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Message-ID: <54650asstr$1160165401@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Samantha" <samanthak@fastmail.fm>
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Subject: {ASSM} Destruction  (breast, size)
Lines: 351
Date: Fri, 06 Oct 2006 16:10:01 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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This is another of the stories that I wrote as an exercise/experiment
before starting the book _Sam_.
It's a short set-piece that barely meets the standards of the ASSM
group.
I'll let you discover why for yourself.




-- 
http://www.fastmail.fm - Or how I learned to stop worrying and
                          love email again

<1st attachment, "Dest.doc" begin>

Destruction
(breast, size)
By Samantha K.
[comments welcome: SamanthaK@fastmail.fm]


	The knock at the door interrupted a session with a client.  I
was unhappy about that.  Clients are sometimes scarce in my kind
of work.  I charge high and I like to give them their money's
worth.  That's also why I had to answer the door; in case it was
a potential client.  If it was a salesman, I would be pissed.  My
office is a fourth floor walkup in a decrepit building in what is
euphemistically referred to as a 'bad' part of town.  I have no
shingle out front and I do no advertising.  The lettering on the
door reads "Ace Pest Control", which was a previous tenant.  My
clients have to find me and they have to make an effort to do it.
 This filters out those who are less than committed to what I
have to sell.

On the way to the door, I picked up a length of chain from the
desk in the outer office and wrapped it around my fist; just in
case the visitor was some salesman who had found his way to my
corner of the world and I needed to convince him to peddle his
wares somewhere else.

	When I pulled the door open, the blur through the translucent
glass transformed into a stunningly beautiful girl.  I
occasionally see some gorgeous females come through my door, but
this one was easily in the top five.  I guessed she was about 5'
4' and maybe 115 pounds.  Her hair was shoulder-length and a deep
glossy red that couldn't have come out of a bottle.  Her face was
still at that wholesome teenage stage before all the baby-fat has
gone.  Her figure, what I could see of it in the sack of a dress
she wore, was magnificent.  I felt a twitch below my belt that
was my dick nodding in agreement.

	I hooked a thumb to get her inside.  She stepped through and
looked around while I stuck my head out in the hallway to check
that she had come alone.  There is a reason I work in a dump.  It
sets the right ambience for the work I do and if things get
messy, or a client freaks on me and decides to bring heat, I can
walk with little notice and no regrets.  My landlords all accept
cash and ask no questions.

	The redhead must have figured she was in the right place,
because she took in the post-dumpster dcor and the dusty floor
without batting an eye.  I stared at her, intending to let her
make the first move, but a groan from the back room where my
current session was in progress reminded me of my priorities.  I
closed the door and turned to the girl.

	"Well?" I said.  I crossed my arms so the fist with the chain
was on top.  Sure enough, it got her talking.

	"My name is Sharon Jameson," she said.  She stopped, expecting
me to do the courteous thing and identify myself in turn.  I
don't do courtesy.

	"Give me your wallet," I said, holding out my hand.  She
hesitated, but she opened her nice leather handbag and pulled out
the typical woman's wallet; a pound of leather, paper, coins, and
every piece of plastic ever issued by every store, bank, and shop
in town.  I pulled out her cards and tossed them on the desk. 
They all backed up who she claimed to be.  I picked up her
driver's license and checked the photo and the DOB.  She was 20
and lived in an apartment in the part of town that was the
opposite in every way to the dump she stood in now.

	"So what can I do for you, Sharon Jameson of Apartment 302,
Riverview Heights?"

	"A friend of mine told me you could help me.  She came to you
last year and she said you were...reliable."  All my clients were
referrals.  In my line of work, word-of-mouth is all there is.

	"So, I did some work for a friend.  And what is it you want me
to do for you?"  If they can't tell you, they aren't ready yet.

	"I want you to help me get rid of a birth defect; one that has
caused me great discomfort and a good deal of unhappiness.	One
that has kept me back, that has distracted people from seeing the
real me.  Something that has kept me from being the person I
could be and should be.  Something no doctor will touch."

	It was obviously a rehearsed speech, but she still got wound up
delivering it.  She had to take a couple of deep breaths when she
finished and the movement of her boobs as they went along for the
ride was fascinating.  My professionalism dropped a little, along
with my eyes as I let myself get distracted by the show.

	She noticed how her body diverted my attention from what she was
saying and got instantly pissed.  She dropped her bag on the
floor and pulled the baggy dress off her shoulders and down to
her waist.  She wasn't wearing a bra, nor did she need one.  Her
breasts were high and firm, for all their impressive size.  To my
practiced eye, they looked to be double-Ds.  Her skin was
cream-white, smooth and clear, without the freckles that redheads
are prone to.  Her nipples were dark red and puffy.  They perched
on the ends of her full breasts like cherries sliding off the
tops of a couple of scoops of ice cream.  She might have been a
centerfold in some men's magazine, but that was the last thing my
clients wanted.

