Cynthia wiped away a tear and then touched herself some more. No boyfriend for a year. And now ghosted again. One of the usual patterns. Match with someone, start dating, hold off on sleeping with him for fear of his reaction. Sleep with him. Never hear from him again. Reason unknown. She could ask why, and she might get an honest answer, but it would be an answer she had heard before. There were other patterns. But this is the pattern that had happened this time.
She touched herself again. She should ask him why. Hopefully he would be honest. Then she could have another session like this, naked under the covers, edging herself to what she had made herself in the eyes of many guys that she was interested in. "I'm looking for something long-term," that's what the previous guy had said. That's what she was looking for to.
Two contradictory fantasies, that's what she had. Fantasy one; a long, happy, respectful and prosperous relationship. That was what her soul needed. But why did her body want something else? There was no sex in fantasy one. Theoretically sex happened, but it was a very non-sexual fantasy. She was pretty sure she had never masturbated to it.
Fantasy two; humiliation. Incongruous with the respect of fantasy one. Finbar, her second last boyfriend, had ruined her. If only she had never met him, had never allowed him to explore this side of her, had never discovered the depths of what it did to her.
That had ended two years ago. He had always warned her he hadn't seen their relationship as viable in the long-term. He had been right, she knew at the time, they were too different. But at the time it had been a lot of fun and she just couldn't help herself. Always wanting to see what he would come up with next. What names he would call her, what criticism of her appearance, what he would demand from her sexually, his little degradations in public.
He had given her a safeword, but she hadn't used it. That was his genius; his demands of her had never stepped way over the line, just cheekily pushed a toe beyond it. And it would be humiliating for her, but also exciting. And the result was that the line, the border of acceptability, kept extending, slowly but surely. Like a slow-motion time-lapse of the growth of an empire.
And then she had caught him cheating. She told him it was over. She didn't tell anyone else what he had done, or that they had broken up. She would, but not yet. She didn't want to experience the 'I told you so's from her friends, or yet more boring lectures or interventions about how badly he treated her.
But two weeks later he still hadn't tried to contact her and she couldn't stop thinking about him. Obviously the breakup had gone better for him. She begged him to take her back. He refused. He was with the other girl now. She begged more. He came over. She sucked his cock and begged again. He warned her he would make it hard for her. She continued to beg. He warned her it wouldn't last. Sooner or later they'd break up again. She agreed, but she wasn't finished with him yet, she wanted more.
And if you ever break up with me again, he said, then I will never take you back. This is "your" last chance, he laughed at her, kneeling in front of him, hands clenched pleadingly together, face covered in cum.
And he hadn't made it easy for her. The price had been unexpectedly steep. But so hot too. When it was done he laughed at her, told her how nice, good boys weren't going to like it. Ughhh, he had known her so well. She had never felt so wet as in that moment. But you'll enjoy that too, he went on, kneeling in front of her on the bed, her lying back, legs spread, showing off her new addition.
I'm going to take a picture of this, he said, reaching for his phone, and post it on the Internet. No, she shivered, please don't. Break up with me then, he demanded, and I won't. But if she dumped him, that was it, it was over for ever. She couldn't, certainly not now, not having done "this". She needed more sunk cost first.
His original post had long since been deleted, but pictures of it occassionally surfaced on other forums and nsfw social media that she browsed. The best was when the picture also included his text beneath the image of her genitals. "My idiot girlfriend dumped me because I cheated. She begged me to take her back. My condition was that she get this tattoo".
Two months later Cynthia dumped him. Finding out that he had cheated on him the first time had been easier to forgive. No one else knew. She hadn't told anyone, so face had been easy to save. She hadn't realised that he was going to test her resolve on not dumping him again.
He never stopped seeing the other woman. He would be deliberately careless. The humiliation had been divine. She remembered discovering her underwear in his apartment. Not even hidden, just on the floor of his bedroom. Oh yeah, that's her, he said half-interested, playing a game, when she asked. Then that time he told her to leave because she was coming over. She had rubbed herself silly at home.
