Boom or Bust
By Ntrance
enntee@live.com
Rebecca was reluctant to take any time away from her desk but she’d promised to at least show her face at this party, even if she barely knew the crowd. She’d only met them as part of an article she was writing. But she didn’t want to be one of those journalists who just befriends someone for a human interest story and then drops them the moment the story’s filed.
The problem was she’d had a news story dumped on her desk at the last minute and with the deadline looming she was seriously up against it. It was no puff piece either. A vast multinational supermarket chain was suing critics over allegations of over-aggressive expansion into the third world. The critics, fellow journalists living below the poverty line in the countries in question, faced certain bankruptcy. This huge Western supermarket was seeking damages of up to £16 million from three South East Asian critics who hadn’t been paid more than £50 for their three articles between them.
Now Rebecca hardly saw herself as a tub-thumping moral crusader but she certainly wasn’t going to sit by whilst another vast capitalist monolith used its might to infringe human rights, crush dissent and threaten freedom of speech. So she was sitting there diligently writing the story up as quickly as she could with this party hanging over her head like a brightly coloured anvil. But the more she wrote the more she wanted to get it right.
Her phone rang again for the umpteenth time, but this time, as she was getting up to fix herself a coffee, she answered it.
“Hey Becky, it’s Louise, we’re waiting for you, honey,” the voice said. It was Louise’s hen night and Rebecca could hear the noisy bar in the background.
“Oh hey, Louise, listen, I’m really up against it. I…”
“Becky, you work too hard,” Louise said, cutting her off. “Come down.”
“It’s just I’ve got this deadline and I really need to…”
“It’s just a few drinks, darling.”
“Yes, I know. It’s just I don’t know if I can spare the time and..”
“One drink then. C’mon. One drink,” Louise urged. Her tone was good humoured but insistent. She clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
Rebecca could hear the laughter, the catcalls and the sounds of clinking classes on the other end of the line. She really didn’t want to go. It wasn’t her scene and the mood was completely at odds with her state of mind. She was deep into this article. But maybe if she could really make it one drink. She’d order it herself and just pretend it was alcoholic, drink it and then leave.
“Okay, one drink,” she relented, finally.
“Yay!” Louise cried. “Hey everyone, Becky’s coming!”
Rebecca hung up to the sound of good-natured cheers. They were a good bunch. A happy group of women who’d all worked in the sex industry at some point but were now settling down to be mothers or moving into more staid, socially acceptable careers. That’s what the article had been about: the problems these women encounter moving into different walks of life, the burden of carrying those secret histories around with you day to day.
Rebecca arrived at the bar about three quarters of an hour later. Not her usual kind of haunt this. Rebecca preferred pubs—William Morris wallpaper, wood-panels, with the soft low-key ambience of convivial drinking. This bar was more like a nightclub—bright, glitzy, bordering on tacky. Right down to the silver disco ball hanging over the small raised stage that was rimmed by trail of landing-strip neon lights. The shrieks and heckles set it apart too.
The party was already in fall swing. It wasn’t rowdy, just good natured and boisterous. But again it was a very different mix to her usual nights out—which tended to be heavy with discussions about the latest books or films, or, of course, aggressive over expansion in the Third World. Mention aggressive over expansion here and they’d probably assume you were talking about someone’s latest boob job. Those great, hideous, rubberised twin balloons ageing porn stars became as they chased the last, desperate revenue streams to the ends of their fading looks. But anyway, Rebecca had to remind herself, it’s not like she had a problem with Louise and her friends. In fact she liked them a lot. They were funny and kind and they’d go out of their way to do anything for anyone. It’s just she had very little in common with them. And again, normally that would be fine. She’d muddle through, have a few laughs, share a few stories, and see it as some kind of exercise in social cross-pollination or something. But tonight, with her deadline looming, she was on edge. Even if she stayed for half an hour it was going to end up being two hours out of her night she should have spent honing the story to do proper justice to the supermarket’s persecuted critics.
Still, she was here now, so she put on her best smile and headed over to the bar to get herself a coke and pretend there was some rum in it.
“Becky!” Suzie exclaimed, spotting her before she’d been served. “Over here.”
Rebecca motioned that she was queuing for a drink.
“Pfff. Nonsense,” Suzie said already, looking a little glassy and pointing to three huge pitchers of lurid coloured cocktails sitting on their table.
