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'Can't believe I agreed to this…' — Marisa thought to herself, sitting on the cold black box by the window. The curtains behind her trembled from a light draft, letting in the soft glow.
Miguel’s apartment reeked of cheap coffee, cigarette smoke, and something sweet and heavy — perfume that other girls before her had used. Marisa wrinkled her nose, but the smell seemed to stick to her skin, soak into her hair, into those yellow mesh thongs that hid nothing, and into the bright red lipstick she had put on almost playfully, without even thinking how once it had turned her on so much that at night, still being David, he would tremble just from the thought of such lips and such thongs. Back then it had been a secret fantasy, a dirty game of imagination. And now...
She sighed, lowering her gaze to the green heels. The hoop earrings brushed softly against her neck as she tilted her head. The cold metal pricked her skin, and Marisa shivered, reaching for the stockings that had been lying beside the box this whole time.
— ¡Madre mía…! (Oh my God…!) — she muttered under her breath, bending down and instantly feeling the soft weight of her heavy tits fall onto her knee and spread across her thigh, making her moan quietly from the surprise.
— ¡Malditas sandías...! (Fucking melons!) — burst out of her when she tried to lift her tits with her hand, but the weight was such that it felt like she was holding two huge, warm, overly soft pumpkins. They literally seeped through her fingers, spreading to the sides, but at least for that moment her back was grateful, because for once she had taken some of that unbearable strain off it. But as soon as she let go, the weight dropped down again, making her boobs jerk painfully and forcing Marisa to exhale through clenched teeth.
— ¡Dios mío, qué castigo…! (My God, what a punishment…) — she groaned, leaning back against the box and covering her face with her hands.
She took a deep breath and felt the hot heaviness of her breasts press against her ribs, pulling her skin and making it hard to breathe. Every move reminded her that this was her body now, her reality. Before, as David, he had dreamed of these curves, fantasized about women with tits so big they barely fit in his hands. He could spend hours staring at pictures, trembling at just the thought of what it would be like — to carry such excessive, sinful weight inside him. But now it wasn’t arousal anymore, it was torture.
'I wanted to feel like a woman… — the thought flashed. — Well, here you go, David. You felt it. Only now it’s no longer a game. Now it’s life.'
She lowered her hands from her face and looked again at her reflection in the cloudy window glass. Red lips, tanned skin, those ridiculous hoop earrings that seemed both too big and at the same time too natural for her. A woman from a cheap calendar. A woman David once bought with just a couple of clicks online. Only now it was her.
In the dorm, the girls laughed when she tried to read the announcements in English out loud. The words tumbled out in fragments, got tangled, turned into some kind of childish babble. In those evenings she locked herself in the bathroom and whispered, trying to relearn English: “My name is…”, “I want to…” — but her tongue just wouldn’t obey. And that only dragged her deeper into the dirty reality of that fatal fantasy of hers: an illegal, too dumb to even learn another language and dependent on someone else’s whims, with a body that by itself screamed “work with your tits and ass, there’s no other way out.”
She remembered how a couple of months ago she had slammed the door of Sally’s house when George hinted far too openly that she’d have to “work” in his bed if she wanted to stay under their roof. Sally didn’t believe a single word, accused her of being shameless, and threw her out. After that everything went downhill, because immigration police almost kicked her back to Mexico. And she knew it was George who tipped them off that she had no papers. If it weren’t for Clara, her dorm roommate, who managed to hide her and slipped her a new address, she would have been deported long ago. Now she didn’t even have the keys to the apartment David once bought.
And then that same Carla introduced her to Miguel, a photographer who was “looking for girls with fiery bodies for special work.” At first Marisa brushed it off — she was ready to mop floors, wash clothes for rich ladies, but anything but this. However, without papers and without money, deportation was a straight road ahead. When Miguel showed her the advance — fifty dollars just for coming in and trying on lingerie — her hands started shaking. Once, she wouldn’t have even counted such small money, but now...
— ¡Carajo…! (Damn...!) — she whispered, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as if begging for a miracle. But no miracle came.
Right at that moment, the door opened.
Marisa flinched so hard that the stockings nearly slipped out of her hands. A tall, slightly balding man in his forties walked in, wheezing heavily, completely naked. Broad shoulders, a gut, and between his legs exactly what made the air catch in her throat.
— ¡Santa María…! — she whispered, covering her breasts with her palms, but it looked like nothing more than a pitiful parody of modesty. Her huge, soft boobs spilled out of her hands, sliding to the sides, as if reminding her it was impossible to hide them now.
The man, as if ignoring her panic, smirked and shut the door behind him.
— So… this is the new girl, huh? — he said in hoarse English, as if talking to himself. His eyes slid downward, lingering on the yellow thongs that cut into her hips, stretched across her tanned skin so tight it looked like they could snap at any moment.
— ¡No… no, espera! (No… no, wait!) — Marisa jumped off the box, but gasped right away, because her tits, no longer held in place by her hands, swung painfully down and to the sides. She barely kept on her feet, clutching at the curtain.
— Relax, chica… — the man came closer, his bare steps on the worn floor sounding both hollow and sticky. — Miguel said you’re ready.
…
'Shit, shit, shit, ' — Marisa thought to herself, fixing the strap of her mesh bra that painfully dug into her shoulders. She stood by the exit of the small side room where she had been changing, listening to the hum of voices from the makeshift stage in another room of the small house. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like her breasts were about to burst out of the bright yellow bra, and then that pathetic mesh would just snap, scattering her “melons” everywhere.
She swallowed hard and tried once again to convince herself:
'It’s just a photoshoot. Just a photoshoot. They’ll pay for it. This isn’t what happened a minute ago… He left, Miguel promised… said he’d pay extra for this… Everything’s under control…'