If I added some black stilettos, red lipstick. used some eyeliner for a fake freckle, and carried around a whip, I could pass for a french mistress. I...walked out and showed mommy. Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head. "Wow! Baby, you look stunning!" She exclaimed. I blushed and spun around, showing my little behind. "Isn't it perfect?" Her eyes gleamed knowingly, "Honey, whatever boy you're thinking about doing, is one lucky man." She said, her eyes still tracing my scantily clad figure. I. Marie grew into a well-made girl and then young woman. Well-made meant shapely, she wasn’t slim like her friend Argenta, but then neither was she any of the polite euphemisms used to mean ‘fat’ – robust, well-built, stocky, healthy. She knew she was well shaped when she started growing breasts; she had looked in the mirror and seen shapely, sculpted legs rising to hips that had shape rather than boyish non-entities, a flat stomach progressed to an increasingly eye-drawing bust. It never became. More

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