Rebecca reluctantly walked over without her placebo rum and coke. Louise immediately poured her a huge Sex on the Beach.
“To Becky,” she said.
“No to you, it’s your hen night,” Rebecca said.
“Oh, okay, to me,” Louise laughed.
The party of women toasted Louise and clinked glasses for the hundredth time tonight. Rebecca couldn’t help feeling a little dowdy in this company. And it’s not like she hadn’t put any makeup on herself, or come out in jeans and a sweatshirt – she was wearing lipstick and mascara and a black dress that didn’t hide her own ample, glamour industry-like curves. But these women were all done up to the nines. Bright, bright lips, vivid eyes, plunging necklines exposing prodigious cleavages, sequinned tops, short skirts, high heels, the works. She was also the only brunette among them. All Louise’s party were bottle blondes. You can take the women out of the sex industry but you can’t take the sex industry out of the women, Rebecca thought, then immediately chided herself for her being unnecessarily catty.
“So how’re you doing, Becky, honey?” Louise asked when there was a lull.
Louise was an ex-glamour model with thick blonde hair and fake boobs just this side of outlandish, but she was here tonight because she was settling down with the boy who used to live next door to her when she was a girl. They already had a young daughter who was just about to start nursery and had decided that it was about time they did the right thing and tied the knot.
“Good thanks. Just writing a piece on… well… oh never mind.”
Louise looked at her, waiting to see if she’d change her mind and then shrugged and suddenly Rebecca thought she might have offended her. Had Louise shrugged because she wasn’t interest or was the disinterested shrug a way of covering up for the fact that Rebecca had assumed her article would just naturally go over her head? Rebecca didn’t know how to rectify the situation without risking putting her foot in it further so she just shut up.
Suzie, next to them, was an ex-phone sex girl but you’d never know it. Being heavyset and plain. Although, actually, she did used to leave funny, fake, breathy messages on Rebecca’s phone that would make Howard Stern blush.
Suzie had settled down a long time ago and now worked as a driving instructor.
Then there was Carmel, the ex-porn star, who definitely hadn’t even got close to settling down yet turned to Rebecca and, eyeing Rebecca’s chest with a twinkle in her eye, said, “The offer’s still on the table you know.”
Rebecca felt her face burn up. Carmel liked to tease her about tripling her journalist’s salary by coming onto her books as a high-class escort.
“I’m still fine,” Rebecca said awkwardly. “Thank you though.”
Carmel just sipped her drink through its straw and shrugged with her eyes.
Just then, Rebecca noticed that the stage was being set up for some kind of act. Her heart sank. Rebecca hated nothing more than embarrassing public ‘entertainments’. They were putting a mic centre stage. It was bound to be karaoke. A string of inebriated tone-deaf singers ruining songs you hate anyway, occasionally punctuated by someone who can at least carry a tune, or, God forbid, a drunken ex-cruise ship singer hogging the stage and belting it out as if she was Shirley Bassey with a megaphone.
Louise must have noticed Rebecca cringe. “Don’t worry, he’s good.”
“Who?” Rebecca asked, puzzled.
“Anton. The hypnotist,” Louise said, as it should have been obvious.
Oh dear God no, Rebecca thought. Even worse. Some sleazy stage hypnotist making people think they’re Elvis or Pamela Anderson while a raucous crowd bays for them to strip or demean themselves in any way possible.
Rebecca looked down at her drink but she’d hardly touched it and she couldn’t leave without at least sharing one drink with Louise and her friends.
She was trapped. For at least ten or fifteen minutes anyway.
Anton took to the stage to whoops of delight and the kind of MC intro that would make the WWF look understated. There you go, Rebecca thought, bingo: a slightly sleazy looking fat man in an ill-fitting suit and spurious ‘hypnotists’ cape—as if that somehow proved his mesmerist credentials.
Rebecca went to say something to Suzie, but the whole group had turned to watch Anton Le Mesmer with a surprisingly hushed reverence.
“Please raise your glasses,” he was saying. “Now this is just a warm up. Not all of you can be hypnotised, not all of you are capable of being hypnotised. Others of you are easier to hypnotise than you realise. So please, just raise your glasses and share a toast. To Louise and her hen party. Let’s hope the start of married life doesn’t mean the end of naughty fun.”
Naughty fun? Rebecca thought raising her glass. What are we thirteen again?