But as with every little humiliation he tried out on her, eventually he brought it public. And this time it wasn't a toe over the line. Making out with the other girl in a restaurant where her parents and sister were eating. She couldn't continue. She wanted to, but couldn't bring herself to explain to everyone why she was still with him. It was over. She had wished it wasn't.
And then three years of unsuccessful dating. Roger had lasted longest. Five months. A wonderful human, fully fitting the mould of fantasy one. She explained away the tattoo on her labia as a drunken mistake. She was saving to have it removed or covered. A lie. She already had the money, she already had ideas for how to cover it. She just couldn't do it. The humiliation of having it made her orgasms better. If only Roger had known the things she was fantasizing about as he enthusiastically but clumsily finished her off.
He had joked a few times about it, randomly saying "suck my cock" with his cheeky smile, trying to be cute. And at least one time she did obey the command, out of guilt. Finbar would never have said it with a cheeky smile. And Finbar never tried to be cute. And Finbar never even seriously tested her willingness to conform to the "will suck cock on command" tattoo. For Finbar, and for her, the point wasn't that she suck cock on command. The humiliation of the existence of the tattoo was the point.
Eventually Roger became distant. It had become clear to him that she did have the resources to get rid of the tattoo, and any time he broached removal she pushed back, she'd get around to it later, she would always promise. And Roger had come to believe, correctly, that a previous boyfriend had been more for her than he could ever be.
That was a year ago. Since then she'd been in a cycle of failed dating, resolving to remove the tattoo, and then ... not doing that. Some guys loved the tattoo but none who she considered to have a bit of both fantasy one and fantasy two. The guys who loved the tattoo were not fantasy one compatible. And they never fully understood the fantasy two side the way Finbar had.
She looked at the clock. Midnight. Important day at work tomorrow. She'd have to finish up and fall asleep. At least her career was going well, at least she had that. No sense letting her other problems ruin that.
********** [Six months later] **********
"Hey, I know we haven't talked in a long time, but can I ask something"
She sent the message two days ago. And it had been read two days ago. But no reply.
"I promise I'm not trying to get back together, I just need to ask something."
This would be her way of getting rid of the tattoo, with closure.
"Can we meet?" She didn't want to ask this as a message.
"But your parents still live here? You must visit."
"Next time you are here can we meet? It won't take long, I promise."
A month later and he was in her apartment, she tried to make small talk first out of nervousness for what was coming, but he dismissed it, "get to the point".
"Um, can I have permission to get the tattoo covered?"
"You don't need my permission, are we done?"
"No, um, don't go, ... please!"
And he looked in her eyes and he saw and he understood, and she knew that he had understood by his slowly widening grin.
"I'll think about it," he said laughing and turned to go.
"I'll be back in town in a couple of months, we'll meet then."
And he left. She felt relief that the meeting was over, but he hadn't given her permission. What was going to happen? She headed for the bedroom. She had known in advance this was a kind of relapse. She had already had orgasm after orgasm at the humiliation of asking for permission. She didn't need his permission. But she wanted it. One final humiliation to end the grand humiliation.
And now two months later, Friday evening. She should should have been celebrating her promotion with friends, but this date was set in stone. The almighty shock she got when not just Finbar entered her apartment but his wife too. It was her, the other woman. They were clearly still crazy about each other, she could see, how they constantly looked at each other, touched each other, reached out for each other. "We've talked it over, he said, and we have a deal to offer you, a trade."
"Hang on," said the wife, "before we start, I've never seen it, you know? I've only seen pictures."
Seen what, Cynthia thought, it? He'd shown her pictures of her tattoo? The picture? Her favourite picture?
"Don't I deserve to see it?" the wife asked her. "After all, she went on waggling her eyebrows at Cynthia, it was my idea."
A wave of humiliation flowed over Cynthia unlike any she had experienced before. She gasped through her unsteady breathing. She realised in a vacant kind of way that this was a test. How she reacted might determine how the rest of the conversation went, but whether one way or the other would end up being better for her, she couldn't say. And she realised her body was taking over.
