Michelle hated parties.
Hard work to organise, a mess to clear up and in-between, boring conversation with boring people whom she hardly knew. Everyone knew that Michelle hated parties.
There was a song that went 'Everyone loves to party'; well count her out of that. Bad music blaring out, guests that would never otherwise pop around for a coffee, crappy food that would never make the table on a normal day, there were no redeeming features.
Derek, her husband loved them. She wondered how they had managed to survive all these years together - except possibly as an attraction of opposites. He enjoyed impressing his work colleagues with the lovely old house that they lived in, that she had chosen and decorated. He liked loud thumping music, talking 'work' with his mates whilst holding a warm beer - and waking up with a hangover. Michelle despised these things.
So, as rarely as possible she would surrender to his endless suggestions for a reason to invite his friends. This time it was not even a proper reason for a party as far as she was concerned, which strangely was better than some silly anniversary, New Year, Halloween or some such nonsense. Just a random date meant that there was no pressure for a theme or fancy dress and there was much less stress.
This time it was St. Valentines, which she never had any regard for -- it was merely an excuse for florists and restaurateurs to double their prices and for couples who were about to divorce to get stupidly schmaltzy and declare their everlasting love.
So here she was cleaning and scrubbing, shifting furniture in the lounge that merged into the kitchen and worrying about menus whilst he stayed at work blissfully unaware of the effort that went in to organising these shindigs.
She didn't have anything to wear. That was another problem that he wouldn't understand, he just saw a closet full of clothes and assumed that she could wear anything in there. But of course she needed something new, something different. The whole ensemble -- shoes, the lot. Jewellery she could manage; she had a good selection already but people never noticed that they had seen a necklace before.
Eventually the house was clean and she had a shower to recover herself. Next she would need a trip to the mall to purchase a new outfit, so she dressed simply in a dress that was easy to take off, to simplify the trying on of clothes in tiny cubicles.
When she looked in the shops it was difficult. That was another thing she was supposed to enjoy but didn't. Other women might be in ecstasy choosing a new dress but she struggled to get excited especially for an event that she would happily cancel.
Michelle looked at dresses, skirts, blouses, pants but nothing was 'flying off the rail' at her. There were black outfits, red outfits, blue outfits. Was there anything suitable in the world? It wasn't as if nothing would fit. She knew that some women were very short, very tall, thin or fat and could never find clothes that fitted. But she was slim, fit, average height, blue eyed.
The only thing was her red hair that clashed with some things. Plus of course her breasts which were large, which meant that manufacturers assumed that she had fat arms. Arm openings were always too loose and showed the side of her bra, or had sleeves that were just plain baggy. Never mind, if she could get it right she had assets that still caught everyone's eyes even as she was reaching her mid-thirties.
She wanted something conservative but interesting. Not 'Mother of the Bride' or 'Immature Teenager'. Something to impress her husband's colleagues but not be ridiculously out of place. Something that would please her husband but not give his friends cause to scoff.
She had been in this position so many times; every party that she had been to, to be exact. Then a thought came to her.
If she pleased Derek endlessly with these stupid events, inevitably he would continue with them.
What she needed to do was to put an end to them. To embarrass him in some way that he didn't want to do it ever again.
Soon she saw the ideal outfit. A dress a little too short, a little too tight. Single shouldered, leaving a bare arm and a low scooped line over her left breast. It showed her almost to the nipple and continued showing skin right around the side to below her shoulder blade. It even managed to be low cut over the right side and displayed her ample cleavage.
Black, always the most flattering shade, it shimmered with a silvery sparkle. No way would she be able to wear a bra underneath, but it was fitted with a loose lining across the breasts to conceal and protect her modesty.
'Well,' she thought 'those big girls had better stand up for themselves tonight.' She tried it on and stood sideways to the cubicle mirror. Her chest showed no sign of sagging, although -- or maybe because, she always wore a bra when in public; usually a big battleship of a garment as she was normally very discreet about her shape. Plus her sessions at the gym had kept her well toned so she had good legs and a flat stomach.
She complemented it with killer-heels; the sort that someone once called 'fuck-me shoes'. Then she admired the full effect again in the mirror. 'Wow, that really cuts a dash'. She was transformed into a man-eating siren, the sort of woman that she would normally hiss at and call a slut under her breath.
Michelle paid for the dress and shoes, then made her way across town to her hairdresser. To their surprise, she insisted on a change to her usual style and had her hair piled up transforming her into a vamp.
When it was finished and Michelle was driving home however, she had a sudden change of heart - a lack of courage to go through with the plan. 'Maybe next time,' she pondered. 'I'll just put on what I wore last time and change the jewellery.'
* * *
When she was ready to dress for the party, alone in her bedroom Michelle did her make-up and then tried on the outfit, just for fun. Under the dress her bare flesh was a little wobbly and she decided that she needed some support. She raided her lingerie drawer and put on a safe pair of panties and a lacy basque which cupped her breasts, giving her a little support although it didn't cover her nipples. It was strapless and the laces at the front could be tightened enough to hold everything firmly in place. It had suspenders which meant that she had to put on a pair of stockings, luckily she had a pair with traditional seams at the back.
The basque had been a Christmas gift from her husband years earlier and they had christened it enthusiastically before breakfast. It was black with red trim and made her look a complete slut but it would be better than being naked under the dress -- not that she intended to go through with it any more.
She pulled on the dress and shoes and stood in front of the full length wardrobe mirror to admire the effect. To be fair it was spectacular, she could tell. Not her normal style at all.
She then looked in the dressing table mirror to check out the rear view in the full wardrobe mirror behind her. The unfamiliar aspect of the double reflection took her by surprise and she went cold at the transformation.
Her legs appeared to be twice their normal length, her ass was more prominent than she had ever known; emphasised by her incredibly short dress and waspishly narrow laced-in waist. Her shoulders appeared bare; the single strap over her right shoulder was spaghetti-slim and almost invisible. Her tits projected as if they were silicone bolt-ons and her mane of red hair was piled high so that her height was out of reach of the mirror.