“Now,” Anton continued, “I want you all to focus on your glasses. Feel your fingers clenched round the beer bottles if you’re a man and the cute little cocktail glasses if you’re a woman. Focus on your fingers. Feel them tighten. Feel your fingers squeeze your drinks. Tighter. And tighter. Now, notice how you can’t put your drinks down. It’s like they’re glued to your hands.” Suddenly people were exchanging a few puzzled looks with each other until Anton said, “Just a regular night at the bar for you guys, eh. I’m kidding, you can put your glasses down now if you want. But I doubt many of you want to, huh?” People laughed. “Anyway, the real hypnosis starts now.”
Rebecca put her glass down, flexed her fingers and checked the time, trying to calculate how soon she could make her excuses and leave without being rude.
Anton was calling for volunteers. A couple of Louise’s crowd look at each other. One or two glances even turned to Rebecca. She mouthed, No way.
A couple of willing victims took to the stage and were induced quickly and efficiently by Anton. If at all, Rebecca thought. She’d read before that stage hypnotism was essentially peer pressure. That people would much rather be embarrassed by pretending to be a hypnotised Elvis than be embarrassed by standing up there and telling an expectant crowd it didn’t work.
Low and behold the first victim, a man, was told to think he was Elvis. The second that the chair he was sitting on was the love of his life, Paris Hilton. Then the third volunteer/victim was told she was Britney Spears’ career. Rebecca watched in horror as the woman, at the snap of Anton’s fingers, woke up and seemed to morph from cutesy child star to raunchy teen, to drug addicted negligent mother on the verge of a nervous breakdown constantly dropping her baby (a cushion) on the floor. Accompanied by Hit Me Baby, One More Time booming out over the PA system. Rebecca thought the last one was in terrible taste but the crowd was lapping it up. At least it gave her an excuse to leave though. Louise and her friends were so engrossed in the stage show there was really no need to be here, fretting about work. And then, to make up her mind for her, Anton told ‘Britney’ to fast forward a few years to when you’re a crack addicted whore begging for tricks on Sunset Strip, and ‘Britney’, a homely, slightly frumpy woman in her early thirties, started asking the men in the audience if they wanted a blowjob.
She’d seen more than enough and with that Rebecca tapped Louise on the shoulder and told her she was leaving, shrugging and point at her watch.
“Aww…”
“Sorry I have to,” Rebecca insisted. Then decided it wouldn’t be polite to leave in the middle of someone’s trance so stuck around to watch the next volunteer—a young woman triggered to feel on the point of orgasm every time the hypnotist used her name in seeming casual conversation.
Then Rebecca stayed for the next turn. And the next. And the next.
Rebecca found herself growing increasingly disgusted by the cheap, tawdry routines the hypnotist was putting his volunteers through. Each new turn seemed less and less about entertaining the crowd and more and more about degrading the women… or the idea of women in general. Either it was women being made to do something embarrassing or it was men being given supposedly X-ray specs and told to point out the bustiest women in the audience. And why had none of them pointed at her? Then again the crowd seemed to be loving it so maybe this was passing for entertainment. In which case it wasn’t entertainment that Rebecca wanted to be any part of.
Rebecca was also growing annoyed at herself for not being brave enough to just get up and leave, but she felt duty bound to stick around for Louise.
The next act was the final straw though. A young woman, who seemed reluctant to go up on stage in the first place—more picked out and chosen than a volunteer was hypnotised, told she was a good doggie, lead around the stage by an invisible leash, then finally made to eat from a plate of bar nuts the hypnotist put on the stage floor because they were ‘yummy doggie kibbles.’
“Okay, that’s it, I’m going,” Rebecca said more to herself than anyone else. She mouthed her goodbyes to Louise and her party and made for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” a clear, stern voice called out from behind her. Rebecca turned round. It was the hypnotist staring pointedly at her from the front of the stage. Everyone in the bar turned to look at her.
“I have to get going,” Rebecca said. “I’ve got a deadline to meet,” she said to clarify even though she didn’t really see what she had to justify herself to this fat, pompous misogynist, who seemed to think cheap parlour tricks had ordained him with some God given right to lord it over everyone in the room.
“In the middle of my act?” he said with mock disbelief or genuine disbelief.. it was hard to tell. “Don’t you think that’s a little rude?”
“Sorry, but I’m leaving,” Rebecca said curtly and turned to go.
