Dom is a successful man who recently moved into a high rise apartment one floor below the penthouse. He's a horny bastard who is motivated to earn his money by the prospect of attracting bimbos. A chance encounter with woman who was their to visit one of the penthouse tenants leads Dom down a path of bimbos and fake boob worship that changes his life for the better. The woman works with a bimbo finder company that provides dating services, prostitutes, hook ups, and employees that are bimbos. Dom ends up contracting the company for their full services and filling his life with boobs.

Chapter 3: Sooner than Later

The hot shower did nothing. Dom stood under the pounding spray, water sluicing over tight muscles, but his mind wasn't on cleansing. It was replaying Dasha’s lotion-slicked breasts filling his screen, the promise of her red lips, the low thrum of anticipation for three weeks from now. He toweled off roughly, the plush cotton doing little to dispel the restless energy crackling just beneath his skin. Dressed in dark, expensive jeans and a soft charcoal cashmere sweater, he grabbed his keys. Food. He needed food, something to ground him after the digital dive and before the long wait for Dasha’s arrival.

The elevator doors sighed open. He looked up from his phone and saw her again.

Betul.

She stood frozen in the corner, turned sideways and head leaned against the wall. Her face was a wreck. Mascara streaked in dark rivulets down her cheeks, smudging the perfect winged eyeliner into bruised-looking smears. Her lips, still plump and artificially enhanced, trembled. She wore the same enormous black coat, clutched tight around her, but her shoulders hitched with silent, ragged breaths. Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, met his.

For a heartbeat, the polished chrome box hung in silence, filled only by the faint hum of machinery and the choked sound of her trying to swallow a sob. Dom forgot his plans. Forgot Dasha, momentarily. The sheer, unexpected vulnerability in the woman who’d been all cool disdain and hidden treasures hours before was jarring.

"Hey," Dom said, concerned. "You okay?"

Betul blinked, seeming to truly register him for the first time. Surprise flickered through the misery in her eyes, then something brighter, almost desperate. "You!" Her voice was thick, nasal. She looked up at him with surprise. The scent of bergamot and sandalwood hit him again, now undercut with salt and the faint, acrid tang of tears. "Dom, right?"

"Dom," he confirmed, shifting slightly. Her proximity, even in distress, instantly reignited the low burn Dasha had only banked. The coat was wrapped tight, but the memory of the red bandage top beneath was scorching. "What happened?"

The question seemed to break a dam. A fresh sob tore from her throat. "He... Yannis..." She pressed a hand over her mouth, shaking her head, unable to form the words. The elevator began its descent.

Dom didn't think. His instinct was physical, direct. He stepped forward, closing the small distance. "Hey, come here." He wrapped his arms around her. It was awkward at first – the bulk of her coat, the height difference. But she crumpled against him, burying her face against the soft cashmere of his sweater. Her body shook with silent weeping, her hands fisting the fabric at his sides. He held her, one hand resting lightly on her back, the other cupping the back of her head where dark, silky hair escaped its knot. Her perfume, mixed with the salt of tears, filled his nostrils.

He felt the shift instantly. Her trembling subsided slightly. Her hold on his sweater tightened, pulling him closer.

Her hold on his sweater tightened, pulling him closer. Her face pressed into his chest, muffling the choked sounds. The elevator hummed downward, a silent witness.

"He wanted me," Betul gasped, the words hot and damp against the cashmere. She pulled back slightly, tear-streaked eyes searching his, desperate for belief. "Said he saw my profile, heard about my... my mouth." The shame was palpable. "Said he had to have it."

Dom just nodded, keeping one hand firm on her back. Her perfume was stronger here, mixed with salt. "Okay."

"So I came," she continued, voice cracking. "Wore this fucking coat, same as before. Thought it was classy, you know? But the second he saw me open it..." She shuddered, remembering. "His face... like he smelled shit."

The elevator dinged for the lobby. Dom ignored it, jamming the 'door close' button with his thumb. "Go on."

"He looked me up and down," Betul spat, anger momentarily flashing through the tears. "Said I looked like a cheap whore. Said the coat was a joke." Her knuckles were white where she gripped his sweater. "Like I was trash he’d accidentally stepped in."

Dom’s jaw tightened. He kept his gaze locked on hers, a steady anchor in her storm. "Asshole."

"He made me sit," she whispered, the fire dying back into hurt. "Just sit. On his stupid leather couch. For ages. In silence. Like I was furniture." A fresh tear traced a path through the ruined mascara. "Kept looking at his phone, ignoring me. Smirking."

