a lot, not too much, but enough—if you knew how not to spend it all at once, and Wendy knew how not to spend it. If anything, Wendy held on too tightly to her cash, collecting it in a pink ceramic piggy bank she vowed to break only when she graduated.

“That’s nice.”

After brushing her teeth, putting her hair in a scrunchie, and changing into her pink and white cotton pajamas, Wendy crawled into bed, plopped her head against the pillow, and pulled the pin-striped, pink duvet close to her chin. Her mother insisted on buying the duvet. Wendy kicked against it, kicked against too much pink in her life, but her mother’s mind held firm.

“It’s a date,” she thought. Now that’s a funny way to put it.
Saturday at the mall, a makeover, and a gift of Pink Sunshine Spice lipstick

When Sara pulled into the Love driveway, Mary looked out the window and gasped.

“Does your friend drive a Mercedes, Wendy? How old is she?”

“Oh, Mom, she’s in my grade. Not everybody is poor like us, you know.” Wendy tried to hide the reproachful tone in her voice, but failed. Good, she thought. She needs to hear these things.

“Wendy Love, you’re not poor. There’s people right here in this town who don’t know where their next meal is coming from!”

“I gotta go now, Mom. I can’t have this conversation.”

You never can, Mary sighed to herself.

When Sara saw Wendy emerge from the front door of the squat, buttercream, two-story colonial, and trot joyfully down the short steps to her waiting car, she smile to herself. Yes, a lot of work remained to be done. A lot of work, but it only took a week to get her out of the house, she thought with satisfaction. But she still kept her lustrous blond hair pulled behind her head. She still wore plain, badly fitting, unimaginative denim. And Sara didn’t want to even begin to think about that blouse. But a body, a full, wonderful body of sloping, sweeping curves, hid under those plain clothes, and Sara wanted, no needed, to see what it could do.

“You’re not wearing your lipstick,” Sara said, chastising Wendy the moment she sat down in the leather passenger seat.

“Oh, Sara, I forgot. Wait. I don’t have any.”

“I’m joking, Wendy.”

“Anyway, my mother would kill me if she saw me wearing it. She already warned me once.”

“Really? That’s a shame.”

Sara put the car in reverse, backed swiftly from the driveway (without looking at the road behind her, Wendy noticed), stepped on the clutch, jammed the gear into first, and roared down West Pigeon Street, quiet and empty as usual, except for a few folks tending their beds or mowing their lawns, who glanced up reproachfully at the speeding German automobile.

“I’m sure we’ll change her.”

The mall hopped with activity, but Sara hooked her right arm through Wendy’s left arm and led her through the crowd of teenagers, mothers with prams, packs of boys looking for video games, old men dragging behind their wives, little girls squealing into shop windows, and little boys ducking slaps from their mothers or bigger sisters.

Wendy didn’t recognize any Kid Lester boys, but here and there she checked out one or two cute guys, in white shirts and jeans, dark hair and tight, muscular chests. None of them were as cute as Brad, but their chiseled biceps showed that they kept fit. Wendy imagined stroking her open hand along the hard muscle, caressing the strong masculine flesh. What were men like? I’ve never even kissed one, she thought.

I’ve never even had a boyfriend. And I’m in eleventh grade. I’ve never even had a date.

A few mothers disapproved of the two girls, especially Sara, who wore a billowing sundress, for the weather, warm even in late September, allowed light clothing. Less allowable, at least from the mothers’ perspectives, was Sara’s noticeable lack of a brasier. Wendy herself had noticed in the car, and considered remarking on it, but held her tongue.

Sara, she understood already, did Sara.

But she pulled it off, Wendy admitted. She really did. The low cut of the sundress revealed her adorable cleavage naturally, obtaining without seeking attention and even admiration, at least from Wendy, who could not help but peak from time to time, drawn more by the odd ornament hanging from a loose braided leather cord than any desire to look at her friend. Two rings hooked together each with a stick figure body hanging from the bottom. Wendy suppressed a giggle. Why would anybody wear stick figures joined at their fat heads? She’d ask Sara about it later.

And if the hardness of her nipples stood out from the thin cotton, well, what could you expect? They remained discreetly tucked within the confines of the dress.

Supremely confident herself, she inspired confidence. Wendy straightened her shoulders as she strode forward, arm in arm with her new friend. Sara took note, and her smile, already large and happy, grew even more large and happy. Suddenly she stopped and pointed at a stand in the middle of the wide main corridor of the mall.

“Hey Wendy, look! Do you know what that is?” She asked excitedly. She didn’t wait for a response. “They give out free makeovers there. It’s where I got my lipstick.”

A small cluster of girls with their mothers stood around the four-sided booth. A panel above one side of the booth proclaimed in large, pink floral letters, Therapeutic Transformations. Another sign above the adjoining side asked, somewhat aggressively, Are You Ready to be Changed?