“Sorry but you’re not,” the hypnotist said sharply behind her. His voice seeming to take on a different register. “Stop. And turn around.”
For some reason Rebecca stopped dead in her tracks and turned around.
“That’s better,” the hypnotist said, smiling smugly. “Now come up to the stage.”
Rebecca found herself walking up to the stage. The crowd had parted to make a easy path for her as she was walking through them. It was a strange almost outer body experience. This must be the effects of peer pressure masquerading as hypnotic trance she’d read about, she thought distractedly. Still, she was a strong, independent, intelligent woman, she didn’t have to go along with this. She could just turn round and leave at any moment, she said to herself as she stepped up onto the stage.
“Stay there,” Anton told her when she reached the spot in the centre of the stage.
Rebecca stopped.
“Now turn to face the audience.”
Rebecca turned to face the audience. It was strange, Rebecca thought, his tone was still clearly the same tone he’d been addressing the rest of the volunteers in, but she could sense, inside it, there was irritation. She had clearly upset him and dented his huge ego by daring to walk out during his set.
Rebecca could feel Anton look her up and down and sensed too when his gaze lingered over her large breasts. Of course. There you go. What a surprise. God she hated this. Were men so predictable? It had been like this ever since she was 14. You could see it in their eyes, their brains forming the words Big Tits during any given conversation. The only variation was how well they disguised it or whether they could get beyond this incontrovertible fact to see her as a person in her own right. Of course, it wasn’t just men. Women did it too. And while women were never as boorish as men they could be just as depressingly preconditioned to equate breast size to intelligence—as if there was some natural correlation between large cup size and low IQ. That she worked for an arm of the media she believed complicit in maintaining this spurious link wasn’t an irony lost on her.
“So what’s your name?” Anton asked her.
“Rebecca,” Rebecca said at the same time as someone called out Becky from the crowd. Rebecca felt herself smile tightly. “It’s Rebecca.”
“Great,” Anton smirked. “Becky it is then.”
“Nice tits Becky,” a male voice yelled out from the bar. The crowd laughed and someone else wolf whistled—a sharp piercing sound that made her cringe. That dumb, crass somehow proprietorial sound. Rebecca scowled at the direction it came from but it was just a sea of leering faces. She went to get down from the stage, but found her feet were stuck to the floor.
Seeing her legs flinch in an effort to move, Anton smiled and said, “Not so fast, Becky. I haven’t had any fun with you yet.” More cheers.
“I’m not your party piece,” Rebecca said sharply.
“Oh but Becky, that’s exactly what you are,” Anton smiled with an unnerving malevolence. I mean, c’mon, you didn’t think that getting everyone to raise their glasses earlier was just that did you? That would be very dumb. No, no. That was your first taste of hypnosis. But it’s okay, I understand if it was too subtle for you. From now on I’ll make everything nice and obvious so even a big-titted girl like you can understand. How’s that?”
“No, listen, I’m…”
“Shoulders back, Becky, chest out,” he enunciated with a clear authority.
And suddenly ‘Becky’ found herself thrusting her chest out.
“Good. Much better. Now, Becky, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a journalist,” Rebecca said, defiantly.
“Ooh, a journalist,” Anton mocked. “Very la-di-da. Well, tell me then, Becky, if you’re a journalist how come you can’t even spell hypnosis?”
“I can.”
“No you can’t. Try.”
“H.Y.P…N…O………S……………..E…………………….Z.”
“Sorry, Becky, wrong. Try again.”
“H………I………..”
“Uh uh,” Anton, smiled. “Silly girl.”
“But..”
“In fact you have problems with words in general, don’t you Becky Big Boobs.”
“No.”
“See, even that was the wrong word. What a silly ditz you are.”
Rebecca was furious. She couldn’t believe how petty this man was being. All because she’d had the audacity to walk out of his sleazy little stage show. Well fuck him. She’d just bide her time, put up with his antics and then write a scornful piece in her paper exposing this kind of rampant misogyny masquerading as entertainment, and then expose her big boobs. No, she meant expose this charlatan. Her big boobs had nothing to do with it.
“So tell me, why were you trying to leave in the middle of my act anyway?”
“I told you, I’m a journalist and I have to get back to finish an article on…”
“On how wonderful I am.”
“No, on…”
“Yes?”
“On…” Rebecca had to fight off the strange urge to say on how wonderful he was.
