Chapter 8: The Parade Begins
The oil was warm from the sun, thick as honey in the bottle. Samari’s hands trembled as she uncapped it. The scent of fake coconut bloomed in the air, cloying and sweet, cutting through the salt and seaweed.
“Every inch,” Alfredo repeated, his voice low under the carnival noise of the beach. He leaned back on his elbows, his shorts tight across his thighs, the dull throb of yesterday’s denial a constant, grounding ache. He didn’t look at the surrounding faces; he watched her face. The shame was a living thing in her eyes, hotter than the noon sun.
She poured a silvery stream into her palm. The first touch of her own fingers to her left breast made her flinch. She spread it over the full, heavy curve, her movements tentative, her head bowed. The oil caught the light, turning her skin into a gleaming, wet landscape. The blue veins beneath seemed to darken, rivers on a map of humiliation.
A group of teenage boys to their left fell silent, their volleyball forgotten.
“Slowly,” Alfredo murmured.
She obeyed, her hands moving in wider, more deliberate circles. Her right breast, the softer one, jiggled with the motion. Her nipple, dark and distended from childbirth and engorgement, hardened further under the slick friction. A low whistle cut from somewhere behind them. Samari’s jaw clenched.
“Look at them,” Alfredo said, not unkindly. It was an order. “Look at the people watching you.”
Her eyes, glassy with unshed tears, lifted. She scanned the faces—a middle-aged woman with a disapproving scowl, a man in mirrored sunglasses whose head was turned fully in their direction, a couple where the woman was elbowing her partner in the ribs. Samari’s breath hitched. Her hands kept moving, sliding over her own flesh, smearing the oil down the steep slope to her sternum, up over the quivering swell.
“They’re not looking at your face,” Alfredo said, pushing himself upright to sit closer to her. The towel was gritty with sand. “They’re looking at these.” He reached out and flicked the pad of his thumb across her left nipple. It puckered violently. “They’re wondering what they feel like. Wondering how much they weigh. Wondering if you’ll squeeze them and milk will spray out.”
“Alfredo, please,” she whispered, her hands stilling.
“I didn’t say stop.” His voice had an edge now. “Finish the job. Then get on your knees in front of me.”
A tear finally broke free, tracing a clean line through the sunscreen on her cheek. She poured more oil, working it into the undersides where the weight was greatest, where the skin was most tender. The spectacle was utterly lewd. It wasn’t the casual toplessness of European beaches; this was a deliberate, sensual anointing in the middle of a crowded, family-friendly stretch of sand. The air around them felt charged, static.
When she was done, her breasts shone like two ripe, oiled melons, the nipples tight beads at their centers. She knelt before him in the sand, her head level with his waist. Her eyes were downcast.
“You know what I want,” he said. His fingers traced the waistband of his swimming trunks. The outline of his erection was a stark, undeniable ridge. The blue balls pain was a deep, resonant ache, a phantom echo of every frustrated night with his wife. This was the antidote. This was the cure.
She nodded, a small, defeated motion. With clumsy fingers, she pulled the elastic band down. His cock sprang free, full and flushed, the tip already damp. The contrast was obscene—the sun-bleached, chaotic brightness of the public beach, and this raw, private flesh in her face.
“Use your mouth,” he instructed, his gaze sweeping the crowd. A man was openly filming with his phone. Alfredo didn’t care. “Use it like you mean it. You’re not a shy virgin. You’re a mom. You’re a garden. So fucking grow something.”
She opened her mouth and took him in.
The heat was instantaneous, shocking. Her tongue was timid at first, a flat, wet pressure. Alfredo let his head fall back, the sun exploding behind his eyelids. The sounds of the beach—the shrieking kids, the pop of a cooler, the bang of a car door—melted into a dull roar. All that existed was the wet, tight suction of her lips moving down his shaft.
“Deeper,” he growled.
