“Augh! How do I keep letting you talk me into stuff!”

Knocked Up for Halloween
by Erin Halfelven
A Fit-4-U Tale

How do I keep getting into these situations? I glared at my roommate’s reflection standing behind me in the mirror.

“You look cute, Billy,” said Hank, his grin wide and goofy.

“Augh!” I replied. “How do I keep letting you talk me into stuff!” I stood there glaring at my own reflection, which seemed to be that of a pregnant cheerleader wearing zombie makeup and a wedding veil.

“Huh, huh,” said Hank in his best Herman Munster basso chuckle. “I dunno, but don’t we have fun?” He wore greenface (on his bare chest, too) with a set of Chippendale dancer collar and cuffs. “Like when we went to Cocoa Beach last Spring Break?”

“Don’t remind me,” I scoffed. “And we agreed to never talk about that again!”

“Huh, huh,” said Hank.

“Where did you get this costume?” I wanted to know. Costume? It was really a bodysuit covering a major part of me from mid-thigh to chin, complete with baby bump and MILF-like boobs. My arms weren’t covered, but I’d had to shave my pits—for verisimilitude. Legs, too. I yanked down on the cheerleader skirt I was wearing. I felt exposed. “Where did it come from?” I asked again.

“Online,” he responded vaguely. “You look like Margot Robbie.”

“Jeez!” I complained. “I do not!” I checked the mirror again. “Margot Robbie?” I asked.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” he Munstered.

Margot Robbie as a pregnant zombie cheerleader bride? “At least no one is going to know it’s me,” I suggested. I glanced up at him looming over me. He didn’t need a body suit; those muscles were his own.“You look like someone gave Mark Ruffalo two black eyes!”

He grinned at that.

Suspiciously, I decided. “You aren’t going to tell anyone, either!”

“Etta did our makeup,” he said simply.

I groaned. Etta was Hank’s big sister, another drama major. She’d likely be proud enough to want to brag. She had done a good job, down to the cyanotic blue nail polish Hank and I both wore. I was doomed, I decided.

I put a hand on my fake belly. “This feels so damned real!” At least my back didn’t hurt.

“The tits look real enough to eat,” he commented.

I snorted. “Don’t get any big ideas, Hank. I’m still your roommate, Bill, inside this costume!”

“Huh, huh, huh,” he boomed.

I looked at myself in the mirror again, adjusting my bridal veil to show my face. Etta’s lipstick skills made me look like I was smirking. “Margot Robbie?” I murmured.

“We need to get going. The party starts at eight,” Hank commented in his own voice, which was still pretty rumbly. “You gonna wear the shoes?”

I leaned forward to get a view of my feet over the mounds on my chest. “I’m wearing them now,” I said with a bit of wonder. How did high-heel sandals ordered online end up fitting so well? And I didn’t seem to have any trouble walking in them either.

I took a few steps experimentally., then looked up at Hank. “Without them, you’d be a foot taller than me with those lifts in your shoes.”

“Huh, huh,” he laughed. “Would make it hard to dance unless I just picked you up.”

“Don’t you dare,” I warned him.

“We haven’t danced together since….”

“Ah-ah! Don’t say Florida.”

“What happens on Spring Break stays in Cocoa Beach,” he agreed cheerfully. “Time to go. Etta beeped my phone, like, five minutes ago.”

I frowned, yanking down on the hem of my abbreviated dress. “Does this even cover my ass?” I asked.

“Huh, huh,” he said, one hand on the just mentioned part of my anatomy.

I slapped his other hand away from my fake breast. “Where did you say you got these costumes?” I asked again.

“Online,” he said, managing to get in a little squeeze. “Place called Fit-4-U Guaranteed!”

We were a hit at the party, winning the Most Original Themed Pair prize. The DeeJay introduced us as “Harley Quinn dating the Hulk,” and that got us enough laughter and applause to win a cheap plastic crown for me to wear.

“Victory dance,” Hank demanded, so of course I danced with him, my amazing heels giving me a lighter-than-air feeling, except for my fake tits swinging and swaying to the music.

“You goof! Put me down!” I squealed when he lifted me for a spin, my veil and crown almost flying from my head.

“Kiss the bride!” someone demanded. “Kiss! The! Bride!” the crowd shouted.

So he kissed me after whispering in my ear, “Florida.”

I had to giggle at that. Hank and I’d had a complicated relationship even before Cocoa Beach. Was that just seven months ago?