A heavily but elegantly and professionally made-up assistant stood behind a free counter. Her auburn, almost red, hair flowed in waves around the woman’s familiar face, plunging down to the shoulders to splash over the sides of the woman’s neck. Light mascara, thin red eyeliner, and faint blue eye shadow showcased her slightly downturned eyes rather than garishly overwhelming them. She wore just enough blush to invigorate and pronounce the cheek bones below her temples, blush which smoothed into the contouring of the flesh of her cheeks to sharpen the angle of her round face. Altogether she looked stunning, imposing even, dressed as she was in a dark thigh-length skirt that hugged the contours of her hips and highlighted the curve of her ass when she turned. But the woman smiled genuinely when she saw the couple, still arm in arm, approach her counter.

“Can I help you,” she said, smiling pointedly at Sara.

“Yes, please. My girlfriend and I,” and here she beamed at Wendy, “are looking for something special in the way of lipstick. Something pink. I bought it before, but not here. Um. Pink Sunshine, I think it’s called.”

“Pink Sunshine Spice,” the woman corrected. “You know, it’s not just for everyone. Are you sure you want to use it?” She asked conspiratorially.

“Oh yes, please. Wendy’s just been dying to try more of it.”

The woman smiled at Wendy and retrieved a black and gold tube from below the counter.

“Well, Wendy, how about it? Would you like me to put some on you?”

To tell the truth, Wendy felt that lipstick’s absence ever since the evening her mother made her wipe it off. Something about it just felt right, and her lips felt parched, dry, and chaffed when she ran her tongue over them the next day, constantly checking herself in a compact mirror to make sure her lips weren’t burned. She had meant to ask Sara about it, but the cheerleader avoided her that day, spending time with her own group of friends. Once or twice she caught Sara’s attention, but Sara just smiled and winked and gave her attention to her friends.

She could at least wave at me, Wendy had thought. I don’t think she meant it when she asked me to meet her at the mall.

But now she was here, with her, at the mall, standing in front of a beautiful woman who held out a black and gold tube of pink lipstick. Her heart beat faster in her chest, thumping wildly beneath her breasts.

“Yes, please,” she said faintly.

“What’s that?” the woman asked.

“Yes, please, I’d like some.”

Sara laughed.

“Wendy, silly, you have to ask. Would you like the nice woman to put lipstick on you? Then you have to ask. Go on. Just ask.”

Sara nudged Wendy in the ribs playfully with her elbow.

“Yes, please,” Wendy found herself saying. “Would you put the lipstick on me? The pink lipstick?”

“I’d love to,” the woman answered. “Here, lean forward.”

Once again Wendy held her mouth open slightly while a strange woman applied lipstick to her upturned face. The woman leaned forward on the counter. She had left the top three buttons of her white blouse unclasped, and Wendy saw the cleavage of her breasts well up, pressing on the smooth edge of the countertop.

The woman skillfully, gently, and carefully ran the tip of the lipstick around Wendy’s lips, holding her chin firmly with the soft fingers, her polished nails digging just a little into the sides of Wendy’s jaw.

“There, purse your lips, then open your mouth again. Another layer should do it, I think.”

When she finished, she released Wendy, stood back, touched her chin, and nodded.

“Will there be a full makeover?”

“No, thank you. We’re going to do that at my place, aren’t we Wendy?”

Wendy’s lips burned, sending a thrill from her nose to her inner thighs. She closed her eyes, shook, tremored, quaked. She slumped forward and caught herself at the counter to prevent her from collapsing onto the mall floor. Finally she opened her eyes and regained her posture, shocked and scared at what had just happened. Then the shock and fear passed, and a wave of relief and relaxation rolled over her.

“Yes, we’ll go to your place,” she answered.

“I have one last case of lipstick left, girls.”

“Um, how much,” asked Wendy nervously. “I mean, I just need one tube.”

“Oh, Wendy, I’ll get it. After all, I asked you out.”

In the end, Sara bought more than a case of lipstick. She purchased a whole array of Therapeutic Transformations cosmetics, foundation, blush, highlighter, concealer, and contouring. She bought eyeliner and eyeshadow, and with her selections complete she offered a black and gold credit card to the assistant. Wendy didn’t recognize the logo, but the woman behind the counter did. The Diana Group.

Wendy turned her back on the makeup booth. She didn’t see Sara mouth the words, “Thanks, Mom,” to the woman behind the counter. Then, with her left hand holding the bag of cosmetics, she grabbed Wendy’s hand with her right.

“C’mon, let’s go home.”

Then she looked up at Wendy.

“Drop dead gorgeous. Just drop dead gorgeous is what you are.”

Wendy dropped her head, embarrassed and blushing.