“Anyway, I’m sure whatever it can wait. After all you really want to enter the wet T-shirt contest we’re having after this, don’t you Becky. I’m sure you think you’ve got a great chance of winning with those big puppies.”
Anton saw Rebecca bristle at this and said, “Becky, don’t pretend you don’t like it. You love it. All women do. In fact, from now on, every time someone comments on your big tits you’re going to experience a wonderful tingling sensation in your nipples. And that tingling sensation is going to grow, more and more, each time it happens. After all, your tits don’t know if something’s sexist or not do they. They just like feeling nice and tingly. Let me demonstrate… Would someone from the audience please call out.”
“Hey Becky, nice jugs,” a voice called from the audience.
“Check out the tits on that,” someone else shouted.
Rebecca bristled mentally but at the same time she felt a new undeniable tingling sensation in her nipples—a warm, fluttering, pulsing feeling. Rebecca could feel her leg muscles straining to make sense of their immobilisation… Immobilisation? Was that the right word? Immobilisation? She spelt it out in her head. She was pretty sure it was right but it didn’t sound right somehow. Not being able to spell hypnosis had thrown her, but surely it wasn’t enough to bring on an attack of confidence like this..
It was the strangest feeling, standing here on the centre of the stage, unable to move, looking out at all the faces looking intently back at her. The only faces she recognised of course were Louise’s hen party. She’d almost forgotten about them until now, catching sight of them all smiling at her. Shouldn’t they be helping her? She thought. But then it’s not like she’d intervened for any of the volunteers before her. She’d felt annoyed, even embarrassed on their behalf, but she hadn’t moved. Even when she’d felt disgusted at the woman being treated like a dog she hadn’t even thought to try and stop the act. Was that part of the peer pressure of these occasions or was it more? She wondered now. Was she already hypnotised? She’d meant to leave so much earlier, but again, she hadn’t. Peer pressure or hypnosis? She didn’t know and her brain was tying itself up in knots trying to think it through. Hey big tits, someone called out from the audience again and she felt her nipples stiffen and a warm pleasure suffuse her chest and spread outwards, like concentric ripples of pleasure. She felt dizzy, like a fog was descending on her thoughts. The way you get when you get distractedly horny. Fuzzy with constant thoughts of sex. She realised belatedly that these feelings were stemming from her nipples, that her thoughts were being compromised by the delicious feeling spreading from her tits. A happy, soporific feeling swamping her brain like a drug. Like a brain drug. A druggy brain drug. A brain melting from drugs in her brain.
Before she knew it she was climbing down from the stage to huge cheers. She smiled, made her way over to the hen party and picked up a freshly poured cocktail, smiling and shrugging as everyone told her how funny that was.
“That was so funny,” Suzie told her, good-humouredly.
Rebecca was feeling a bit woozy, so she headed off to the toilets to collect her thoughts. But as she eased her way through the crowd everyone she passed said, Nice tits, Nice jugs, Becky big boobs, Hey hooters, and by the time she got to the ladies’ room her nipples were as hard as diamonds and her brain felt soaked with fuzzy endorphins that made the bathroom sparkle and glow.
He hadn’t removed the suggestion, Rebecca thought, leaning her hands on the basin to steady herself. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were glassy, her pupils dilated and her nipples were clearly visible through her top.
Rebecca took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. But just the sight of her reflection, and her big tits, was proving distracting. She moved her hands up to cover them up a bit with her blouse, but instead she found herself jiggling them in her bra, plumping them up and undoing two more buttons. Echoes of all the comments seemed to be bouncing around in her head.
When she came back out they were setting the stage up for the wet T-shirt contest and Louise and her friends, by now very tipsy, were nudging each other to over and enter. When Rebecca returned they smiled and Louise said, “Hey Becky Boobs, you need to go over and put your name down.”
“Oh okay,” Rebecca said, almost compliantly and walked over to the table where a string of busty girls were queuing to sign up. When Rebecca got to the head of the queue one of the barmaids asked her for her name. “For some reason this question wasn’t as easy as it normally was. Rebecca had to think about it, feeling her face frown with concentration. Finally, she said, “Becky Big Boobs,” and almost let out a little giggle at the sound of it.
The barmaid smiled, shortened it to Becky Boobs for a nametag and handed her a white T-shirt to change into for the competition. “Remember, no bra,” she said sweetly. Becky Boobs nodded, took the T-shirt and wandered off to change. When she returned some of the girls had already started to line up on stage. Still tingling, Becky eyed the competition absent-mindedly, then joined the line-up and stood, shoulders back, facing the crowd.