	She put her hands under her breasts and squeezed them cruelly. 
She shook them at me, as if accusing me personally for being
responsible for the way people pigeonholed her because of her
natural assets.

	"I want you to destroy my breasts!" she said.  "I want them
limp.  I want them flat.  I want them ugly.  I want them gone!"
She took her hands away and her breasts returned to their perfect
shape and her nipples to their perky position on the ends.  They
hardly jiggled when she let go.

	I stepped forward and took hold of them when her hands dropped
to her sides.  I was much more cruel than she was when I tested
their firmness and checked their weight.  I squeezed until her
breast tissue was forced to the front and her tits bulged like
balloons with nipples.  I pulled up on them, almost hauling her
off the floor.  Her eyes rolled back in her head from the pain,
but she didn't make a sound.  Not that it mattered; there were
few to hear and none to care if she screamed her head off.  The
only other tenant of the building was a drunk who pretended to be
a CPA on the rare days he was sober enough to find his office. 
This wasn't one of those days.

	I dropped her suddenly.  Her breasts recovered quickly, even
from my mauling.  This was a nice challenge.

	"$3000.  In advance.  Cash only.  You be here at 6pm every day
for a month.  The treatment will take one hour per day.  No
refunds.  If you change your mind, tough.  If you miss a session,
tough.  No guarantees.  No discounts.  No questions.  I can tell
you there will be quite a bit of pain involved; but you knew
that.  You may not wear brassieres or any type of support garment
from now on."

	Miss Jameson nodded and she reached into her purse and handed me
an unsealed envelope.  Inside were thirty $100 bills.  Her story
about being referred looked solid.  I stuffed the envelope in my
pocket.

	"6 o'clock tomorrow." I said.  I left her to pick up her wallet
and leave on her own.

	

	The next day, Miss Sharon Jameson arrived at the appointed time.
 She had the wit to wear jeans and a sweatshirt this time so we
could get right to work.  After locking the door behind her, I
showed her into the back room and told her she could leave her
bag in the corner.  She did and then glanced around the room.

	She looked over the clutter of gadgets, ropes, pulleys, boxes,
and 19th century medical instruments that filled the room.  Some
of the larger items were hidden under tarps and ratty covers.

	"Lose the shirt." I said.  She pulled the sweatshirt over her
head and tossed it on top of her bag.  Her breasts showed no sign
of the rough treatment I had given them the day before.  I
examined them for any sign of bruising or swelling.  There was
none.

	"Sit here."  I pointed to a heavy wooden ladderback chair.  She
sat.

	I rolled a stand with a large box on it to the middle of the
room and plugged in the cord to an outlet in the floor.  I moved
it over in front of Miss Jameson and flipped a switch on the
side.  There was a loud grinding noise and a buzzing sound from
inside the box.  I turned it and cranked up the stand so that the
two large holes in the back were even with Miss Jameson's chest,
but below her eye level.

	"Put your breasts in the box." I said.  I took a seat and
watched.

	She looked at the box with terror in her eyes.  The grinding and
buzzing noise sounded very dangerous and highly intimidating. 
She froze.  I could see her nipples hardening as she imagined
what the box might do to her.

	"You can leave anytime you like, Miss Jameson."  

	She looked at me for a few seconds and then shook her head.

	"Then feed your breasts to the box."  

	She squared her shoulders and leaned closer.  She looked at her
hard nipples and started to raise her hands to touch them, but
she stopped herself.  Setting her lovely jaw and squaring her
shoulders, she slowly eased her breasts into the holes.  The look
of terror and anticipation of pain on her face was priceless.  I
kept my usual professional face on as I watched her surrender her
flesh to the machine.  At last she had them all the way in and
her ribs pressed against the side of the wooden box.

	"Good," I congratulated her.  "Now flip the green switch on the
top of the box.  Do not turn it off once you have turned it on
until the cycle is complete.  Do not try to remove your breasts
from the box while the machine is operating.  If you do not
follow my instructions to the letter and you become injured and
require medical attention, I will dump you in the river and let
you drown or bleed to death.  Just so we are clear on this."

	She reached out her hand to the switch.  She pushed it, but it
did not move.  She pushed harder and the switch clicked to the On
position and the box started it's cycle.

	Miss Jameson sat frozen in place.  She wanted to take her
breasts out of the box in the worst way.  She was committed to
her goal but terrified of the process at the same time.  Her eyes
went wide as the machine seized her breasts and sucked them into
its innards.  She opened her mouth to scream, but only a whimper
came out.  She sat perfectly still as she was pulled against the
box.  She awkwardly folded her arms across the top of the box and
laid them on the hard grained wood.

