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“That’s not true, is it?” asks Felix, looking at me incredulously over the half-full wine glass.

“I wouldn’t have told you if it wasn’t,” is my curt reply.

I pour myself a refill and check whether there are any nuts left in the bowl. I still see quite a few. Lucky me.

“And when you met her, you didn’t know what it was about?”

“Exactly! There was nothing unusual about the camera angles, either. She was kind of a gray mouse–not exactly unkempt, but not fancy-pants either; likeable, but not spontaneous, cheerful, or warm-hearted; rather tired and a little confused — maybe exhausted, too.”

“And where did you meet?”

“At Starbucks in Dusseldorf’s Central Station. When I got there — five minutes early, mind you — she was already sitting there. It wasn’t really cold, but somehow she seemed to be wrapped up quite thickly for this time of year.”

“Was there a reason?”

“Indeed!”

My name is Tom; I’m in my late forties, and I have recently become a member of a forum where men fulfill women’s most unusual wishes (see also “ENTERTAINMENT! An Introduction”), mostly for money, but that’s not a must. Empathy, discretion, and respect are expected–nay, demanded. Monetary compensation is not guaranteed, and the forum is very well policed; the men who manage to both be invited and remain in good standing must be in it primarily “for the love of the game.”

In addition, there is a rating system, and after your visit to the lady, she is briefly asked for the score she wants to give.

Of course, no one with a high rating would want to lose it again.

I know I don’t want to lose mine.

……………………..

“Hello, Mary!”

“Hello, Tom! Do you want to sit down for a moment?”

“Sure. A coffee is always good.” I quickly use the gap at the counter to get myself a small “Coffee of the Day.” Combined with the unlimited refill option for 49 cents, it’s the only coffee from this Seattle chain that isn’t overpriced.

“Tell me, are you cold?” I ask, half in disbelief, as I return to the table.

“Nope. Why?”

“Because you’re wearing such a thick jacket.”

“It’s more about avoiding stares,” the rather small and somewhat petite Mary replies uncertainly.

I wonder what, exactly, she means. I also wonder whether I should keep tugging on this thread — at least here, in a public place, when we only just met in person for the very first time.

“I don’t think I can really imagine what you mean right now,” I say.

She looks around nervously, but then tentatively unzips the jacket.

In the span of but a moment, my eyes see, and my mind stutters and backtracks. Ah, she’s pregnant! Wait… is she? Is she just… fat? No, she can’t be; her wrists, fingers, and cheekbones are too lean. She just has a belly on her… but not a pregnant belly. That would be narrower. Perhaps her waist is too wide, or she’s just a bit of a shapeless lump in general? Is she retaining water? Is she retaining fat, but just in strange places?

Much to your relief, I’m sure, I give voice to none of that. It occurs to me too late, however, that I’m staring — something that clearly makes Mary uncomfortable.

I pivot hard and turn on the charm. “Shall we buy some snacks and wine for the evening?” I ask her with a grin. “Then we can make ourselves comfortable somewhere. I know of a nice apartment nearby with a balcony and a view of the noisy main street.”

“Sounds tempting,” she replies semi-ironically, and, for the first time, I see something like a smile on her face.

……

We set the bags down, put the wine in the fridge, and spread the snacks out on the dining table. She takes off her jacket, and I can guess a little more about her figure. I can also tell right away that she’s still uncomfortable revealing it.

She has hardly any breasts, but at least she has thin legs with nice ankle cuffs, slender arms, and an inviting neck. If only that really fat swimming ring wasn’t on her hips! It ruins the overall impression, and I wonder if “bell-shaped” is the right description for her figure. I don’t think I want to see her naked. I’m afraid there is too much flab under the baggy sweater. At best, she needs to hit the gym hard, and keep up a regimen for months or more. That’s certainly not going to happen between now and when it’ll be time for me to perform.

Unfortunately, I simply do not find obesity arousing. If I did — if it were a fetish of mine, let’s say — I imagine that Mary’s limbs would then be far too thin for me. I’m still a bit confused; how can someone have such a big belly when they’re actually quite slim? I also get nervous — again — that I’m going to make her just as uncomfortable as all of those other men who have stared at her in the past — the ones responsible for her wearing such loose clothes in the first place.

Mary places, opens, and arranges all the small finger food between us; she goes to the toilet and comes back. Her little fox-like eyes reveal that she is starting to feel relaxed.