“You’re going to slay all the guys at school. Or lay them.”

Wendy spluttered.

“Sara!”

“Just kidding.”
Later at Sara’s house, after trying on lipstick

“Now it’s time for makeup!”

“I’ve never put on makeup before.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

Sara dexterously layered purple eyeshadow and black eyeliner over Wendy’s eyes. Then, after using an eyelash curler to extend her lashes, she applied primer to condition and further lengthen her lashes before carefully applying mascara. Sara took out foundation, blush and highlighter. Already having perfect skin, she left the concealer alone. Wendy sat still in her chair in Sara’s huge bathroom, while her new friend touched and tickled her face with an assortment of soft brushes. Unused to anyone grooming her, she stiffened at Sara’s touch, then breathed in Sara’s sweet perfume, so much like cinnamon.

“Hush,” said Sara, “I’m almost done.”

Wendy’s stiffness receded, almost to the point of relaxation.

Finished, Sara held up the pink lipstick.

“More?” she asked.

Wendy nodded eagerly.

After coating her lips again with pink lipstick, she smeared gloss over them and leaned away from Wendy to inspect the results of her labor.

“Now every guy will drool over you, you’re so hot!”

Wendy blushed as Sara applied the makeup on her own face. Then Sara stood behind Wendy, twirled three long strands of silky blond hairs, and wove a loose braid that she draped across Wendy’s right shoulder. After Sara finished, Wendy compared to her old self to this new, but eerily strange, her.

“Come over here, babe.”

Sara tugged Wendy’s hand and led her over to a large wooden cabinet. The slight touching a caused a strange tingling feeling in Wendy.

Sara opened one of the drawers, revealing a wide assortment of lingerie. She picked up a black and white frilly lace bra and a matching pair of panties.

“This set looks good.”

Wendy stalled.

“That looks kind of...”

“Slutty?” Sara suggested.

“I guess.”

“Oh, come on Wendy. Slutty is in. Besides, who’s going to know?”

“It is?”

“Sure it is. Now get those clothes off.”

“Right here?”

“Of course! It’s just us girls.”

“Here, I’ll go first,” said Sara.

Wendy looked away, but Sara stopped her.

“Wendy, don’t be afraid to look at me. You’re not going to jump my bones, are you?

Sara pulled the straps of her billowing sundress away from her shoulders, letting the garment fall to the floor with a quiet swoosh. Sara’s breasts bounced as she struck a little pose for Wendy, jutting her hip to one side while holding a balled fist just above the slope. Sara stuck her bottom lip out in a sensuous pink pout. Against her better judgment, Wendy stared in dazed astonishment at Sara’s hard nipples protruding from the wide, round area of her dark areolas. She entirely ignored Sara’s strange necklace.

Wendy laughed, hiding her embarrassment.

“No, of course not,” she said, but she continued to stand without moving to change. Sara slipped off her panties and put on a sheer set of blue lace panties and bra.

“Wendy, I can’t be the only one getting changed. That would be weird, don’t you think?”

Still hesitating, Wendy slowly unbuttoned the top of her jeans and slid them down past her round, curvaceous hips. Then she stopped and cast an anxious glance at Sara, who smiled encouragingly.

“Go on, it’s just me.”

Wendy slipped her jeans past her thighs, slowly, inadvertently enticing Sara with her slow seductive reluctance. Then, pushing her jeans past her ankles, she stepped out of them, almost gracefully, if not bashfully.

“Now your blouse,” Sara said softly and firmly.

Button by agonizing button, the sides of Wendy’s blouse fell open, and Wendy’s breasts, not quite as large as Sara’s but full, robust, and gloriously pear-shaped, tumbled into view, bound only by the white fabric of Wendy’s matronly brassiere. The curves of her hips flared out in the majestic form of the receiving end of an hourglass before inwardly sloping to narrowing flesh of her abdomen, then spreading out again in the expanse of her wonderful bosom, her breasts, her adorable and gorgeous tits. Then Sara turned her gaze to the crotch of Wendy’s panties, where a thick dark bush bulged, and a few stray pubic hairs wagged wildly behind the plain edges of her plain white panties.

Sara stifled an intake of breath, bit her lip for the umpteenth time, and chided the disrobed teenager standing in her bedroom.

“Just plain white,” sighed Sara. “We’ll have to change that. Try this!”

Sara tossed black satin frilly bra and panties to Wendy.

“Go ahead, put those on.”

“But I’ve never worn anything like those before.”

“That’s the point!”

Sara touched Wendy’s shoulders. Wendy tingled.

“Go on,” she breathed more than spoke. “You saw me.”

Slowly, awkwardly, as if something or somebody else controlled her hands, Wendy reached behind her and unclasped her white bra. The undergarment fell away, but Wendy continued to hold up the bra in front of her, covering her bare chest, unwilling to take this next intimate step. And then, even before Sara protested her qualms or encouraged her fleeting courage, something loosened in Wendy, and she dropped the bra to the floor.