	She sat and endured the box with a curious expression.  What she
felt was something other than she had expected.  The box was a
relic of a long-abandoned medical specialty   a branch of
medicine that treated hysteria in women by massage and
masturbation.  It was crude, loud, and intimidating, but it
pulled, stroked, sucked, massaged, and rubbed a woman's breasts
as long as the switch was on.  The larger the breasts, the better
it worked.  There was no timed cycle for her to wait out, and no
reason why she could not turn the machine off whenever she
wanted, except that I had told her that there were dire
consequences for doing so.

	After ten minutes, Miss Jameson lay her head down on the top of
the box.  There was a small smile on her lips.  After twenty
minutes, her breathing had quickened noticeably.  After half an
hour, she was moaning softly and her thighs were pressed tightly
together as she tried to stimulate herself without using her
hands.  After forty minutes, she was holding the box tightly and
gasping as orgasm after orgasm pulsed through her.  After fifty
minutes, she was in a state of continuous climax and was
murmuring to herself as her hands stroked the wood grain.  After
fifty-five minutes I switched off the box and leaned Miss
Jameson's limp form back in the chair so I could unplug the box
and roll it away.

	After almost an hour in the grip of the massager, Miss Jameson's
breasts were no longer their original perky selves.  The constant
mechanical massaging had stretched them and pulled them so that
they drooped noticeably on her chest.

	Miss Jameson put her hands under her breasts and hefted them. 
She could tell that progress had been made toward her goal and
she was happy with both the results and the process.

	"Your time is up." I told her.  "Same time tomorrow."  I handed
her the sweatshirt that she had worn in and she pulled it on. 
She got her bag and I showed her out the side door of the office
and told her how to get down the back stairs and around to the
front of the building.  She stumbled a little as she went out. 
The smile on her face seemed fixed and her eyes were glazed.  I
figured it would be sometime the next day before the afterglow of
all those orgasms wore off.

	The next day, Miss Jameson arrived ten minutes early.  I made
her wait in the outer office until her scheduled time and then I
showed her back.

	She wore a similar sweatshirt, but her jeans were tighter than
before.  They seemed to be form-fit to her rear and her crotch. 
When she removed her shirt, I examined her breasts.  They had
regained most of their shape overnight.  Her nipples were
enlarged, as if she had been playing with them.

	This time, when I moved the box into place, there was no
hesitation on her part.  She eagerly put her breasts into the
machine and flipped the switch as soon as I had it plugged in.

	The hour passed much as it had the previous day, except that
Miss Jameson was brought to orgasm a little earlier than before
and she was more vocal in her response to the stimulation of the
machine.

	At the end of the session, she reluctantly removed her breasts
from the box and let me examine the results.  As before, they
drooped slightly and seemed to have lost some of their former
firmness.  I nodded and showed her out.

	Over the following week, Miss Jameson arrived promptly and
accepted the treatment eagerly each day.  After the first few
days, she quit wearing sweatshirts and arrived in plain cotton
blouses.  By the end of the week, she was wearing synthetics that
clearly outlined her nipples.

	During the second and third weeks, her posture seemed to
improve.  She walked taller and straighter and moved more
gracefully.  By the end of the third week she was wearing shorter
skirts and sheerer blouses that looked new.  Her attitude
improved markedly and she smiled almost all the time.  If she
noticed that her breast size hadn't changed at all and that the
droopiness that resulted from the treatment almost always
disappeared by the next day, she never mentioned it.

	It was two days into the last week of her treatment, when she
came in wearing an evening dress that clung to every curve of her
body and under which she could not have worn the smallest scrap
of undergarment.  It showed off her deep cleavage and barely
covered her nipples.

	"I wanted to let you know that I have decided not to continue
with the treatments," she said.  Her smiling face lit up the
dreary and decrepit room.  "My boyfriend is going to take me to
the Roosevelt Room at the Plaza Hotel tonight.  We are
celebrating my promotion to Department Manager and I think he
might also be ready to propose to me.  I did want to thank you
and give you this bonus from both of us for your excellent
work."

	Miss Jameson handed me an envelope, which I accepted and stuffed
into a pocket without examining.  She then stood on tiptoe to
kiss my cheek before she pranced down the steps to the limousine
waiting in the street below.

	After the limo had pulled away, I took out the envelope and
counted the $2000 in cash inside.

	"Nothing like a satisfied customer," I said to myself as I
pulled the cover over the box.  My 7:00pm client would require
quite a different approach.

<1st attachment end>


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