Sharon Stevens was, of course, referring to her absolutely massive tits. She gestured emphatically at them to emphasize her point, encased in the same tight grey T-shirt the hospital gave her - ironically the only clothes she had that fit. With no purse, no wallet and no keys, she remained trapped in a sort of legal hell where the lobby of this brothel was her only choice other than the streets.
The makeup didn't help. Permanent blush and lipstick tattooed onto her face had her looking tarted up for a night on the town with only her outrage at this injustice to change its tone. As she spoke to the reporter, Sharon started to doubt his intentions... but she didn't have many other options, either.
"Ms. Stevens," he said, "Are we to understand that one of the most prestigious hospitals in the country somehow mixed up your procedure with another patient?"
"YES!" she shouted. "I went in for an appendectomy and walked out a tramp."
"But you got the appendectomy?"
She nodded while gnashing her teeth.
"Then it's not really a mix-up, is it? Nobody called the press to complain about not getting a boob job they ordered. I bet you snuck it on your chart when no one was around and thought you could get it for free by pretending you didn't want it."
Now she was mad. Madder than before anyway. She slammed her first on the armrest, which had the hilarious side effect of making her new titties jiggle everywhere. "I won't stand for this treatment!"
As it happened, she wouldn't stand at all. She gripped the chair and tried to lift herself, but with the extra weight on her chest, she strained and huffed and grunted for each inch before flopping back into the seat. Her pillows went from pendulously hanging to bouncing into her lap with the force of a train wreck. The light made her 1969 sparkle for more suggestive goodness.
"Damn it! I'm a 45 year old VP of Sales, not some old floozy."
"That's what you think."
"Wha"
She recognized the voice, but had a mouthful of meat shoved in before she could place it. It was him! The errand boy she fired last week. Athy? Ecky? Whatever, his name never mattered when she sent him for coffee and it mattered less when she didn't have to see him in the office.
"Uhm," the reporter interjected. "We were in the middle of an interview."
"Oh, don't worry. I'm giving her the shot of cream she asked for last week. She'll be ready for you soon."
Her flailing arms made no progress in fighting him off, and to her horror, her attempts to bite down were met with a strange and sudden jaw weakness. If she had checked her charts before storming out of the hospital, Sharon would have seen the special muscle relaxant when something pressed hard enough at the back of her throat. She sat helplessly while the ex-assistant jerked her head back and forth on his dick, making her taste the whole thing whenever she wasn't occupied with gasping around it. When he came, he shoved her loose, spitting all over her rough wrinkles with the most flustered and exasperated expression on them.
"Ahhh. Didn't that hit the spot?"
He made her nod, while her body slumped, tits up to her chin. The errand boy continued his fun, squeezing a boob under her shirt. He repaid her angry glare with a pinch to her nipples that made her scowl, but had them poking clearly through.
"Wait," the reporter said. "Do you know this woman?"
"Know her? Of course I do. She's the oldest, sluttiest whore in the whole brothel."
Again she glared. Again he pinched. She couldn't string together words, or control her actions, which made it easy for the errand boy when the reporter asked her to confirm and he gripped the top of her head and moved it up and down. Her eyes said she would make him pay for this, but it rang hollow when he lifted her shirt to expose the heavy sacks for the camera.
"So her story about being a Vice President."
"That's true, but she got there by sucking dick. She's been failing at that job for years because she's a dimwit, and she thought getting an upgrade on the girls would help her stay, but she made the mistake of using the company card."
For the first time since her surgery, Sharon perked up in surprise. The boy sounded so sure of what he said. Did he really manage to frame her this well? Her complaints became moans that added to his case.
"You mean to tell me I came down here for a story about a botched surgery, and found a case of corporate corruption instead?"
"Yep. She thought she could sue the hospital when the card declined, but luckily I caught her in the act. Can't blame her though. At her age, she must be really desperate for a life that doesn't involve getting fucked up the ass by strangers all day. Too bad she's not good for much else."
That was a lie! She earned her PhD in Economics 15 years ago. She had the dissertation to prove it! But any chance to defend herself with it flew out the window the longer she went without talking, getting puppeted by someone 20 years younger. As the camera rolled and the boy used her scarf to wipe his cum, Sharon dreaded where else he might take this.
