Special FX -27 - Second Thinking (Patreon)

For all of being a Jerk, Jack was a gentleman. He didn’t let me lie on the floor where I had fainted. I was already coming to when he scooped me up.

“I’ve got you, babygirl,” he murmured.

I laughed softly and put my arms around his neck. How much of that wine had I had? I had given him a round of shit for calling me ‘babygirl’ earlier, but at the moment, I kind of appreciated being babied.

He put me down on the couch; it would have been too awkward to take me into my room since the door was closed and locked. When had I started locking the door to my room?

“Jack?” I whispered as he pulled the folded afghan we kept on the back of the couch down to cover me.

“We can talk later,” he said, close to my ear. “You do need to sleep.”

“I—we—?” I tried to muster coherent thought, but it wasn’t happening.

“Shh,” he said. “Couple hours sleep, and you’ll feel like a new woman.”

I laughed again, a hiccupy little giggle. I was new at being a woman, wasn’t I?

He kissed me on the forehead, then the cheek. My eyes were open again, and I still had my arms around his neck. I pulled him down, and our lips touched. Then I let my arms fall, and he straightened up.

“Did you really find the camera?” I asked, sleepiness making my voice sound thick.

“I really did,” he confirmed. “Talk later. Sleep now.” He moved around, switching lights off, leaving only the small bulb above the sink burning, but it did not shine directly on me with the couch back and the screen that separated the dining room from the living room in the way.

It was soon dark and quiet, and I slipped into a much easier sleep than I had managed on my midnight bus ride. I remembered thinking it must be well after two in the morning, but I couldn’t see a clock from where I lay; my eyes were already closed.

If I dreamed, the dreams were unremarkable, not like the vivid adventures of Ultradoll.

— —

I became aware of being awake, lying on the couch, covered by the colorful afghan Jack had bought from some shop in Palm Springs. Was Jack still in the room? I didn’t open my eyes to see. I couldn’t smell him, so he must not be in the room.

Did Jack have a smell? Still half asleep, I considered this as an important question. He did, I realized, a smell of clean, healthy, male with some masculine, probably very expensive, added. Musk. Did I like Jack’s scent? Why was I thinking about it?

I came more awake as I asked myself another question. Had I kissed jack?

I had, I remembered.

Had I enjoyed that? Well, truth to be told, I and of did. That thought made me squirm and squirming made me wake up a bit more.

Yes, I was still lying on the couch, and the light seemed brighter than could be accounted for by the small lamp above the sink I knew Jack had left burning. The obvious conclusion was that morning had arrived. Since none of the windows in the apartment faced directly east because of the upper floor walkway on that side, it had to be later than just daybreak.

Which would be just about 7 at this time of year. Hmm. Still drowsy, I pondered getting up and moving to my own bedroom to get more sleep. Faintly, I heard a buzzing sound somewhere, an annoying and persistent insect noise. An alarm clock, I realized.

Jack’s alarm, I finally realized. And hadn’t he said…something about being up and dressed by 9 for the car show gig?

“Poo,” I said, blowing an errant lock of hair out of my eye. I didn’t want to get up. I was comfortable. I burrowed my face into the crease between the couch back and the seat and pulled the afghan up over my head. Maybe Jack would let me sleep for another half-hour?

What’s the point of being a beautiful girl if you have to get up at the crack of dawn to go to work—especially if work is wearing a bikini so you can be ogled by a bunch of men who are supposed to be looking at the cars?

— —

I could hear Jack moving around somewhere in the apartment, so I used one of the fluffy pillows on the couch to block my ear and snuggled deeper. The couch material was some kind of nubbly fake wool and a bit scratchy on my bare skin, which I had never noticed before. And it slowly dawned on me that I was still glued into the costume from last night.

I felt around to be sure, and yeah, I couldn’t even get a fingertip between me and the costume. And I still had the boob window. But that couldn’t be right. The Celestia—Space Babe—costume didn’t have a diamond-shaped hole showing cleavage, it just had a deep-vee neckline. It was the Ultradoll costume that had the window. Wasn’t it?

But the whole Ultradoll thing had been a dream I had on the bus, hadn’t it? How could I be wearing a costume from a dream I had? Was I still dreaming?

Had I dreamed that Jack had said he found the magic camera?

Had Jack actually found that damn camera?

That thought woke me up finally, and I sat up suddenly, almost falling off the couch and setting up some sympathetic wave action in my bust. I looked down. Yes, the costume I was glued into had the Ultradoll boob window. Impossible, unless I’m still dreaming,

Either that, or I’m so much of a ditz I don’t remember what my original costume looked like. Okay, that isn’t impossible, so by logic, that one must be true. “Erggh!” I whined, sounding a bit like a tiny chihuahua trying to kill a large kibble.

“I give up,” I said and tried to stand up, but my extra-large fluffy bottom seemed to weigh me down, and my feet weren’t cooperating either. I looked down, craning my neck to see over my personal horizon and discovered myself to be barefooted, the strappy, costume high heels I had been wearing lying under the coffee table. Jack must have taken my shoes off for me.

I could hear him singing in his private bathroom with the shower running. Something by Billy Joel with Jack’s own lyrics. Had I really kissed him last night? Or early this morning…?

— —

I blushed when I considered that I really had. He’d been nice to me, gave me a peck on the forehead and cheek and…I had pulled his face down and kissed him right on the lips.

I heard myself giggle nervously. Would Jack expect me to kiss him again? I felt sure that he would. Guys are like that.

“I gotta go pee,” I announced to no one, managed to get to my feet and teetered off toward the bathroom, walking almost on tiptoe. I’d worn high heels yesterday for something like fourteen hours and had tramped all over the studio lot. My feet kept trying to cramp up whenever I put my heel down.

But I made it. Reached under my tiny skirt and pulled down my spangled panties before sitting on the throne and releasing a torrent of tinkles into the toilet. I looked at my legs, my thighs were undoubtedly shapely, smooth and slightly tanned.

But hadn’t I been wearing hosiery? Pantyhose from Wardrobe in a slightly darker tan than my own skin? Had Jack removed my hose with my shoes? He would have had to remove my panties and put them back on if he had!

I had been wearing my panties over my hose! (Not recommended by Amanda the wardrobe lady, actually, but how else would anyone ever see my spangles?)

Most sensible girls who were not newbie actresses in costume wore their panties under their hose for ease of doing just what I was doing now. But if Jack had removed my hose, where were they now?

I finished my business, used paper to polish things dry and stood up, despite the foot cramps. I tossed hair out of my face and readjusted my skirt, discovering as I did that there were strings hanging down inside it. Garters? I used my fingers to follow them up, finding that I was wearing something like a girdle or corset with garter strings. Further, the garment I had no memory of putting on seemed to be partly covered by my glued-on costume!

But if I hadn’t been wearing pantyhose, had I been wearing hose held up by garters?

— —

That would have been easier for Jack to remove with my shoes—but it still didn’t explain where the hose had disappeared to!

And Jack would have had to reach under my skirt to undo the garters! Something no gentleman would have done while I was passed out!

I looked at myself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. I tried to make a face to show I was angry, but it just looked like a cute pout. I’d have to work on that.

Jack’s bedroom door was right across the short hall from my bathroom door. When he opened his, I would hear him and could pop out and accuse him of—what?

Did I want to do that? He hadn’t molested me, just tried to make me more comfortable. I stood on one leg, alternately, to massage my crampy feet.

I heard Jack’s door open and opened mine. What was I going to do though? Give him a piece of my tiny mind? Could I afford that?

He was right there, smiling at me. Maybe I should kiss him again?

Where the heck had that thought come from?