She choked, pulling back, a string of saliva connecting her lip to his crown. She took a shuddering breath and tried again, bobbing her head with more determination. Her oil-slick breasts swung forward, brushing against his thighs with each movement. The feeling was incredible—the visual of her kneeling, exposed to dozens of strangers, combined with the physical sensation. He felt the old, pent-up fury of his sexless marriage coiling in his gut, ready to be spent.
He tangled a hand in her hair, not guiding, just claiming. “Yeah. Just like that. Suck it, you public slut. Let them all see what a good little slave you are.”
Her moan vibrated along his length. The sound went straight to his balls. Her technique was unpracticed, eager in a desperate way. She sucked hard, her cheeks hollowing, her tongue swirling over the sensitive spot beneath his head
Her technique was unpracticed, eager in a desperate way. She sucked hard, her cheeks hollowing, her tongue swirling over the sensitive spot beneath his head. Alfredo’s hips jerked off the towel, a grunt torn from him as he shoved himself deeper into that wet, willing heat.
“That’s it, take it all,” he rasped, his fingers tightening in her hair. The pressure in his balls was a nuclear reactor going critical. He watched her—the public obscenity of her kneeling form, her oiled tits swaying—and the decade of marital rejection combusted into one final, unstoppable surge.
He came with a raw shout lost in the beach noise. His release pulsed in thick, hot ropes down her throat. She gagged, milk-tainted milk spurting from the corners of her lips as she tried to swallow, her body convulsing. He held her there, pumping until he was spent, until the painful ache was just a hollow, satisfied throb.
He pulled out. She knelt, coughing, strings of cum and saliva webbing her chin. The surrounding spectators were a blur of muted colors and still faces. Alfredo took a long, shuddering breath. The sun felt different now. Cleaner.
“Lie down,” he told her, his voice flat. “Catch some sun. You’re all shiny.”
She obeyed, collapsing onto her back on the towel beside him. Her breasts spread wide and slick against her ribs, rising and falling fast. They baked in the silence for an hour, the oil cooking into their skin. The stares eventually drifted away, the beach absorbing their scandal into its daily chaos.
Alfredo sat up, brushing sand from his legs. He looked toward the thatched-roof bar fifty yards away, a knot of people clustered around it.
“I’m thirsty,” he announced. He pulled a wad of cash from his waterproof pouch. “Go to the bar. Get eight of their frozen modelo bottles. The glass ones.”
Samari sat up, shielding her eyes. “Eight? In one trip? Alfredo, I can’t carry—”
“You’ll carry them,” he interrupted. “No help. No bags, no trays. You’ll figure it out.” He pressed the money into her hand, his gaze unyielding. “Now.”
She stood, her body glistening and pink from the sun. She walked toward the bar, her arms held slightly out from her sides, the weight of her breasts causing a subtle, rolling gait. The path was a gauntlet of upturned faces and whispered comments.
Alfredo watched her reach the bar, watched her speak to the bartender who stared openly at her chest. The man pulled eight frost-whitened bottles from a deep freezer, lining them up on the counter with a series of solid clinks.
Samari looked at them, then back at Alfredo. He gave a slow, deliberate nod.
She picked up the first bottle. The searing cold bit into her palm. She pressed it against her sternum, just above her cleavage, and grabbed a second, tucking it beside the first. Her skin screamed at the sudden, brutal temperature shock. Her nipples, already tight from the sun and the oil, contracted into aching, concrete-hard points.
She continued, arranging the frozen cylinders vertically against her torso, four on each side, held in place by the outward pressure of her arms and the shelf of her breasts themselves. By the seventh bottle, her breath was coming in sharp, pained gasps. The cold was a burning, numbness followed by a deep, internal throb.
The eighth bottle went into the precarious stack. She turned, a bizarre, living crate of beer, and began the slow, torturous walk back. Each step made the bottles shift. The frozen glass sucked the heat directly from her mammary glands. A strange, clamping sensation tightened deep inside her breasts, a visceral revolt. Her milk ducts, shocked by the extreme contrast, seemed to seize shut.
