Melanie raised one of her blankets to her nose, sniffed it, and drew the corners of her mouth down in disapproval. Evidently, Odelia was no longer the only stinky thing in the room.
"If you'd do the laundry more often—"
"How can I?" Melanie snapped. "Do you know how much dry-cleaning costs? No, of course not... You don't know anything, do you?"
"I know there's a perfectly good front-loader in the laundry room and since you haven't used it in all the time I've been cooped up, there must still be plenty of detergent."
In lieu of an answer, Melanie shook the blanket and spread it across the floor.
"Or you could always go back to sleeping with your husband."
This was ignored as well. She never responded to Odelia's taunts about the state of her marriage. Odelia was starting to suspect that this was not because it was a touchy subject, but rather because it wasn't.
Perhaps... Odelia felt sick at the thought, but perhaps her sister-in-law hadn't been kicked out of Jackson's bed at all. Perhaps she had moved into Odelia's room because that was where she wanted to be.
If Melanie had known about Odelia's nocturnal web-surfing, her meager stash of possessions would have been found and confiscated, and that hadn't happened. But not knowing exactly what Odelia had been up to didn't preclude realizing she'd been up to something and that moving in with her was certain to put an end to whatever it was.
The furnace kicked in, sending a tentacle of breeze up Odelia's toga to tickle nastily across the crack of her ass. She frowned. That had never happened before...
The sensation was vaguely reminiscent of the cold, fumbling fingers of an unwanted sexual advance, like when Roy Peterson had snuck his hand up her skirt while driving her home from prom, his sweaty, squirming fingers trying in vain to burrow into her crotch. She'd been saved by her multilayered fat girl control-top panties, which boasted a heft somewhere between that of a diving suit and a cast iron chastity belt.
A tug at her toga failed to close the flap in its back and block the breeze, so she plucked at it again, lifting the fabric at her side and then tossing it back. But the breeze could still be felt. In the act of reaching for it a third time, she froze.
Oh my god, she thought, I know what this is...
The breeze hadn't gone up her skirt—her skirt had gone up her body!
Her toga had become a blouse.
It wasn't as if she hadn't known this moment might come, but she was still shocked by the realization. And not merely shocked, but worse. It felt so... dirty.
Yes, the sheets of her toga could be, and frequently were, parted for the purposes of magical turd production or catheter tube access, but they could be, and always were, draped back into place afterward. Though the means of modesty had been dwindling to its last threads, nevertheless it had remained in her possession until this moment... or minute... or...?
It couldn't have happened long ago, because this was the first time she had felt the air current... But it couldn't have been within the mere minute or two during which Melanie had been fussing with her makeshift bed, oh no, Odelia's nasty bits had to have been already hanging out when the woman first opened the damn door; opened it and looked straight at her—and done nothing! Said nothing!
"Melanie!"
"Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Can't I see...? Are you kidding me?" The woman was maddening. "Can't you see the nakedness of the lower half of my body? Because there's a lot of it. So much in fact, that the only way you could fail to see it is if you've been struck blind."
YOU ARE READING
Tipping the Scales
Genç Kız EdebiyatıOdelia has spent most of her life so firmly under her brother's thumb that she might as well have been an insect trapped in a chunk of amber, but now, at long last, something is happening to her. Too bad it's not a nice, normal, something, like a '...