"Oh very good!" the wife clapped her hands together as Cynthia hooked her thumbs into the top of her stretchy pants. The wife approached and kneeled in front of her. Cynthia involuntarily recoiled as the wife's cold thumbs gently spread her outer labia, allowing the tattoo's small script to stretch and become legible. The wife laughed again. Not an evil laugh, a joyous laugh, taking delight, "she's so wet Finbar!"
"Yeah, no surprise there," he laughed back over his shoulder as he opened the fridge. "Same old Cindy." He took out a beer, "you don't mind Cindy?", he asked, but Cynthia wasn't paying attention. He waved it at his wife, "will you drive us back?"
"Of course! Enjoy it!" She turned back to Cynthia; "be a good sport and show us your tits too." Cynthia didn't know what to do. Speaking was out of the question in her current state. After a moment she took off her baggy jumper. "And the bra too," the wife said. Cynthia complied. "Oh, those are lovely," the wife said.
"Yeah, they're good," said Finbar. "Don't worry, we won't be here long," Finbar said to Cynthia, and took a big deep swig of the beer to emphasize he wouldn't be nursing it. He belched loudly for show.
"Finbar!" the wife said, but she was laughing. And he laughed too.
"We've talked it over," Finbar said, "and we'll give you permission to get the tattoo covered or removed or whatever, but in exchange for something."
"Wh-wh-what," said Cynthia through her ragged breaths.
"Well," said the wife, who was still speaking and smiling warmly, "do you remember how Finbar loves small tits? Like ours?"
"Love 'em," he said enthusiastically.
"I want you to get fake-looking breast implants that would disgust him."
Finbar laughed, "the ideas this woman has, Cindy, you wouldn't believe," he said. "Never a dull moment, this is only a drop in the ocean you're experiencing."
"I'm not interested in Finbar," Cynthia managed to say to the wife.
"Oh! This isn't jealousy Cindy," said the wife, laughing without malevolence. "This is me giving you what you want. I think we both know what that is."
Cynthia swallowed. "But, but, I like my boobs," she said.
"They're gorgeous," the wife agreed, and Finbar murmured his agreement, swirling the last bit of beer in the bottle. "But you see," the wife continued, "if you really want our permission to remove the tattoo – which you don't need I remind you, you are free to remove it without our permission – but if you really want our permission to remove it then we demand that you replace this one humiliation with another. Now think about it, loads of men love big breasts, and having breast implants won't bring the same awkward conversations about your past that your tattoo currently does. Maybe different conversations, but lots of women have breast implants, they won't be unique, the way your tattoo is."
"Uh," Cynthia wanted to say something, but didn't know what, she wanted to get rid of the tattoo, but for this, she didn't want bigger boobs ... she felt herself getting wetter.
Finbar finished the beer and banged the empty bottle down on the counter for effect. "She's going to be fingering herself for days over this," he said to the wife.
"I bet," said the wife. "Just one more condition Cindy, it's ok if I call you Cindy?" ("Uh," said Cynthia though, the wife hadn't been waiting for an answer). "One more condition. I'm going to pick your new tits for you, and the surgeon. I already have a good idea what I want for you. I narrowed it down by showing Finbar pictures of women with fake boobs and gauging his disgust, but don't worry, other men will love them or no woman would have them."
"Yeah they're hideous," Finbar said, "real bolt-ons. I don't get it, but other men will love them, it's true. Don't worry though, they won't be insanely big, we still want you to have a normal life, or as normal as is possible being you."
"Exactly Cindy," said the wife, "two cup sizes bigger, no more I'd say."
"And ... then I can get rid of the tattoo?" Cynthia asked.
"Only after," said the wife.
Cynthia tried to think of something to say. "But, uh, I like to run," Cynthia said.
"These tits I have in mind Cindy, they won't move too much, plus the science of sports bras has really come along. Or you could just take up cycling, continued the wife, laughing, chipper as you like. You think about it for a few weeks," she said and her and her husband turned in unison and left.
"Remember," Finbar shouted over his shoulder. "You don't need our permission. Either we hear from you again or we don't, it's up to you."