The absurd cruelty of it settled in the small space. Dom could almost feel the humiliation radiating off her. His thumb brushed her shoulder blade through the thick wool. "Then?"

"Finally," she breathed, voice thick with disgust, "he just... waved his hand. Like shooing a fly. Told me to get out. Called me..." She swallowed hard, unable to say the word again. "'Worthless.' Said I wasn't even worth the taxi fare. Look... this isn't the first time I've been to see him. He's a regular... he just... he's so unpredictable and hard to please. He wants a certain look... but he's embarrassed by his own preferences... he told me he could never be seen in public with me."

The word hung there, ugly and final. Betul sagged against him again, the fight draining away, leaving pure, exhausted misery. She buried her face back into his chest, her body trembling anew. The silent weeping returned, deeper this time.

Dom held her tighter. He didn't offer platitudes. His hand slid up to cradle the back of her head again, fingers tangling gently in her dark hair. The quiet was heavy, broken only by her ragged breathing and the low thrum of the stationary elevator. He pressed his lips briefly to the top of her head, a simple gesture of shared outrage.

"Fuck him," Dom murmured, his voice low and rough. He felt the dampness of her tears soaking into his sweater. "Seriously. Fuck that insecure prick."

She sniffled, nestling closer, seeking the solid warmth of him. The initial shock of comfort was deepening into something quieter, a fragile connection forged in shared indignation. His own body thrummed with a confusing mix – protective anger and the persistent, undeniable ache she ignited simply by existing near him. He shifted slightly, subtly trying to ease the pressure in his jeans.

Betul finally lifted her head, wiping clumsily at her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her eyes were still red, her makeup a disaster, but the raw panic had subsided. She looked up at him, a flicker of something else – gratitude, maybe – beneath the wreckage. "Thanks," she whispered hoarsely. "For... stopping. For not just walking past."

"Couldn't," Dom said simply. He brushed a stray tear track with his thumb. It felt surprisingly intimate. "Not after seeing you like that," Dom said, his thumb still tracing the damp path on her cheek. The elevator hummed softly, sealing them in their private chrome cocoon. His voice dropped, rougher than intended. "Man's an idiot. Couldn't see past his own bullshit to what’s right in front of him."

Betul sniffed, a watery sound, then managed a shaky exhale. She leaned back slightly, just enough to look him properly in the eye, her fingers still loosely clutching his sweater. The proximity was intense. Her tear-salted scent mixed with the expensive bergamot of his cologne, filling the charged little space.

Then she felt it. A distinct, undeniable pressure pressing against her lower stomach through the layers of his jeans and her coat. Her breath hitched, not in distress this time. A flicker of surprise, then disbelief, crossed her blotchy face. She looked down, then back up at him.

A slow, incredulous smile spread across her lips, cracking through the ruined makeup like sunlight through storm clouds. It started as a twitch, then bloomed into a genuine, throaty laugh. "Holy shit," she breathed, her voice still thick but laced with sudden amusement. "Are you serious right now?"

Dom felt his ears burn, a rare flicker of self-consciousness. He hadn't meant to shift that close. "What?" he tried, aiming for casual deflection but landing somewhere between gruff and embarrassed.

"This," Betul said, the laugh still bubbling under her words. Her gaze held his, challenging, flirty, utterly disarmed. She shifted her hips deliberately, pressing the firm swell of his erection more firmly against her. "After all this?" She gestured vaguely at her own tear-streaked face, the smeared eyeliner, the bulky coat swallowing her famous curves. "I look like a train wreck wrapped in a blanket, Russo. And you're..." She trailed off, shaking her head, wonder replacing the earlier misery. "Unbelievable."

The sheer absurdity, the raw contrast to Yannis's cruel dismissal, seemed to electrify her. The flattery was palpable, warming her skin. It was a lifeline thrown into her sea of humiliation. Her hand, which had been resting on his hip, slid lower with deliberate slowness.

Her fingers found the prominent bulge straining against his zipper. She didn't grab, didn squeeze hard. She simply laid her palm flat against him, the heat radiating through the denim. A soft, teasing pressure. Her eyes, still red-rimmed, locked onto his with a sparkle that hadn’t been there moments ago. "Seriously flattered, Dom," she murmured, her thumb tracing the outline through the fabric. "Even like this."