A low, distressed moan escaped her. The fullness wasn’t the soft engorgement of needing to nurse; it was a painful, pressurized inflation, as if her tits were being pumped with concrete. They felt swollen to bursting beneath the icy brands of the bottles.
She reached him, her entire torso mottled red and white from the cold, her face a mask of strained agony. She knelt, letting the bottles clatter onto the towel in a heap. Her breasts, now free, looked visibly fuller, the skin stretched taut and shiny, veins standing out in bold relief. They pulsed with a deep, congested ache.
“They feel wrong,” she whispered, her voice trembling. Her hands hovered beneath them, afraid to touch.
Alfredo pulled his phone from the pouch. He tapped the screen, and a moment later, a loud, jarring sound erupted from the speaker. It was a loop of clanking cowbells and long, low bovine moos. The pastoral soundtrack was absurdly loud, cutting through the beach ambiance.
Heads swiveled. People squinted, trying to locate the source of the noise.
“You’re backed up,” Alfredo said calmly, over the sound of the mooing. “Milk yourself. Dry. Right here.”
Her eyes widened in pure horror. “No. Not with that… not with everyone…”
“Now,” he said, his voice leaving no room. “On your hands and knees. Tits pointing at the sand. Get the poison out.”
The cowbell clanged rhythmically. A child pointed and laughed. The crowd that had dissipated was reforming, drawn by the bizarre noise and the spectacle of a topless woman on all fours, her breasts hanging like swollen, overripe fruit.
Tears spilled hot and fast down Samari’s face. She positioned herself over the sand, her back arched. Her fingers, clumsy with shame, found her left nipple. She squeezed at the areola.
Nothing came at first. Just the horrible, full pain. She pressed harder, her breath hitching. A single, thick, white drop welled at the tip, then fell, splattering in the sand. Then another. A thin, weak stream began, pattering down into a small, wet patch between her hands.
The cow mooed on the speaker. Someone in the gathering crowd chuckled. Alfredo sat cross-legged, watching the milk fall, watching her shoulders shake with silent sobs. This was the garden, he thought, remembering Maria’s taunt. This was what happened when you planted a seed in toxic soil. It didn’t grow flowers.
It just leaked.
The stream became a pathetic trickle, then stopped altogether. Her breasts, deflated and crisscrossed with angry red marks from the frozen bottles, now felt hollow and sore. The sand between her hands was a dark, piss-colored patch of mud.
Alfredo stopped the audio. The sudden silence was deafening. “Good enough,” he said, his voice devoid of praise. He tossed the baby oil bottle into her lap. “Do it again. All over. Then lie there and cook.”
She was moving through syrup, every motion slow and pained. She reapplied the oil with mechanical slaps, her skin protesting each touch. The sun, having passed its zenith, was a brutal, lingering weight. She lay back on the towel, her burned breasts pointing at the sky, and closed her eyes. Exhaustion, deeper than sleep, pulled her under almost instantly.
Hours bled away. The crowd thinned. Shadows lengthened across the sand, the light turning a bruised orange. Alfredo sat watching the sea, the old, familiar emptiness in his gut replaced by a new, watchful stillness.
He looked at her sleeping form. The oil had soaked in, leaving her skin shining and tight. A fierce, ugly sunburn was rising across her chest and belly, a deep, radiant crimson. He picked up one of the now-lukewarm water bottles. He unscrewed the cap.
He hooked a finger into the side of her bikini bottom, a cheap, floral print thing, and tugged it aside, exposing her pussy lips, swollen from the day’s heat and earlier attention. He didn’t hesitate. He upended the bottle.
The water wasn’t just cold; it was a shocking, invasive flood. It poured over her exposed clit and slit, a miniaturized ice waterfall in the dying heat.
Samari’s body exploded into motion. She jackknifed upright with a garbled shriek, her hands flying between her legs, her torso twisting. The violent motion sent her sunburned breasts swinging in a wild, uncontrolled pendulum. They slapped against her own arms, the pain immediate and bright. She gasped, curling in on herself, her eyes wide with disoriented terror.