*

The party ended after midnight, and we washed off most of the makeup in the club bathroom but kept on the rest of our costumes. I wasn’t even going to try to wriggle out of my Fit-4-U bodysuit until we got home. As arranged, Etta’s sober date, Ed Grimley, gave us a ride while she (as Garth) snoozed on his shoulder.

“What are you two doing back there?” Ed asked over her head.

“If you don’t want to know, don’t look,” rumbled my own date.

Date? Yeah, well, date. At least for now. I snuggled a bit closer to Hank’s bulk and sighed. It was Halloween, aka late October. There had been a chill in the car after the warmth of the party, and the heater had trouble throwing off the cold.

Our apartment was on the other side of the Bay from the party, so it took a while and all of Ed’s skill in after-midnight traffic on one of the drunkest nights of the year to get us home safely. I don’t drink because of family history, and pot just makes me fall down and go to sleep, but despite being rock-solid sober, I dozed off.

I woke up sputtering because Hank tickled my ear. Everyone but me thought this was hilarious. “Rowrbazzle,” I complained, rubbing the one ear, my nose, and the other ear for good measure.

“Thanks, and let me get this one up to bed,” Hank rumbled as he pulled me out of the backseat. “You guys have a safe ride home.”

I stood on the sidewalk outside our apartment, shivering again, even though I was wrapped in a tartan blanket that smelled of Etta’s corgi, Ivanhoe. “Mawk!” I called, waving vaguely as our friends drove away.

While Hank unlocked the street-level door at 176 Barker Place, I was wishing I hadn’t shaved my legs for the costume; even such a tiny bit of fur might have helped with the cold. A breeze off the Bay brought the smell of fish guts and industry and not a hint of a far-off morning.

Then suddenly, Hank picked me up like a bride while I gasped and struggled to hold onto the blanket and keep my skirt down at the same time. Ivanhoe would never forgive me if I lost his blankie, so I gave up struggling with the skirt as we headed toward the elevator.

“Put me down, you goombah,” I protested. “What is with you wanting to carry me all the time?”

“Uh, uh, uh,” he intoned. “You Frank’s bride, huh, huh, uh-huh!” Then in his own voice, he added, “I don’t think goombah is actually an insult. I think it just means, like, buddy or pal.”

“What do you know?” I countered. “You’re not even Italian.” I tried again to pull my skirt down while wondering how and when my ass had gotten so big and round. Oh, yeah, the curves came from the bodysuit I was still wearing.

Hank laughed, and the elevator said, “Ding!” He held the door open while I managed to get inside, still navigating easily on my four-inch heels.

“Are you Italian?” he asked in a reasonable voice.

I demonstrated my authenticity with a gesture, again almost losing Ivan’s blankie, while Hank filled the tiny room with his booming laughter. Then I had to push the ape off of me as he tried to grab and pick me up with two handfuls of plastic ass.

I didn’t know when we started kissing in the middle of the horseplay, but I came up for air when the elevator dinged again. “Sixth floor,” I gasped. “Spats and canes, balls and chains, bridle and reins, everybody out!”

It was something my granddad used to say in elevators, and it got Hank laughing again, but he put me down, and we headed out the north hall to room 617. Once through our own door, Hank was all over me for, like, the fourth time! “Let’s get out of these costumes!” I protested.

His answer was to laugh and rip off the little collar and bowtie he wore. Then we both pawed frantically at my dress and ended up falling sideways into bed. Sometime later, I realized that while I was otherwise nude, I still had on the bodysuit providing my feminine/maternal curves.

“Geroff!” I told him, but his answer was to growl and try to suck my left tit into his mouth and chew on the fake nipple!

*

I woke up when the sun climbed high enough to shine in the east window. Halloween was over, and now it was Friday. And All Saint’s Day with another party to go to tonight. Would my sanity survive the weekend? Because tomorrow would be Day of the Dead and still another party! It ought to be illegal to allow Halloween to fall midweek.

I slowly became aware that I was lying in the wet spot. “Just like Cocoa Beach,” I muttered. But not too loudly, Hank was snoring softly beside me, and I didn’t want to wake him up in case he wanted another helping of me.

I struggled to remove the log-like arm he had across my middle, so I could make it to the bathroom before the wet spot got wetter. I finally scooted out from under and did the five-yard dash to the toilet in record time, noticing my nude reflection in the mirror on the door.

Well, nude, except I was still wearing the high-tech bodysuit from Fit-4-U, which I already knew I could do #1 while wearing, at least sitting down. Enthroned, I stretched fingers across my belly while I tried to sort out what I remembered about last night’s extracurricular activities.

Apparently, I could do other things while wearing it, too, some of which seemed unlikely and/or possibly illegal in fifteen states. WTF? So to speak….