Unfortunately, osmancık escort I’m not. I decide to ask an obvious question — one far less awkward and confrontational than all the questions I’m silently asking myself about her body. “I have to admit that I keep wondering why you’re on this forum, or why you wanted to meet me.”

Mary sits down next to me on the couch. Her slender feet are in thick wool socks. “I got your user name from my friend, Susan,” she explains in a hushed voice. “She said that ‘The Tom’ doesn’t just do… you know, sex stuff. He’s also someone who’ll hold you in his arms all evening with no expectations or ulterior motives. She knows that, first and foremost, I want someone to talk to.”

“Okay…” And you can’t find a single person out there in the normal world to talk to? That’s an intrusive and unhelpful thought. I push it out of my mind.

“For women, I’m always just the internet whore, and for men, I’m the udder cow.”

I don’t even know if or what I’m radiating at this moment… Disbelief? Lack of understanding? Pity? Whatever it is, Mary surely notices. I am acutely aware that my poker face has completely fallen apart.

“I can tell that you don’t know exactly how to classify the situation,” she guesses correctly.

I don’t say anything, but I indirectly agree with her with an “I don’t know, exactly” facial expression.

“Well, I do this for a living…” She lifts the poncho-like sweater slightly, as though that will answer the obvious question.

What I notice first is that I was completely wrong about her belly and her waist. The latter is pale and very slim, and overall I might describe her as being a little too lean, if anything. That’s hardly the main event, however. When lifted, the sweater stops doing its job, which is to stop gravity from doing its job in turn. Two heavy, fat, fleshy, and broad breasts rapidly descend. Like two huge, stuffed bags, the ultra-boobs smack against Mary’s thin thighs. They remain there as heavily as a fat dog would lie in her lap if she let it.

I’m so stunned that I almost stutter. “These… are… incredibly big tits! Sorry, but I really can’t say ‘breasts’ anymore, because these are no longer breasts. They are just titanic fat bags!”

“They’re usually called udders on the net.” Mary says it calmly.

“I’m sorry that I’m… I don’t… it’s just… your… they’re so…” I truly am at a loss for words. I’ve actually never seen anything like it.

Around the armpits and in the chest area, these meat sacks are being pulled down by their own weight to such an extent that I cannot see, and couldn’t even attempt to measure, a classic bust size. Words like “buxom” or “plump” don’t work at all. What’s spreading out in front of me is simply voluminous, wide, streaked with blue veins, and probably incredibly heavy — sixteen or seventeen pounds per side, at a guess.

“That’s eighteen pounds per breast,” Mary says, “and, as you might have guessed, these are not God-given.”

“My only guess so far was sixteen or seventeen pounds. Beyond that… I’m simply perplexed.” I take a moment to consider what Mary just said; in the meantime, she gives me a little nod, crediting how close I was on the weight. “Most… um… artificial breasts… are set a little higher. They’re firmer, plumper, and somehow… boopier.”

“You mean classic silicone breasts?”

“Uh, yes, that’s what I mean.”

“These aren’t silicone boobs. These are polypropylene implants. I had them done just over the border in Russia. This type of implant achieves the largest increase in breast size ever recorded — more than would be possible through surgery alone. The material used absorbs bodily fluids and allows the breasts to continue to grow.”

“That doesn’t even sound real.”

“Oh, it is, but it’s been banned here in the European Union since 2001.”

“Well, that answers my question about Russia. How can your back muscles withstand these enormous weights in the long term?”

“They can’t. That’s why I’ve never bothered to have a classic large bra made that carries the weight at chest height.”

Perhaps she recognizes some uncertainty in my nod and therefore continues with her story immediately.

“I had my bra tailored so that my breasts are not supported by my shoulders and back muscles, as is normally the case.” She lifts a giant, baggy breast slightly at belt height. “The strap connections go over my shoulders and down behind my back to the waistband. That pulls my trousers up at the back, and their waistband and belt, in turn, lift my breasts.”

“I see…” I reply, stunned. I look down at her crotch — not for the first time, but with new information. “I take it that’s the reason for the camel toe, then? Your breasts and your special bra are giving you an all-around wedgie — and then, around front, it’s like your breasts are on a tray.”