Cynthia was still standing in the middle of the kitchen when the door slammed, topless, pants down to her thighs. She waddled quickly to the bedroom. She didn't want fake tits. Bolt-ons? What did that mean? Won't move too much? She imagined herself in the bathroom, topless, crying as she looked at her new plastic chest. I'm going to cum so hard, she thought as she dove under the covers.
********** [3 years later] **********
Cynthia sighed and tugged at the uncomfortable seat belt tight across her chest as she drove the car up out of the underground car park. Things hadn't gone well this week at work, as they often hadn't recently. Would her team's performance ever recover from this? It was all her husband's fault. But more accurately, it was her fault, for going along with it. He was going to make her cum hard tonight as she recounted for him one or two small humiliations from the day.
At least he understood her though, that was something. Only the second man who ever had. And their indefinite financial security wasn't dependent on her success. But she did want her success too. And yet she didn't want to stop her recent acts of self-sabotage. The last appointment had been two months ago. She was going back next week, for more. And this time her husband hadn't suggested it. Next week's appointment was on her own initiative.
A voice message from her husband played through the car speakers. Short notice Cindy sorry, but two old friends are in town unexpectedly and are at a loose end so I've invited them over. We'll order food.
Hmmm, if they were entertaining, she might have to wait longer than expected for her orgasm. Disappointing, but obviously inviting them over was the right thing to do in the circumstances.
She thought of her husband. She had resolved not to contact Finbar again after that last visit, and to just get the stupid tattoo covered. But for the next few months there had only been one fantasy that she masturbated too. Three months to the day after their visit, she reached out. And three months later, she had woken up groggily in the recovery room.
She hated her new breasts. And she had cried many times, just as she had in her fantasies. They were disgusting. Not the size, though she wasn't happy about being a double D. The shape. two perfectly round halves of a large canteloupe. No sag. If she jumped, they didn't jump or bounce or wobble or slosh. They just kind of juddered. And only a bit.
And they stuck out so far. Ultra high profile, 450cc, with an internal bra, that's what the wife had asked for. The projection meant they had a narrow base, so they were also far apart from each other on her chest. She was so humiliated by them everyday. But being turned on by humiliation is such a vicious circle.
And then she had the tattoo removed slowly, first via laser fading, and then having the last bit covered over with a skin colour tattoo.
She approached the house and saw that her car space in the drive was occupied by a strange car, so she parked on the road. "I'm home," she called out, as she entered. "We're in the back," came the reply from her husband. She walked through and actually shrieked when Finbar and his wife cried out together "Cindy!"
"Oh my God, your face," said the wife, laughing, and actually slapping her thigh. "Fucking-hell," concurred Finbar.
"Haha," laughed Cynthia's husband. "Go on," he said to Cynthia, "make your unhappy face."
She looked at the floor. "I already am."
"Oh dear," said the wife, "you just look confused, not unhappy. And you're actually going to get even more botox?" Cynthia nodded mutely. This couldn't be happening. "You're so funny!" said the wife.
"Go upstairs and freshen up Cindy," said her husband, "then come back and join us."
"Oh," said the wife, "I looked through your wardrobe, I placed the clothes on your bed that you should wear, and only those clothes, understand?" Cynthia nodded.
30 minutes later, Cynthia was back downstairs, in the crop top, mini-skirt and heels that she only wore sometimes at home for her husband. There was no underwear, a fact that the wife brazenly checked in front of everyone by putting a hand up the skirt. "An incredible specimen," the wife said, turning to the men, "absolutely soaking, but she must be so miserable right now," said with sympathy. She turned back to Cynthia, "I left a hand towel on the bed too, didn't you see it, you've to sit on that so you don't ruin your upholstery."
"Wow," said Cynthia's husband, "hadn't thought of that one."
"Oh, sit beside me," said the wife excitedly, clapping her hands, to Cynthia when she returned. The wife snatched the towel from Cynthia and laid it on the sofa cushion beside her. "So," the wife said to Cynthia's husband, "I hope you're not destroying her career too fast?"
