Words by guest writer SoylentOrange. Betsy Walters fumed as she danced off stage, turning in the wings to watch Jennie Bingham take center stage and begin her routine. Betsy knew she was a better dancer than Jennie, the whole troupe knew it, but when the program director was named Debbie Bingham, the lead solo act is going to be decided by nepotism and that was that. Not that Jennie would ever cop to it- "My dance is as perfect as my body," she had sneered when Betsy protested. Betsy watched as Jennie went into a pirouette and arched a brow when Jennie bent forward a bit too far on her recovery. Jennie wasn't as good as Betsy, sure, but that was a simple move that even Jennie should have been able to keep her balance for. On the next leap, she wound up taking an extra step to stop herself, a mistake that most in the audience wouldn't recognize but was as obvious as floppy shoes and a clown wig to Betsy and the other ballerinas.
The source of her imbalance became clear when she turned for her trex back across the stage, a pair of d-cup breasts swinging heavily where her petite b-cups used to be. She wore a strange grimace, like having just eaten something bitter yet unable to spit it out as she jiggled and wobbled her way across the stage. Betsy's eyes widened as she watched Jennie's breasts swell with every step, straining the black fabric of her unitard. She wondered if Jennie's mother would pull the curtains or something, but a quick look over to Debbie showed her in nearly a state of shock. Betsy looked back to Jennie, seeing she was nearing the part of the routine where the was to do another long pirouette spin. Now this she *knew* Jennie couldn't do; Betsy could barely pull it off, and she'd practiced the routine for months in preparation for the tryouts, only to have her efforts not even considered as Debbie gave the lead to her daughter. It was like watching a car stalled out on the train tracks; you knew it was going to be gruesome, but how terrible wasn't going to be clear until the dust settled. Betsy watched Jennie approach the touch-off point and actually felt a twinge of sympathy for her upcoming failure.
Jennie went into her spin, wobbly, off-balance, the twirl a mockery of proper ballet; but all that was forgotten when her breasts surged hugely forward all at once, shredding her unitard. The weight of the two massive globes threw her completely off-balance, the momentum of the giant fleshy orbs flying through the air dragging Jennie's lithe body after them like a reluctant water-skier. A gasp ran through the crowd as Jennie landed face-first (Well, breast-first, then face-first into her cleavage) on the stage, shocked cries and wide stares centered on her unnaturally large breasts. Debbie finally got her wits about her enough to slam down the curtain level, the red velvet drapes slowly closing in from the sides to hide her daughter's embarrassments. Betsy looked into the crowd, and among all the wide eyes and gaping mouths, she spied a single broad grin belonging to her mother sitting tenth row center, the tip of her black witch's hat poking over the seat in front of her as she put it in her lap. Betsy caught her mother's eyes and threw her a thumbs-up, getting a knowing nod in return right before the curtains closed.
Betsy Walters fumed as she danced off stage, turning in the wings to watch Jennie Bingham take center stage and begin her routine. Betsy knew she was a better dancer than Jennie, the whole troupe knew it, but when the program director was named Debbie Bingham, the lead solo act is going to be decided by nepotism and that was that. Not that Jennie would ever cop to it- "My dance is as perfect as my body," she had sneered when Betsy protested. Betsy watched as Jennie went into a pirouette and arched a brow when Jennie bent forward a bit too far on her recovery. Jennie wasn't as good as Betsy, sure, but that was a simple move that even Jennie should have been able to keep her balance for. On the next leap, she wound up taking an extra step to stop herself, a mistake that most in the audience wouldn't recognize but was as obvious as floppy shoes and a clown wig to Betsy and the other ballerinas.
The source of her imbalance became clear when she turned for her trex back across the stage, a pair of d-cup breasts swinging heavily where her petite b-cups used to be. She wore a strange grimace, like having just eaten something bitter yet unable to spit it out as she jiggled and wobbled her way across the stage. Betsy's eyes widened as she watched Jennie's breasts swell with every step, straining the black fabric of her unitard. She wondered if Jennie's mother would pull the curtains or something, but a quick look over to Debbie showed her in nearly a state of shock. Betsy looked back to Jennie, seeing she was nearing the part of the routine where the was to do another long pirouette spin. Now this she *knew* Jennie couldn't do; Betsy could barely pull it off, and she'd practiced the routine for months in preparation for the tryouts, only to have her efforts not even considered as Debbie gave the lead to her daughter. It was like watching a car stalled out on the train tracks; you knew it was going to be gruesome, but how terrible wasn't going to be clear until the dust settled. Betsy watched Jennie approach the touch-off point and actually felt a twinge of sympathy for her upcoming failure.
Jennie went into her spin, wobbly, off-balance, the twirl a mockery of proper ballet; but all that was forgotten when her breasts surged hugely forward all at once, shredding her unitard. The weight of the two massive globes threw her completely off-balance, the momentum of the giant fleshy orbs flying through the air dragging Jennie's lithe body after them like a reluctant water-skier. A gasp ran through the crowd as Jennie landed face-first (Well, breast-first, then face-first into her cleavage) on the stage, shocked cries and wide stares centered on her unnaturally large breasts. Debbie finally got her wits about her enough to slam down the curtain level, the red velvet drapes slowly closing in from the sides to hide her daughter's embarrassments. Betsy looked into the crowd, and among all the wide eyes and gaping mouths, she spied a single broad grin belonging to her mother sitting tenth row center, the tip of her black witch's hat poking over the seat in front of her as she put it in her lap. Betsy caught her mother's eyes and threw her a thumbs-up, getting a knowing nod in return right before the curtains closed.