“Fuck! Oh God, that hurts!” she cried, cupping herself, rocking.
“Get up,” Alfredo said, already packing the towel. He gestured toward the horizon where the sun was kissing the water. “Look at the time. We miss the last bus, we’re sleeping on the sand. Move.”
She stumbled to her feet, every movement agony. The burn on her chest was a palpable layer of heat, the skin feeling twice its size, throbbing with her heartbeat. She looked at her discarded clothes: the flimsy, see-through dress and the too-small bra she’d worn here.
“Dress. Now,” Alfredo snapped, slinging the bag over his shoulder.
She picked up the bra, the fabric scratchy and mean. She held it against her burned skin. The mere pressure of it against the crimson flesh made her whimper. The idea of threading her arms through the straps, of hooking the clasp behind her back, of having the underwire dig into the tender, swollen undersides was unthinkable. It was an instrument of torture.
“I can’t,” she breathed, tears of pure physical misery welling up. “Alfredo, please, it’ll feel like hell.”
He stopped and looked back at her, his expression impatient. “Then don’t wear it. Your choice. But that dress is basically gauze. On that bus, packed in, every man on there will see your nipples poking through. They’ll see the exact shape of these burnt, leaky tits. They might even ‘accidentally’ rub against them. Touch them. Maybe give them a squeeze.”
He let the image hang in the salty air. He nodded toward the path to the road. “The bra will feel like hell. The bus will be a different kind of hell. Choose your fire, Samari. We have ninety seconds before we have to run for the stop.”
She stood frozen, the bra in one hand, the dress in the other. The wind, cooler now, swept across her burned chest and it was a lick of flame. She saw the crowded bus in her mind—the press of strange bodies, the leer of unfamiliar eyes, the inevitable, groping hand in the chaos. The bra was a known, contained agony. The bus was a public, unpredictable violation.
A sob caught in her throat. With a frantic, desperate motion, she pulled the dress over her head. The thin fabric was a whisper against her damaged skin. Then, her face contorted in pain, she forced her arms into the bra’s straps.
The moment the hook closed, she cried out. The underwire wasn't just resting under her breasts; it was searing a line of pure pain into the inflamed flesh. The cups, already too small, compressed the swollen tissue, creating a blinding, pressurized ache. Every step she took made the fabric abrade the burned surface.
“Good choice,” Alfredo said, already walking. “Now run.”
She stumbled after him, each jostling step sending waves of nausea through her. The bra straps sawed into her shoulders. The pain was absolute, a white-hot cage around her upper body. But underneath the dress, her shape was concealed, just a woman in a cover-up hurrying for the bus. The other hell, at least, was hidden.
They reached the stop just as the ancient, overloaded bus wheezed to a halt. The doors opened, releasing a wave of stale, hot air and loud chatter. The interior was a solid wall of people. Alfredo shoved his way on, pulling her in behind him by her wrist. The press of bodies was immediate, suffocating.
Samari was crushed against a metal pole. A man’s back was against her burned chest. She couldn’t stop the sharp, pathetic cry that escaped her lips as the pressure ignited the fire anew. She turned her face into Alfredo’s shoulder, her whole body trembling, tears leaking silently as the bus lurched into motion, carrying them into the neon-drenched night.
The bus groaned, taking a corner, and the mass of bodies shifted as one sweating organism. The pressure against her chest flared into a bright, specific agony. It wasn’t just the fabric now. Something hard—a ring, a watch—grated across the inflamed skin right above the bra’s underwire. She jerked.
A hand, anonymous in the crush, palmed her right breast through the dress, fingers splaying wide over the burn.
She froze, her breath lodging in her throat. The touch was heavy, assessing, and it hurt. It hurt with a deep, nauseating throb that echoed the earlier sunburn pain. Before she could even process it, the hand was gone, withdrawn into the forest of limbs. Then another touch, lower this time, a thumb brushing the underside of her left breast where the worst of the bottle-burn still pulsed.
