The knock at the door interrupted a session with a client. I was unhappy about that. Clients are sometimes scarce in my kind of work. I charge high and I like to give them their money's worth. That's also why I had to answer the door; in case it was a potential client. If it was a salesman, I would be pissed. My office is a fourth floor walkup in a decrepit building in what is euphemistically referred to as a 'bad' part of town. I have no shingle out front and I do no advertising. The lettering on the door reads "Ace Pest Control", which was a previous tenant. My clients have to find me and they have to make an effort to do it. This filters out those who are less than committed to what I have to sell.
On the way to the door, I picked up a length of chain from the desk in the outer office and wrapped it around my fist; just in case the visitor was some salesman who had found his way to my corner of the world and I needed to convince him to peddle his wares somewhere else.
When I pulled the door open, the blur through the translucent glass transformed into a stunningly beautiful girl. I occasionally see some gorgeous females come through my door, but this one was easily in the top five. I guessed she was about 5' 4' and maybe 115 pounds. Her hair was shoulder-length and a deep glossy red that couldn't have come out of a bottle. Her face was still at that wholesome teenage stage before all the baby-fat has gone. Her figure, what I could see of it in the sack of a dress she wore, was magnificent. I felt a twitch below my belt that was my dick nodding in agreement.
I hooked a thumb to get her inside. She stepped through and looked around while I stuck my head out in the hallway to check that she had come alone. There is a reason I work in a dump. It sets the right ambience for the work I do and if things get messy, or a client freaks on me and decides to bring heat, I can walk with little notice and no regrets. My landlords all accept cash and ask no questions.
The redhead must have figured she was in the right place, because she took in the post-dumpster décor and the dusty floor without batting an eye. I stared at her, intending to let her make the first move, but a groan from the back room where my current session was in progress reminded me of my priorities. I closed the door and turned to the girl.
"Well?" I said. I crossed my arms so the fist with the chain was on top. Sure enough, it got her talking.
"My name is Sharon Jameson," she said. She stopped, expecting me to do the courteous thing and identify myself in turn. I don't do courtesy.
"Give me your wallet," I said, holding out my hand. She hesitated, but she opened her nice leather handbag and pulled out the typical woman's wallet; a pound of leather, paper, coins, and every piece of plastic ever issued by every store, bank, and shop in town. I pulled out her cards and tossed them on the desk. They all backed up who she claimed to be. I picked up her driver's license and checked the photo and the DOB. She was 20 and lived in an apartment in the part of town that was the opposite in every way to the dump she stood in now.
"So what can I do for you, Sharon Jameson of Apartment 302, Riverview Heights?"
"A friend of mine told me you could help me. She came to you last year and she said you were... reliable." All my clients were referrals. In my line of work, word-of-mouth is all there is.
"So, I did some work for a friend. And what is it you want me to do for you?" If they can't tell you, they aren't ready yet.
"I want you to help me get rid of a birth defect; one that has caused me great discomfort and a good deal of unhappiness. One that has kept me back, that has distracted people from seeing the real me. Something that has kept me from being the person I could be and should be. Something no doctor will touch."
It was obviously a rehearsed speech, but she still got wound up delivering it. She had to take a couple of deep breaths when she finished and the movement of her boobs as they went along for the ride was fascinating. My professionalism dropped a little, along with my eyes as I let myself get distracted by the show.
She noticed how her body diverted my attention from what she was saying and got instantly pissed. She dropped her bag on the floor and pulled the baggy dress off her shoulders and down to her waist. She wasn't wearing a bra, nor did she need one. Her breasts were high and firm, for all their impressive size. To my practiced eye, they looked to be double-Ds. Her skin was cream-white, smooth and clear, without the freckles that redheads are prone to. Her nipples were dark red and puffy. They perched on the ends of her full breasts like cherries sliding off the tops of a couple of scoops of ice cream. She might have been a centerfold in some men's magazine, but that was the last thing my clients wanted.
She put her hands under her breasts and squeezed them cruelly. She shook them at me, as if accusing me personally for being responsible for the way people pigeonholed her because of her natural assets.
"I want you to destroy my breasts!" she said. "I want them limp. I want them flat. I want them ugly. I want them gone!" She took her hands away and her breasts returned to their perfect shape and her nipples to their perky position on the ends. They hardly jiggled when she let go.
I stepped forward and took hold of them when her hands dropped to her sides. I was much more cruel than she was when I tested their firmness and checked their weight. I squeezed until her breast tissue was forced to the front and her tits bulged like balloons with nipples. I pulled up on them, almost hauling her off the floor. Her eyes rolled back in her head from the pain, but she didn't make a sound. Not that it mattered; there were few to hear and none to care if she screamed her head off. The only other tenant of the building was a drunk who pretended to be a CPA on the rare days he was sober enough to find his office. This wasn't one of those days.
I dropped her suddenly. Her breasts recovered quickly, even from my mauling. This was a nice challenge.
"$3000. In advance. Cash only. You be here at 6pm every day for a month. The treatment will take one hour per day. No refunds. If you change your mind, tough. If you miss a session, tough. No guarantees. No discounts. No questions. I can tell you there will be quite a bit of pain involved; but you knew that. You may not wear brassieres or any type of support garment from now on."
Miss Jameson nodded and she reached into her purse and handed me an unsealed envelope. Inside were thirty $100 bills. Her story about being referred looked solid. I stuffed the envelope in my pocket.
"6 o'clock tomorrow." I said. I left her to pick up her wallet and leave on her own.
The next day, Miss Sharon Jameson arrived at the appointed time. She had the wit to wear jeans and a sweatshirt this time so we could get right to work. After locking the door behind her, I showed her into the back room and told her she could leave her bag in the corner. She did and then glanced around the room.
She looked over the clutter of gadgets, ropes, pulleys, boxes, and 19th century medical instruments that filled the room. Some of the larger items were hidden under tarps and ratty covers.
"Lose the shirt." I said. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and tossed it on top of her bag. Her breasts showed no sign of the rough treatment I had given them the day before. I examined them for any sign of bruising or swelling. There was none.
.... There is more of this story ...