“Like a vendor’s tray — you know, the ones people used to carry with them into movie theaters, way back when. But when I wear a wide sweater, the ‘construct’ osmangazi escort looks rather banal, reminiscent of a man with an extremely large beer belly.” She follows that comparison up with a “c’est la vie” look.

I need time to let all of that sink in. Mary’s breasts are significantly larger than the rest of her upper body. Who finds that aesthetically pleasing?

“May I ask… how did it come about? You said you helped nature along.”

I pour her a glass of red wine. Tonight is not the night to stay sober. I think she thinks so, too.

Mary takes a sip and starts to talk. “Well, I always had long, saggy tits. Nature wasn’t kind to me. You know those pictures of women in Africa who have suckled 15 children?”

“I’m familiar, yes.”

“It was like that for me when I was twenty — no kids, no suckling. ‘Fucking nature,’ I thought to myself more than once.” She sips again.”I was too embarrassed and ashamed to go to the outdoor pool or a wellness center. It was even worse around men.”

I listen in silence.

“But then,” she says, “I finally met a man on the internet. Joshua. American. Soldier. We fell in love after a few evenings of chatting. The only problem was that he was stationed in Ghana and couldn’t leave — but more on that later.”

I can already guess how the story is going to go, but my job isn’t to guess — at least not out loud. It’s to listen.

“Joshua quickly became my whole world; he accepted me for who I was, didn’t constantly criticize everything, and really was a world champion at listening. After a few months, I’d cut ties with basically everyone else — or perhaps it’s better to say that I’d let them all wither away. I wanted nothing more than Joshua; he was enough company for me. As soon as I got up in the morning, I looked forward to talking to him in the evening. Even during the day at work, I only thought about getting home, and for that reason alone.”

Oh well. I guess I’m bad at my job. “Let me guess: at some point he wanted money.”

“Yes, but not for himself. For his sick daughter and his parents. They’re very old and have no pension. They live in the USA.”

Alarm bells go off in my head. Wait… does she actually not know that she was — is — being scammed? Oh, dear. Oh boy. I realize that it’s going to be even more difficult than I thought to do my job properly tonight. Still, I try my best. I make my next question sound curious, not knowing or skeptical. “And why doesn’t he earn enough in the military to support them?”

“Because he’s currently in prison in Accra. He’s been discharged from the army.”

“How come?”

“He and his task force wanted to excavate, storm, or raid an old warehouse where they suspected Islamic terrorists were holed up. On site, however, it turned out that films were also being shot there that… so… where children were abducted… perhaps to finance terrorist activities… wealthy men were suddenly on site.”

“And these paedophiles weren’t brought to justice?”

“One of the men there…” She searches for words for a moment. “So one of the men there was a senior government official. Joshua shot his balls off in the heat of the moment!”

My eyes widen. “Sounds… fair,” I agree hesitantly.

“Yes, but the official’s lawyer spun it so that Joshua acted disproportionately without warning, so now he’s in custody for the time being. Getting everything sorted out can take time.”

“And that’s why he needs money for his relatives?”

“Yes. The army won’t pay him because the operation wasn’t officially ordered.”

Clever, I think to myself. “And now YOU are supposed to get the money for him?”

“Yes, I do that. I’m doing webcam sex.”

Don’t say anything right now, I think to myself. You’re not here to deprogram her.

“Did he suggest that?” I ask.

“Yeah… before he went to prison. Back then, we could still chat and talk via Skype. He told me to buy some good video equipment with my savings, and then I could increase my income. That’s how he put it.”

“What did he suggest?”

“In the beginning, it was just the usual: masturbating in front of the camera on the internet, playing with my boobs, flirting with men, etcetera.”

“But that didn’t bring in enough money.”

“Well, I’m no longer twenty, and only a small number of fetishists find my tube breasts arousing. I wouldn’t be surprised if every single one of them ended up on my site for at least a while. Well, not enough of them stayed. My income stagnated.”

“And then he suggested the polypropylene implants?” I’m surprised I could remember the term.

“Call it ‘string tits.’ It’s easier, and that was the common name back then.”

“So he told you you should get ‘string tits?'”

“That was too expensive, so first I had to increase revenue by — as he said — ‘building a unique selling proposition'”

“And what did that entail?”

“Elongating my nipples.”

“Oh my gosh, that works?”

“Initially, I tied weights to my nipples, and kept adding more over osmaniye escort time. It was only 10 ounces per side to start. Later, it was much more.”