I finished urgent business and did the modified paperwork required before almost standing on my head trying to get a look down there. The —supposedly fake— baby bump made that impossible, not to mention the —equally fake?— chest accessories trying to get in on the act, so I grabbed a hand mirror off the counter and put some light on the problem.

Nothing but smooth pink folds between my legs, with a little circle of fuzz at the bow and my asshole farther astern. “I’ll be super-amalgamated,” I whispered—something else my grandfather used to say. I never had found out what he meant by it, but it seemed appropriate now.

I used two fingers to probe the area. I could apparently push them in between the folds to a sort of cavity there. They came out damp with some sticky, milky fluid. I sniffed. It smelled of guppies, copper and peanut butter. I recognized the taste, too.

Spunk. And not the kind Ed Asner hated on those Nick-at-Night reruns. I’m full of love juice down there. Well, the bodysuit was; apparently, it had a pocket to contain the stuff. It seemed unreal, then again all too real when I squeezed my thighs together and felt it sort of squoosh out. I needed a bidet. Or a douche.

My calves protested as I lunged off the throne and strode back to the bedside. I paused, gazing down at my companion in lust. He looked kind of sweet, sprawled across the bed, six-foot-five and 260 pounds of man-meat. I kept my gaze away from his weaponry and tried to assess the whole organism.

Hank Brown was not a bad guy. He’d more or less saved my skin from becoming a trophy rug for various bullies back in high school. Good old Sanger Academy for Boys.

We’d both had the theater bug, and he’d made an impressive MacDuff in the senior class play. I’d been Lady Macbeth, of course. The only boy in the school brave enough to take the role. At least, that’s what the director told me.

I sighed, then went around to my side of the bed and sat down, careless of what might be leaking out of me. The sheets were already hopeless. I poked Hank in a rib and took some satisfaction in seeing him flinch. “Time to wake up, goombah,” I announced.

“Huzzat?” he asked the pillow.

“It’s me, your bride from last night, Hankenstein,” I said. I took a lock of leg hair and twisted it around my finger. I tugged hard enough to make him flinch again. “I’ll yank it right out if you don’t wake up now.”

“Uhm-awake, muh-wake,” he grumbled, swatting my hand away from his furry appendages and rolling out of easy reach. He twisted around to sit up, yawning and stretching. “Timezzit?”

“Time to get me out of this—this costume,” I said, climbing onto the bed behind him but keeping my distance.

He twisted to bring me into view then laughed. “You look pretty damn cute, Billy.”

“I don’t want to look cute,” I protested. “I want to look like me.”

“Still be cute,” he muttered, standing and plodding toward the bathroom. “Instructions are on the dresser, came with the suit,” he called.

I scrambled in that direction while he made waterfall noises into the toilet.

“We’ve got parties tonight and tomorrow,” I heard him saying. “Whyn’t you keep it on till, uh, Sunday morning? The booklet says you can wear it for as long as you like.”

I kept my eyes averted while he sighed and moaned with relief from hydraulic pressure. I found the book of instructions, about 6x9 inches with a faux blue leather cover embossed in gold letters: “Fit-4-U Guaranteed Lifestyle Bodysuit.”

“As long as I like?” I muttered, looking down at my curvy shape. “I want it off now.”

When I opened the cover I realized it wasn’t a booklet at all but a tablet like a Kindle or other e-reader. A color title page appeared, inviting me to touch any corner to proceed. A color tablet for an instruction book seemed pretty out there, especially after I found the Table of Contents listed several videos. Videos?

“Hank?” I called out. I heard the shower running.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he called back. “Come join me.”

Believe it or not, I did not rush to join him in the shower but I did walk to the door of the bathroom and hold up the “book.”

“This is pretty elaborate,” I pointed out, waving it toward him. “How much did you pay for this suit?”

“Six thousand dollars,” he said. “Deposit. I’m supposed to return it Monday if you don’t want to keep it.”

I babbled incoherently for a moment while he adjusted the shower for flow and temperature, and the noise almost drowned him out as he shouted, “Put the book down and join me. You’re probably just as stinky as I am.”

I stared. We have an absolutely huge shower, about four feet by six with two nozzles and glass doors. Hank is a big guy but I knew there would be room in there for me. Not that we made a habit of showering together….

“The water won’t hurt the suit?” I shouted a question.

“Nah,” he shouted back. “See page 11; you’re expected to keep it clean in the bath. Get in here!”

I groaned, snapped the cover closed and tossed the book on the bed before joining Hank in a much-needed shower.