“Stop,” she whispered, but the word was lost in the roar of the diesel engine and reggaeton blasting from someone’s headphones. The hands kept coming, disembodied and bold in the protective anonymity of the packed bus. A quick squeeze here, a rough knead there. Each contact was a lightning bolt of pain, a violation that tightened her stomach into a slick, cold knot. She pressed back into Alfredo, seeking an anchor, but he was immovable.
“They’re everywhere,” she hissed into his neck, her voice thick with panic and tears.
He said nothing. His hand, which had been on her waist, slid down to her hip and held her there, a deliberate pinning. It was permission. It was part of the lesson.
Then a new touch. This hand didn’t grope from the front. It slid down from her shoulder, over the thin dress, fingers probing at the neckline. They hooked there, and with a slow, insistent pressure, pushed down. The cheap fabric stretched. Cool, callused fingers slipped beneath it, then beneath the scorching underwire of her bra. They found bare, swollen flesh.
Samari gasped. The sensation was a complex, degrading relief. The bra’s relentless scrape was momentarily bypassed. The hand cupped her entire breast, skin to painful skin, its grip firm and owning. It squeezed rhythmically, mimicking a cruel milking motion that made her clogged ducts ache anew. The pain was still there, a deep, congested bruising, but it was cleaner than the abrasive torture of the fabric.
It was a lesser hell. She went still, accepting it. Her head dropped forward, her forehead against the cold bus window, her eyes closed. The hand worked her flesh, a strange, painful massage in the jolting dark.
She felt a different pressure then, at her lower back. Alfredo’s body shifted behind her. The hardness she’d felt earlier wasn’t just his body. It was the rigid line of his cock, still loose in his shorts, pressing deliberately against the seam of her bikini bottoms. He ground it there, a slow, undeniable promise.
A desperate, twisted idea bloomed in the heat of her humiliation. A need for something, anything, that was for her. A counterpoint to all this taking.
She arched her back slightly, pushing her ass against him. “Put it in,” she whispered, the words barely audible. Her voice was broken glass. “Just put it in me.Please. I need… I need to feel something else.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then his free hand went to his waistband. She felt him fumble, then the sudden, hot slide of his bare cock against her through the damp fabric of her bottoms. He hooked his fingers into the side, pulling them aside just enough. He positioned himself at her entrance, which was already slick with a confused arousal born of pain and submission.
He pushed in, not with a thrust, but with a single, steady, penetrating pressure until he was fully seated inside her. He was thick, and she was tight, and the fullness was a shock that made her whimper. He went utterly still.
“There,” he breathed into her ear, his voice flat. “You got what you asked for. Now take the rest of your ride.”
The bus accelerated. The lurch shoved her backward, forcing his cock deeper for a second before the momentum reversed. It was a rough, shallow fucking, entirely controlled by the vehicle’s violent stops and starts. Her body was a passive sheath, jerked and swayed around his immovable invasion. The anonymous hand still groped her breast, a twin rhythm of violation.
Each pothole sent a jolt through her, a spike of mixed sensation: the deep internal grind of him, the external clawing at her sore tit. She bit her lip, tasting salt and blood. The neon lights of the city streaked past the window, painting the silent, staring faces around them in flashes of garish color. No one could see what was happening below the waist. They could only see a woman being felt up, her face wet with quiet tears, pressed against a man who stared out the window with detached interest.
She came like that, suddenly, a convulsive clenching around him triggered by a particularly brutal lurch and a sharp pinch to her nipple. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a seismic release of tension, a short circuit in her nerves. A choked sob escaped her as she pulsed around his still, hard cock.
Alfredo felt it. He let out a soft, satisfied hum. When the bus finally hissed to a halt at their transfer point, he withdrew from her with a slick, casual sound. He adjusted himself, then her clothing, his movements efficient.
“We get off here,” he said, as if commenting on the weather. He guided her, limp and hollowed out, toward the opening doors. The anonymous hand withdrew from her dress, giving a final, painful squeeze. She stumbled onto the sidewalk, the night air cool on her burning face. The bus pulled away, carrying its secrets into the dark.