“You must have been in constant pain!”

“Yes, at first. Then I got used to it. That’s around when Joshua was sent to prison, and the skyping came to an end. From then on, he was only allowed to write once a week for 30 minutes. Without a picture.”

“But you carried on… with earning money?”

“Yes, of course. Things were going well, and Joshua’s family needed the money more than ever. Some of it also went to his lawyer. I lived very frugally myself.”

“A rarely used word.” I smile and pour her some more wine. I think she can do with it tonight.

“When the weights on my ‘teats’ — I called myself ‘Teat Mary’ back then — got heavy and heavier, I had to take more and more painkillers until I reached the point where taking more wasn’t even doing anything.”

I want to ask her how long her teats were back then, but I’m afraid it might carry a voyeuristic undertone. Instead, I let her keep telling her story at her own pace.

“Back then, I had quite big but also saggy tits, but so did a lot of girls doing what I was doing. After I lengthened my nipples, though, they hung like two fat worms on the areolas, which actually became a unique selling point.”

For just a moment, there, Mary got engrossed in her own story. It doesn’t last. Disgust and shame mar her face and her next words. “I HATED my tits. God, I must have looked like a lunatic, too.”

I don’t want to contradict her, so instead, I choose to be empathetic — beyond all reason, even. “You had no other choice.”

Is there any truth to that pabulum at all? If a person has been so thoroughly bamboozled that they genuinely believe they’re helping the desperate, then perhaps the only choice, in their mind, is between being good and being heartless. Some would say that that’s no choice at all.

“Then Joshua came up with the idea that if I injected saline into my nipples, it would draw more of a crowd.”

“No way!”

“The use of saline is not dangerous,” she says dismissively, “and the effect it has on tissue — swelling, stiffening — wears off after a few hours; the body absorbs it and cycles it out. So then I had a fresh new webcam identity: Nipple Kate, with black hair, thick glasses, and nipples like your little fingers.”

“Holy shit!”

“Yes. I was surprised at how different I suddenly looked. It worked, though. Nipple Kate got new viewers — and I didn’t stop being Teat-Mary, either. When Kate’s stiff, long nipples lost their firmness, I switched off the camera, took off my wig and glasses, took out my brown contact lenses, and slept for two to three hours. Then it was back to natural hair, gray eyes, and Mary’s saggy teats for the viewers who stuck with her — me.”

“So then the money was rolling in?”

“So much so that I could start saving for the string implants.”

……..

I need a break so badly that I simply tell her so, without trying to put it off or sugarcoat the request; this is heavy stuff.

Mary gets up and goes to the fridge. For the first time, I see her with different eyes: she is, with that one wild exception, anything but fat. She is a slim, petite woman — one I could certainly get it up for, even though she’s nothing close to a knockout beauty. She just happens to be carrying two extremely large — fat — burdens. She bends down slightly and looks into the illuminated interior. Her voluminous breasts hang down to her knees — no, to her shins. She frees another bottle of wine from the cold, then removes the aluminum coating on its neck. She struggles a little with the cork, but instead of offering her my help, I watch her as if paralyzed. Where other women’s waists are, all that’s visible to me are monstrous bags of breasts hanging down. They fit her slender body about as well as cow udders would a cheetah’s.

“But your nubbins look relatively normal today,” I remark carefully with a freshly filled glass.

“Yes. Due to the string enlargement, almost all the skin that was there was used, and the length of the nipples quickly returned to normal.”

“So you had those string implants then, which you still have now. How long ago was that?”

“Oh, maybe five years.”

“And they’re still growing?”

“I don’t measure or weigh them. I go to the cosmetic surgeon from time to time, and he sucks out some of the newly formed volume with a syringe. That’s not a lot of effort.”

“When was the last time you really saw Joshua — well, at least live on a webcam?”

“About five or six years ago.”

“And he’s been in custody ever since? For how much longer?”

“It’s different in Ghana, especially in his situation. You just sit there until you get out again.”

“Like in Guantanamo.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s not that important.”

“Is it nice there?” asks Mary.

Very obviously she thinks Guantanamo is an exotic vacation destination with beaches and all that. I don’t see the point in explaining anything to her in more detail, which could only end up embarrassing her.

“Not for everyone,” I reply hastily, “but never mind. So, you’ve been working for Joshua for five or six years now — and for yourself too, of course. How many hours a day?”

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