As she stood there she was aware of something nagging away at the back of her mind. Something she was supposed to be doing. Something about supermarkets. Shopping probably. But what for? Everything was so fuzzy. It was like her mind had got all jumbled and she couldn’t see a clear path between her thoughts. They were all just sort of floating around in big mess.
She felt drunk, but she wasn’t drunk. She’d barely touched her cocktail. It was more like she felt drugged. And somehow Anton had triggered her to feel like this. Somehow he’d conditioned her brain to drug itself. Every time someone commented on her tits it released more brain drugs…
She wanted to break out of it but people kept telling her how nice her tits were. And every time they did she’d respond by thrusting them out. And every time she thrusted them out someone else told her she had nice tits. And you know what, she did have nice tits. A roomful of people can’t be wrong.
Becky looked at the Louise and her friends and tried to work out if they knew what was going on. But they just seemed amused, entertained, a bit drunk. It didn’t look like it was some sinister plan to get her here. Were they complicit or was it just an accident? It was all so amphibious. Suddenly Becky let out a little unexpected giggle. She meant ambiglious. No, that wasn’t right either. That one isn’t even a word. So what was the word? Amphibious wasn’t right anyway. It made her think of a turtle swimming slowly in a blue watery light. That wasn’t right at all. The turtle looked cute, though. Anyway, what was she thinking? She’d lost her train of thought now. She wanted the words to come back to her, but her thoughts felt like they were bubbles melting in her warm fuzzy brain and going pop. She tried desperately to think of big words but all she could think of was big boobs. Which wasn’t even a word. Except it was. But, um..
“Look at all these lovely big titted bimbos,” the announcer grinned.
Yes he was right, she was big titted, Becky thought, remembering she was in a competition on stage, and arched her back a little more.
And then suddenly her chest was being dowsed with a pitcher of ice cold water and the shock of it instantly snapped Rebecca back to reality. What the hell was she doing here? How had it come to this? She was supposed to be at home working, putting the final touches to an important article on aggressive expansion of Western capitalism and its insidious erosion of indigenous cultures. Instead she was standing here, on stage, in some tacky bar, in a wet T-shirt competition, lined up with a row of other busty girls, all smiling vacantly, all pushing their tits forward, and all soaked to the skin so that their dark pink nipples showed through their thin diaphanous white cotton T-shirts. She looked down the line. They all looked the same, smiling blandly, facing forwards in their regulation wet white tops. Real women with multifaceted lives reduced to this—ten uniform ‘big titted bimbos’ being paraded on stage for men to leer at and judge. And she was one of them. She’d been reduced to an object, just another girl with big boobs in a line, as if she had no real history, no real identity beyond her cup size. The ink was bleeding off her nametag onto her nice white T-shirt but she could still make out the name Becky Boobs in smeary watery pen. That proved it. It was a ridiculous name, a name with no history, no identity beyond a cup size. Who was Becky Boobs? It wasn’t her. And if it was her who was she? Well, she was Becky Boobs. Becky with the Boobs. These big tits. She looked down at them. God they were big. And her nipples were so hard from the ice water. The shock of it had given way to a different kind of tingling. A shivery niceness. She felt squirmy as she realised the announcer was talking about her and the crowd was yelling out Big Tits Big Tits Big Tits and the MC was putting a crown on her head. Oh my God! She’d won! Suddenly a wave of dumb happiness engulfed her from head to toe and she beamed at the crowd and curtsied and mouthed thank you to them all.
Becky stepped down off the stage, teetering slightly from the druggy feeling coursing through her system. The MC said they were going to put a sash on her that said July’s Big Titted Bimbo, but it seemed a shame to spoil the view.
The crowd laughed. Becky giggled because the crowd was laughing and she didn’t want to feel left out. She couldn’t manage a single coherent thought, just the dizzy fuzzy pleasure of having the best big tits in the bar. She looked around the bar. There were loads of women, all with tits. But she had the best tits. The biggest tits. The best biggest tits. The biggest bestest..
Just then Carmel seemed to materialise from nowhere and, with a wicked glint in her eye, said, “Now then Becky Boobs, about that job as an escort..”
Becky giggled and cocked her head. “What about it?” she said.