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Rather than try to draw the bra off the same way he had with my shirt , he simply left it there while his hands coursed around my sides slowly, surely, flipping the cups up and over the tops of my breasts and exposing them. He tugged those cups up from between my breasts and then the wall until they too rested atop the compressed shelf with my bosom.
My breath was coming hard and fast then, and my pussy was a seething lake of wetness. But I didn’t dare move, didn’t dare say a word. It would ruin the moment, the intense energy of the encounter. I didn’t know what he had in mind, and part of me loved it. And part of me loved that I was scared I didn’t know what he’d do to me next.
What does that make you, Lola?
I couldn’t help a soft moan then, as his hands explored my sides up and under my lifted arms, the fingertips tickling me there. “Hmm, stubble here. Need to do a better job shaving these, girl. Unacceptable.”
I wanted to curl into myself with embarrassment at the callous, yet soft words. He was so casual in his degradation of me, his diminution of my person. Once again I marveled at his control, but he seemed utterly unperturbed at what he was doing. His touch upon my skin, while it was wrong, felt more right than I ever wanted to admit.
His fingertips traced over the compressed bulging sides of my breasts then slipped underneath to touch and stroke that oh so sensitive flush underneath them. I was more embarrassed still at how sweaty I was there, but he didn’t comment on it at all, and his touch lingered there far longer that it would have if he’d found it off-putting.
Maybe he likes sweaty cleaning girls?
It was a stupid thing to think, but in that moment as he touched me, fondled me, explored me as if I was a new toy he was familiarizing himself with, my mind was drifting. It was the arousal, the lust, the feeling of being unmoored, in losing control. It was both deeply arousing and anxiety inducing.
And still I wanted more.
He tapped my breasts at the sides where they ballooned against the wall. “What’s your cup size?”
“W-what?” I could hardly believe what I’d just heard.
“How big are these, Lola? What’s your cup size? I’m guessing the band is a thirty-four. Is that right?”
I swallowed against the lump in my throat at being discussed so impersonally, as if I were a heifer on auction. “Yes… yeah, that’s right.”
His hard finger jammed into the soft swell of my breast, gentle rebuke clear in his voice. “Cup size, Lola. How big are these tits of yours?”
The question made me gasp, as no man had ever asked me that before. I don’t think I’ve ever had a man even use those words around me before. But it turned me on. “D, I mean last time I checked.”
“Were they always a D? With you looking like you’re not eating enough… I wonder.”
“Oh, God,” I breathed, my embarrassment deepening at such an intimate statement. He was right though, but I wasn’t sure he knew it. I hadn’t been eating enough. It wasn’t really a luxury I could indulge in. “I guess not? They used to be… a little bigger.”
Why are you telling him this?
“Those days are coming back soon, my dear. If I get my way we will have these tits bursting your bra in no time at all. I want you well fed and healthy. No arguments. Do you understand me?”
My heart squeezed at the sentiment underlying the outwardly cruel and degrading words. It was so confusing, that he could be at once so callous and selfish, and yet say something so touching. Socaring.
Is that really what you think this is?
But my attention was drawn once more to the devilishly clever touch of his hands, his fingers caressing and exploring. His palms eased down my sides, and soon enough his fingers hooked into the waistband of my yoga pants. I tensed at the invasion, but I had no real intention of resisting him. If I went by how wet, hot, and sticky my pussy was, it appeared my body had completely mutinied, no longer following any sort of dictate or desire of my mind.
I whined softly, as the fabric was drawn down the swell of my ass. He kept pulling them down until they were bunched under the lower curves of my buttocks, the fabric stretched across my thighs. I hated I that I could smell the note of my arousal immediately. Because it meant he could too.
“No marks left from my treatment of you the other night? I have to be honest—I’m a little disappointed to see that.” He patted my bottom possessively, and my face flamed anew at the way my bottom bounced, my objectification deepening. “We have plenty of time to remedy that little problem though. Judging by your slacking and your work ethic, I’ll have plenty of opportunities to address it, I think.”
“No…”
He squeezed my right buttock firmly in his hand. “No, you’re not slacking? Or no, I won’t have any chances to address it?”
“Both… I mean, I’m not a slacker. I’m a good worker!”
“Then you’d better start proving it, girl.” His hand clamped upon my flesh even harder, and I whined with the discomfort. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to you being unable to live up to those words.”
I didn’t reply then, knowing it was futile.
His big hands stroked up and down the curves of my hips, and he made a low growl, as if he were pleased—or disapproving—of what it was that he saw. “What about these hips? What are your measurements?” His palms lifted both of my buttocks, bouncing them obscenely in his hands. “Lots of good flesh here. But I want this ass bigger and rounder. The way I suspect it should be, once you’re eating properly.”