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"What am I supposed to do with THESE!?"
Sharon Stevens was, of course, referring to her absolutely massive tits. She gestured emphatically at them to emphasize her point, encased in the same tight grey T-shirt the hospital gave her - ironically the only clothes she had that fit. With no purse, no wallet and no keys, she remained trapped in a sort of legal hell where the lobby of this brothel was her only choice other than the streets.
The makeup didn't help. Permanent blush and lipstick tattooed onto her face had her looking tarted up for a night on the town with only her outrage at this injustice to change its tone. As she spoke to the reporter, Sharon started to doubt his intentions... but she didn't have many other options, either.
"Ms. Stevens," he said, "Are we to understand that one of the most prestigious hospitals in the country somehow mixed up your procedure with another patient?"
"YES!" she shouted. "I went in for an appendectomy and walked out a tramp."
"But you got the appendectomy?"
She nodded while gnashing her teeth.
"Then it's not really a mix-up, is it? Nobody called the press to complain about not getting a boob job they ordered. I bet you snuck it on your chart when no one was around and thought you could get it for free by pretending you didn't want it."
Now she was mad. Madder than before anyway. She slammed her first on the armrest, which had the hilarious side effect of making her new titties jiggle everywhere. "I won't stand for this treatment!"
As it happened, she wouldn't stand at all. She gripped the chair and tried to lift herself, but with the extra weight on her chest, she strained and huffed and grunted for each inch before flopping back into the seat. Her pillows went from pendulously hanging to bouncing into her lap with the force of a train wreck. The light made her 1969 sparkle for more suggestive goodness.
"Damn it! I'm a 45 year old VP of Sales, not some old floozy."
"That's what you think."
"Wha"
She recognized the voice, but had a mouthful of meat shoved in before she could place it. It was him! The errand boy she fired last week. Athy? Ecky? Whatever, his name never mattered when she sent him for coffee and it mattered less when she didn't have to see him in the office.
"Uhm," the reporter interjected. "We were in the middle of an interview."
"Oh, don't worry. I'm giving her the shot of cream she asked for last week. She'll be ready for you soon."
Her flailing arms made no progress in fighting him off, and to her horror, her attempts to bite down were met with a strange and sudden jaw weakness. If she had checked her charts before storming out of the hospital, Sharon would have seen the special muscle relaxant when something pressed hard enough at the back of her throat. She sat helplessly while the ex-assistant jerked her head back and forth on his dick, making her taste the whole thing whenever she wasn't occupied with gasping around it. When he came, he shoved her loose, spitting all over her rough wrinkles with the most flustered and exasperated expression on them.
"Ahhh. Didn't that hit the spot?"
He made her nod, while her body slumped, tits up to her chin. The errand boy continued his fun, squeezing a boob under her shirt. He repaid her angry glare with a pinch to her nipples that made her scowl, but had them poking clearly through.
"Wait," the reporter said. "Do you know this woman?"
"Know her? Of course I do. She's the oldest, sluttiest whore in the whole brothel."
Again she glared. Again he pinched. She couldn't string together words, or control her actions, which made it easy for the errand boy when the reporter asked her to confirm and he gripped the top of her head and moved it up and down. Her eyes said she would make him pay for this, but it rang hollow when he lifted her shirt to expose the heavy sacks for the camera.
"So her story about being a Vice President."
"That's true, but she got there by sucking dick. She's been failing at that job for years because she's a dimwit, and she thought getting an upgrade on the girls would help her stay, but she made the mistake of using the company card."
For the first time since her surgery, Sharon perked up in surprise. The boy sounded so sure of what he said. Did he really manage to frame her this well? Her complaints became moans that added to his case.
"You mean to tell me I came down here for a story about a botched surgery, and found a case of corporate corruption instead?"
"Yep. She thought she could sue the hospital when the card declined, but luckily I caught her in the act. Can't blame her though. At her age, she must be really desperate for a life that doesn't involve getting fucked up the ass by strangers all day. Too bad she's not good for much else."
That was a lie! She earned her PhD in Economics 15 years ago. She had the dissertation to prove it! But any chance to defend herself with it flew out the window the longer she went without talking, getting puppeted by someone 20 years younger. As the camera rolled and the boy used her scarf to wipe his cum, Sharon dreaded where else he might take this.