Special FX -31- Drawn Like That (Patreon)

The bikini fitting was a disaster, but less than an hour after leaving the apartment, Jaq and I walked into the tented car show off Century Boulevard wearing beach coverups over teeny tiny bikinis. Fabulously expensive cars covered about ten acres of space with walkways between them and manufacturer booths filled with guys in California business casual suits.

“We’re supposed to report to the Volvo kiosk for assignments,” Jaquie whispered by my ear. Even on tiptoe, her mouth was nearer my clavicle than my ear. It kind of amused me that she was so much shorter than me now, and I’d done some ragging on her about it.

“Volvo? Seriously, shrimp cake? These are some power-hungry monster sports cars here?” I whispered back.

“Volvo makes sports cars,” she pointed out.

I shrugged, I didn’t really know from cars, but I did know the Volvo emblem, and pointed to it. We headed that direction without a lot of people in the way. The carshow had barely started but even so, we were attracting some attention.

It was our new bodies, of course. I’d been stacked before but now I was built like, well, like a wet dream. Every step I took set something to jiggling and my hair kept tickling the back of my thighs. They really hadn’t had a bikini top to fit me and had to quickly modify one with longer strings.

And the bottom wasn’t much better! Holy shit! My ass felt about a yard wide and seemed to weigh a ton. I could feel it back there, kind of wobbling when I walked. Damn that stupid machine-that-wasn’t-a-camera!

Jacquie was a bit better off, being built more like I was before the stupid magic gadget exploded. She was still a short stack with a va-va-voom body and a cute face. And she seemed less bothered by what had happened to her than I was.

“I can’t believe you talked me into going through with this gig!” I complained.

She giggled. I glared at her. People that cute should not be allowed to giggle!

“As your agent, I could hardly turn it down!” she said. “We’ll be getting more than a hundred times scale for this. A thousand bucks each for six hours work!”

“Yeah, but modeling isn’t acting,” I groused. I shifted my glare to a fat guy drooling in the window of the Volkswagen booth. He seemed almost paralytic with a big stoopid grin. I tilted my head at him and rolled my eyes. His grin got wider and he disappeared. I think he fell over backward.

“Careful with those green laser beams,” Jacquie giggled at my side.

“Huh?” I responded. “You should talk!” Her bright blue eyes under that mop of black curls had to be as dangerous as my own green glances.

We reached the Volvo booth and Jacquie announced us. “We’re the girls from the agency,” she said.

“Homina-homina-homina,” the guy in the little window replied.

“He only speaks Swedish, apparently,” I suggested.

“Bork! Bork! Bork?” Jacquie inquired. “Anybody speak English?”

A blonde woman as tall as me appeared at the opening near the colorful displays of brochures and swag. “Oh, brother!” she exclaimed, looking over at her colleague. “I think you broke Thor!”

*

The Volvo booth lady, Ava, assigned us cars we should stand near and even lean against (no sitting on them allowed, surprisingly), except when I removed my cover-up, she exclaimed. “Oh, Hell no!” And sent me inside the convention center to costuming. As I understood it, I was not going to be a Bikini Babe (her phrase) but be fitted out for a classier promotion.

“Huh?” I responded, but after waving goodbye to Jacquie and Thor, I followed instructions and went inside the huge convention center building, where a helpful young man directed me up an escalator. He wasn’t bad looking, but I was surprised that someone with such a terrible stammer had a job as a sort of concierge. I almost asked him if he were speaking Swedish, too.

I walked across the mezzanine looking for a door marked “Green Room,” still dressed in my bikini minus coverup, past a long, beach-themed mural. I wanted to examine it, but the noise of the crowd on the main floor kept increasing. I looked out over the railing to see what might be going on down there, but all the people I could see were looking in my direction. A few of them waved, so I waved back.

It kind of turned into a game. One guy would wave, and I would wave back and then his buddies would wave at me, and I would wave back at them, too. I got a case of the giggles at one point when I saw the big guys with armbands that said Security trying to lead my new friends off the floor to some side room, I guess.

About that time, someone came along up on the Mezzanine to help me find the Green Room. She was a pretty Hispanic woman with braids around her face whose name-tag read Esmeralda. “Hoo, boy,” she said after introducing herself, “I see why they didn’t send Arthur or one of the guys to get you!”

“Huh?” I said.

“The bikini,” she commented.

I glanced down and winced. “Well, it wasn’t my idea!” I protested.

“I believe you, honey,” she said, laughing. “Come on,” she urged, leading me by the hand. “Let’s get you into the Lounge before you start a riot!”

I followed her lead, trying not to giggle. It was difficult to keep my mind off the changes the explosion of the magic camera seemed to have caused. I wasn’t just a tall, good-looking woman, now, which was weird enough for a boy drama major from Oildale; now, I had a body like you see in some of those CGI comic strips on the internet.

We stepped inside the Green Room, which Esmy informed me had been redressed as a VIP lounge, and I got the full attention of the ten or so men in the room. They all left off their munching on shrimp canapés and sipping of liquor to stare at me. I didn’t know if I should wave or not, but Esmy hurried me along to a side room.

“Girl, you are dangerous,” she said, laughing again. This room was lined with closets, and she began going through them. “We need to find you something else to wear.”

“It’s not my fault,” I protested, hoping I wasn’t actually pouting, even though it felt like I was.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she said. “You’re not a bimbo, you’re just drawn that way.”

I recognized the line and got the giggles again. “No fair!” I complained. “I haven’t seen the script, and I don’t know my next line.”

She laughed at that, but pulled something out of one of the closets. “What is this? A formal gown or a sarong?”

“Looks ’salright to me,” I offered.