Dom swallowed, the air suddenly thick and hot. Anger at Yannis warred violently with the insistent throb where her hand rested. He didn't pull away. "Hard not to be," he managed, his voice low and gravelly. He gestured towards the coat with his chin. "Knowing what's under there. Knowing what he threw away like trash." The protective anger surged back. "His loss. Big fucking time."

Betul’s smile softened, became almost shy for a second. She kept her hand resting possessively on him, a grounding point. "I feel like crap," she admitted, wiping at another stray tear with her free hand. "And I look worse." She glanced down at the oversized coat. "Can't go anywhere like this."

"Food," Dom stated, the idea snapping back into focus. His own stomach growled in agreement. "You need it. I need it. Let me get you some." He squeezed her shoulder where his other hand still rested. "Come back up. My place. Order in. Whatever you want. God I would be so honored to be seen in public with you."

"Seriously, Russo?" she asked, her voice still thick from tears but edged with a new, fragile skepticism. She searched his face, looking for the flicker of judgment she expected. "You'd really walk into some fancy place with me looking like this?" Her gaze dropped pointedly to the enormous coat swallowing her frame.

Dom didn’t blink. "Hell yes, I would. Said I was honored. Meant it." His hand rested reassuringly on the small of her back, guiding her gently into his apartment. "Betul, I don't know where a man gets off insulting a woman's appearance. I don't know why I would be telling you not to wear anything."

A tentative smile touched her lips. Then, a spark of daring lit her eyes, replacing the lingering doubt. Here was a challenge, a test. She stopped just inside the doorway, the polished marble cool under her bare feet where her stilettos had slipped off unnoticed earlier. She held Dom’s gaze, a flicker of vulnerability warring with the defiant tilt of her chin.

"Okay, hotshot," she breathed, her voice dropping low. "How about...this?" With a deliberate slowness, she undid the single large button holding the coat closed. The heavy wool parted, sliding off her shoulders to pool dramatically at her feet.

Suddenly, the elevator felt charged. She stood revealed in the soft, recessed lighting: the same fiery red bandage top from the elevator, impossibly tight, pushing her augmented breasts into a spectacular, shimmering display. The deep plunge neckline left almost nothing to the imagination, the lace trim biting into smooth, tanned skin. Below, the tiny matching thong barely covered her, cut high on her hips. Her belly button piercing winked, a tiny flash of silver.

She tilted her head, watching his reaction carefully. "Really?" she pressed, her voice husky. "You’d be seen with me dressed in so little? Out there? In public?" Her fingers traced the lace edge of the thong, a deliberate provocation mixed with genuine uncertainty. "Looking like this?"

Dom’s reaction was immediate, visceral. His eyes raked over her, not with leering cheapness, but with pure, unadulterated appreciation. A low groan escaped him, primal and approving. He stepped closer, invading her space, the heat radiating off him. His gaze was locked on the impossible swell of her breasts barely contained by the red fabric.

"Fuck yes," he breathed, his voice rough with desire. He didn't look away, didn't flinch. His hand came up, not to grope, but to trace the air just above the curve of her collarbone, hovering near the red lace. "Look at you. Jesus." He met her shocked eyes, his own blazing with unwavering intensity. "You think this is something to hide? Betul, you’re a fucking vision. I’d take you anywhere. Proudly."

Betul’s breath hitched. Stunned silence replaced the challenge in her expression. She’d braced for embarrassment, for polite refusal, maybe even for him to backtrack. Not this. Not this raw, unashamed admiration. Her hand, which had been poised defensively near her hip, slowly lowered. A disbelieving laugh, shaky but real, bubbled up. "You... you're serious?"

"Dead serious," Dom stated, closing that last inch. His knuckle grazed the warm skin just above the lace, the touch feather-light but electric. "Yannis is blind. Dumbest bastard I’ve ever heard of." He smirked, a predatory glint in his eyes. "His loss is my fucking gain. Now, seriously, food. You need it. Want to show off your rack for everybody or what do you want to do?" The elevator finally stops and the door to the lobby opens. Betul quickly covers herself loosely with the coat again.

The lobby doors slid open, revealing polished marble floors reflecting harsh overhead lights. Betul’s fingers fumbled to re-button the heavy coat, cheeks flushed crimson beneath the tear tracks. Dom stepped out first, instinctively shielding her body from the concierge’s curious glance with his broad frame. "This way," he murmured, his hand a warm, steady pressure guiding her elbow. Cold night air hit them as the automatic doors hissed open onto the glittering wet street. Rain slicked the pavement, reflecting neon signs and headlights in fractured streaks.