“Bravo,” exclaimed Sara. “But now your panties.”

Wendy breathed deeply, laughed briefly, and with the same slow deliberate motions that secretly drove Sara wild, she pulled her panties down to her ankles, and stepped out of them, leaving them on the floor behind her. Unlike Sara, she did not strike a pose, but simply pulled the two pieces of black satin lace over her waist and over her breasts. Then she worried her new friend with an uncertain, doubtful look.

Sara nudged her towards an oval standing mirror.

“God, look how hot you are!”

Wendy gazed long into the mirror, appraising her body and stealing glances at Sara’s body, who saw, said nothing, and smiled.

“You look cute like that.”

“I do?”

“Oh, god, yes. Hot and cute.”

They both did. Both of their hair had been pulled back into a long braid which hung over their shoulders, the underwear of both exposed flesh and limb, concealing only the minimal of coverage. Then Wendy looked at Sara’s crotch and looked at her own. Sara shaved. Or at least trimmed neatly. She did not, and felt a sense of sickened shame. She swallowed, her throat tightened, but Sara did not embarrass her by remarking on it. She didn’t even seem to notice.

“Have you ever worn one of these before?”

Sara held up a little black dress, sleek, form-fitting, strapless, meant to reach only to the thigh below the bottom curve of her ass.

“No.”

“Figures. Here.”

Sara grabbed matching high heels from a nearby shoe rack.

Wendy stood clumsily in the heels, but Sara whistled.

“Don’t we look hot and sexy?”

Again the tingling feeling came when Sara touched her arm.

“I guess.” Wendy tingled again.

They spent the rest of the day, dressed up with nowhere to go, sitting on the couch in Sara’s game room, watching a romantic movie called Beauty from Ashes. A new film to Wendy, she couldn’t decide whether the movie was supposed to be a comedy, a tragedy, a drama, or a skin-flick. Truth to tell, it boasted elements of all four genres. A side drama, a budding romance between two minor characters, both women, featured prolonged kissing and nudity. Wendy looked over to Sara to see if that bothered her, but Sara kept her attention focused on the large screen of the television.

The movie over, Sara surprised Wendy for the penultimate time that day.

“Do you have a DVD player at home?” she asked.

“Yes, of course we do.”

“In your room?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Sara said, “Did you like the movie? Do you want to watch it this week? You get a lot more out of it the second or third time you watch it.”

Sara ejected the DVD, placed it in its jewel case, and handed it to Wendy.

“Do you want something naughty?” she asked, managing to squirm while standing, gently undulating her hips side to side.

“Um.”

Cinnamon.

“Sure. Okay.”

Sara swept to her room and came hurriedly with a plastic bag.

“A magazine and another movie. One for the good girl, and one for a bad girl. A very bad girl.”

Wendy tingled.

She didn’t have to watch it, but she couldn’t refuse her friend. Not after everything she had done for her. Wendy took the bag, and the two girls walked to the garage. Suddenly Wendy stopped and said, almost shouting,

“But what about my clothes?”

Sara laughed.

“Keep the dress. You look too good to take it off. Unless you need to? I won’t mind.”

Wendy repeated the laugh.

“You,” she said.

“I’ll burn your old clothes. Especially the blouse.”

Sara’s Mercedes pulled into the Love driveway. Sara idled the car in neutral and focused her gleaming eyes on Wendy.

“Thank you for coming with me today, Wendy.”

“Oh thank you so much, Sara. It really meant the world to me.”

“And thank you for trusting me so much. That really means the world to me.”

With that Sara leaned over and kissed her solidly, firmly, and unmistakably on the cheek, leaving large, glossy pink lip marks. This time she did not wipe it off or say oops. She pulled slowly away from Wendy.

“There. I’ll see you next week. Don’t be afraid to say hi to me, even if I’m with my friends. They can be your friends too you know.”

Wendy felt the kiss burning into her cheek as she closed the car door behind her, she felt the kiss burning into her cheek as the German automobile once again roared down West Pigeon Street, felt the burn of that kiss as she walked on high heels through her front door, fearing her mother’s wrath, and hearing the shower of her mother’s bathroom running, she felt the burn of that kiss as she stood in front of the mirror, in a short black dress under which she wore satin underwear. She gazed at her made-up face, the striking color of her eyeliner and eyeshadow, the glossy black of her mascara, the shining pink of her warm lips, and the hot pink kiss on her left cheek, still burning when she crawled into bed, wearing only the covering of her satin panties. Her bra she had removed to gaze at her own breasts. Were they as wonderful as Sara’s? She fell asleep, the pink lips of Sara’s kiss still burning into her dreams.