"No," he replied, "I enjoy watching her fight it. We can get many years out of it at this pace. It's just been the botox so far. She had that wonderfully expressive face, and it turns out its actually a big part of her management style. Words weren't her main tool for communicating to her team, it was her expressiveness. Now with that frozen face, she can only smile, or if she's really unhappy, look confused like she does now. She's not ineloquent in her words, but not as eloquent as she was with her face. Her team is starting to take her less seriously than before, and their performance is slipping. Not noticeable to her superiors yet, but she knows it, and she can't stop. "
"Well good," said the wife.
"She's going again for more next week," Cynthia's husband continued, "I didn't even ask her to get more, she made this latest appointment herself."
Hahaha, laughed Finbar and the wife together, and the wife patted Cynthia's leg.
"But before we get on to that Cindy," said the wife, "to clear up the mystery, we – she indicated herself and Cynthia's husband – go way back, and a few years ago he mentioned that we was ready to settle down, and, well, knowing both your tastes and his tastes as I do, I just couldn't resist telling him where to find you and telling him – you know – how you are, and, the rest is history."
Cynthia managed a confused grimace at Finbar, as if to say did you have anything to do with this?
"Oh, I ok-ed don't worry, they had my consent Cindy," Finbar said.
"That's right!" said the wife, "consent is soooooo important! And," she nodded at Cynthia's husband, "he told us your safe-phrase, so," turning back to Cynthia, "so, Cindy, you know you can say it if you want, right?"
Cynthia turned her gaze down to her lap. She nodded unhappily.
"Oh you're so great!" said the wife, leaning in and aggressively hugging Cynthia, who didn't hug back. "And anyway," the wife went on, "we both told him he should appear to be amused by your tits, that you'd like that, though you'd be scared to admit it."
"I genuinely think they're the funniest tits I've ever seen Cindy," interjected her husband, "don't worry, it's not an act," and he winked.
Oh my God, thought Cindy. The first time she had shown them to him, she had seen a silent mirth in his eye, and it had felt terrible and irresistible at the same time. And the next morning, she knew she wanted to see him again.
"Anyway, we're celebrating tonight," said the wife to Cynthia, "we're moving back to town, and I have a favour to ask."
Cynthia looked at the wife, her confused expression actually matching how she felt. What could she want?
"You see," said the wife, "I actually work in your industry, not a manager like you, but a good worker, and I'm sure you must have a position opening up soon that would be perfect for me, right?"
"Uh, we're not actually hiring now," Cynthia got out through erratic breathing.
"Oh, I'm sure," said the wife, "what with the economy," she put a hand on one of Cynthia's crossed thighs and stroked gently. "But I'm also sure that won't be a problem for you, you'll be able to call in a favour." And here the good humour in the wife's expression momentarily disappeared and her face darkened in a way that Cynthia hadn't seen before, just for a second, and the wife's hand forced its way between Cynthia's legs, against Cynthia's very obvious resistance. Cynthia moaned involuntarily. And now the wife's eyes suddenly brightened again, and she removed her hand and wiped the tip of a moist finger on Cynthia's ridiculous skirt, "yes, you'll think of something, I'm sure of it," and she clapped her hands together and laughed.
"Besides," the wife went on, chipper as you like, "with your recent 'difficulties'" – she frowned sympathetically as she said it, something Cynthia couldn't do – "and knowing your husband the way I do, you're going to need all the help you can get, and I can be so very helpful." She clapped her hands together and laughed that lovely lilting laugh of hers again.
And now the wife put a hand back on Cynthia's leg, and this time Cynthia unconsciously uncrossed them and opened them just a bit, should it be required. "Yes," said the wife, "I can be very diligent and helpful," and suddenly she leaned in to Cynthia, their noses only two inches apart, and there was a sudden flash of that previous malevolent darkness again, "oh," the wife went on, and her fingers stroked Cynthia, "oh, in a few years, I'm sure I'll be running the place." The last words were practically hissed.
"Nooooo," moaned Cynthia softly.
And then the wife's expression brightened again and she removed her hand and clapped them enthusiastically, "but don't worry, you've been there for so long! You know where everything is, I'll always need you!"
