Rosaline paced back and forth in front of her wide-open closet door, eyes narrowed in harsh evaluation of each article of clothing she had deigned to bring with her to Garrison University. The selection was sparse -- mostly soft cotton t-shirts and a few button-ups for fancier events -- nothing that at all fit the bill for a night of barhopping with mysterious sorority girls. Her butt wiggled with continental inertia as she lurched forward, grabbing a hanger at random and pulling it back toward her. Sitting atop it was a tie-dye sleeveless top that fluttered haplessly with the sudden motion. She knew from experience that it showed a healthy amount of midriff, and was not at all becoming for a first impression. How gaudy!
Rosaline replaced it hurriedly and nervously bit her fingers. This was her chance -- maybe even her ONE chance -- to make some serious connections at this school, to be enveloped into a friend group. Moreover, Grace was risking her own reputation by bringing a girl like her along for the evening -- what a true friend! The last thing the wide-hipped woman wanted was to be regarded with immediate disdain by these enigmatic new connections Grace had made. She needed to look perfect. She needed to
act
perfect.
Surveying her options, Rosaline's gaze fell upon a hint of burgundy peeking out from the clutter. A potential candidate, perhaps? She reached out tentatively and felt the thing. It was soft and velvety, sliding against her fingertips elegantly as she reached for its hanger. Retrieving it, she was greeted by the familiar sight of a long-sleeved top that she had worn on her move-in day. Rosaline beamed at the sight of it. It was a class act -- playful, with both pale white shoulders exposed to open air, yet respectable with dignified shoulder straps and a gown-like hem at its bottom that hinted at the allure of Rosaline's slender, slender waist. The chest was cut low -- but not too low -- and it would reveal a hint of the gentle swells that were Rosaline's b cup breasts. She looked at the blouse fondly. It still carried memories of her parents bidding her a tearful goodbye on move-in day as they began their journey back to Pennsylvania, piling into their junk heap of a car and unable to stop themselves from waving as they pulled off into the busy road. Her mother had complimented her on it before the had departed for this imposing school Rosaline now called home. This was the one.
Excitedly, Rosaline threw off her top with such force she momentarily thought it had ripped. She began to remove the chosen blouse from its hanger before freezing, having caught the eye of her silhouette in the mirror.
She stood motionless, taking in the form transposed into the humble little mirror affixed to the interior of her closet door, now fully open to greet her. There she was -- all of her. Rosaline's green eyes scanned her body up and down. They surveyed her familiar, youthful face, tall and adorned with a smattering of freckles and a button nose tucked behind unkempt sandy blonde hair. Her nimble shoulders compressed against her neck as she shrunk back, stomach twisting in an effort to forestall the embarrassment of seeing her upper body clad in just a simple black bra that all but eclipsed her modest boobs. She frowned. Their size had always been a point of insecurity for her -- she was forced to watch the figures of the other women in her small-town class become desirable and fine, seething with jealousy as they grew to fill their tops as she was relegated to explode into the fat-assed freak known all to well by the student body.
Her eyes paused at her impossibly thin waist. Her stomach angled itself lightly upward, barely protruding from her torso, tiny innie belly button in full view. On a smaller woman Rosaline's miniscule waist and stomach would be points of pride -- on her, it only served to enhance the impact of her pickup truck-sized moneymaker. Not yet willing to observe its sheer domination of her frame, she tenderly set gentle hands on both hips that forced themselves outward ludicrously. A pang of want echoed through her insides. Her hands sat atop her monolithic lower body like pebbles situated on a boulder -- her insane anatomy would just barely allow for her to reach the downward slope of her hips with some difficulty.
"I'm gonna have fun," Rosaline insisted, tearing her eyes from the mirror. "Grace said you have
charisma.
You couldn't make a bad impression if you tried."
Pointedly she turned from the mirror, trying to ignore the sensation of her ass wobbling as she did, and slid on her burgundy top. It fit like a glove.
"There!" Triumphantly, she admired the fit as she puffed up her hair. "Just a little work on the hair, and I'm -- "
Her eyes had landed on her leggings, fighting valiantly to contain the mass of thigh meat that vied for her attention below her. They had been warriors for many years and showed no signs of losing the battle against her ass... but they were grey. She whipped around to observe the color contrast in her mirror and confirmed what she already knew. The combination looked terrible! The top looked magnificent, but it couldn't obscure the fact that she simply didn't match.
"God... dammit." She muttered as she tucked her thumbs into her waistband. She had hoped to avoid this herculean effort until she tucked in for bed that night. Wistfully, she looked at her silhouette once more. Could she tolerate mismatched clothing for the night? No, she decided, and inhaled deeply.
"Anything for you, Grace," she whispered and began to pull downward. Immediately she felt intense resistance from the furthest protrusions of her cheeks -- an expected roadblock. Rosaline craned her neck back as much as she was able to survey the severity of the inconvenience. Her leggings had barely come down at all with the initial tug, held taut to her skin by the sheer volume of her lower body. She cursed silently. Out of wistful longing more than anything else, she extended a hand backward over her expanse to lightly touch the hem of the struggling pants. She could reach this far, and no further. Were she built with the proportions of a normal woman she could reach behind and pull her leggings down with a downward angle, but Rosaline lived with the unfortunate reality that her own anatomy was very poorly optimized. She physically could not reach backward far enough to grab most of the seat of her pants, much less begin to pull them down from a backward angle. Much of the prodigious swell of her backside had not been touched, and indeed could not be touched, by her own nimble hands since she had grown to her ludicrous size many, many years ago. She was forced to battle her own hips every time she wanted to change pants, pushing down at her hips and praying that eventually her enormous butt would relinquish its grip on the material.
"God..." Rosaline grumbled and resumed pulling downward at her hips, arms widening to account for their immediate explosion outward. She had been saddled with this fat ass for the majority of her life, and so had developed a few strategies to make daily life easier. Much to her chagrin she began rocking herself back and forth, and her cheeks followed suit immediately. Their mass shifted from front to back, front to back, moving with fluidity. Rosaline looked like a human wave pool as she shot her hips backward and forward, and she fought the urge to relieve her hands from their labor of forcing her leggings downward and cover her ears as a light clapping began behind her, her own ass applauding her progress. Slowly the cool breeze in the air conditioned dorm room lightly touched more and more of Rosaline's lower body as her unfortunate leggings slid down the enormity of her twin globes -- piece... by piece... by agonizing piece.
Rosaline grimaced. "Fuck... this... thing," she panted as she wobbled, continuously appalled that her ass's oceanlike motion was a more effective tool for removing pants than her own two arms. Soon, her valiant leggings fell to the floor, collapsing in a grey heap with an exhausted
fwump.
Their owner inhaled deeply and took in her form once again, now exposed in the mirror before her.
The sea of pale flesh, adorned with smatterings of brownish freckles that matched those adorning her other pair of cheeks, was there -- exposed to the elements. Somehow, without the protective covering, there seemed to be...
more
of her, as if she would ever need it. Wiggling with residual jostles and jangles as it all recovered from her labor, her elephantine legs were smashed together, locked in an eternal battle to occupy the available space before settling to an uneasy truce at her claves and ankles. Stretch marks adorned the widest portion of both hips, streaking down to fingertip length with the intensity of lightning. Her feet were positively tiny compared to the rest of her legs, to the point that they looked almost vestigial. When compared to her upper half, however, her feet looked massive, as if the sections of her body belonged to two entirely different people. It was nothing short of a structural marvel that they collaborated to hold her immense weight. And how much she must