He hailed a cab with a sharp whistle. Betul slid in after him, the coat bunched awkwardly around her hips on the worn vinyl seat. The taxi smelled faintly of pine air freshener and old cigarettes. "Where to?" the driver grunted, eyeing them in the rearview. Dom rattled off his building address across town. "Step on it." The cab lurched forward, tires hissing on the wet asphalt. Betul kept her gaze fixed out the window, the city lights blurring past. Dom watched her profile, the stubborn set of her jaw battling the lingering vulnerability in her eyes. His earlier fury at Yannis simmered beneath his own undeniable arousal; her proximity, the memory of red lace against smooth skin, was a live wire.

"You really weren't just saying it?" she asked suddenly, her voice small against the hum of the engine and the rhythmic thump of wipers. She didn’t turn from the window. "About… taking me out like that? In the top?" Her fingers plucked nervously at the coarse wool of her coat.

Dom shifted, the denim of his jeans suddenly tighter. "Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Betul," he stated, his voice firm. He reached over, covering her restless hand with his own. Her skin was cool. "That asshole doesn’t know treasure when it’s right in his fucking face. I do." He squeezed her hand. "But it’s your call. Always."

A shaky breath escaped her. She finally turned her head, meeting his gaze. In the passing streetlights, her eyes held a complex mix: lingering hurt, defiance, and something hotter, deeper. A spark ignited by his absolute lack of apology for wanting her exactly as she was. "It’s… tempting," she admitted, a ghost of her earlier daring smile touching her lips. "Walking into some snooty place, giving every pearl-clutcher a heart attack." She squeezed his hand back, harder this time. "But… maybe not tonight. After…" Her voice faltered, the humiliation of Yannis’s dismissal resurfacing briefly. "Maybe I just… need a win where I don’t feel like a sideshow."

"Fair enough," Dom conceded, though the thought of her hidden beneath the coat was its own kind of torment. "Food first. Comfort. Then we see."

The cab pulled up to Dom’s sleek high-rise. He paid quickly, hustling Betul past another doorman’s politely averted eyes. The private elevator ride was silent, charged. Betul leaned against the mirrored wall, exhaustion finally etching lines around her eyes. Dom stood close, a solid presence radiating heat. His building’s lobby hummed with quiet luxury, all cool stone and discreet lighting. He scanned them through security with a nod, guiding her towards the resident elevators. The mirrored doors swallowed their reflections – him tall and intense, her bundled and fragile-seeming despite the fire he knew burned beneath. He pressed the button for his penthouse suite.

Inside Dom’s apartment, the air changed. Warmth. Expansive views of the city nightscape through floor-to-ceiling windows. The scent of leather and something clean and masculine. Betul hesitated just inside the threshold, dwarfed by the minimalist grandeur. She toed off her stilettos, leaving them haphazardly by the door. "Wow, Russo," she breathed, taking it in. "This is… a lot." She shrugged the heavy coat off completely this time, letting it drop onto the back of a pristine white armchair. The red bandage top and minuscule thong were jarringly vibrant against the subdued elegance. She crossed her arms self-consciously over her stomach.

"Make yourself at home," Dom said, heading towards a recessed wet bar. "Drink? Water? Wine? Something stronger?" He needed a moment to process her standing there in his space, clad in near-nothing, looking utterly lost and devastatingly desirable. He poured two glasses of water, bringing one over.

"Water’s good, thanks," she murmured, accepting the glass. Her gaze drifted around the vast living area, landing on a large, discreetly placed walk-in closet. Its door stood slightly ajar. "Actually…" She took a sip, her eyes locking back onto his. That spark was back, brighter now. "You meant what you said downstairs. About… liking it." She gestured vaguely at her lingerie. A slow, assessing smile spread across her lips. "So… got anything in there," she nodded towards the closet, "that might be… appropriate for dinner, but still… fun? Something that doesn’t scream 'forgotten my pants'?" Her tone was light, but her eyes held a challenge, a test. She wanted his taste. Wanted him to dress her. The idea sent a fresh jolt through him.

Dom’s pulse kicked up a notch. "Fun is definitely in there," he confirmed, a slow grin spreading across his face. He set his water down. "C’mon." He led her towards the closet, pushing the door fully open. Inside wasn’t just suits and shirts. One entire section was dedicated to his… appreciation. Racks held an array of deliberately provocative women’s clothing: barely-there bandage dresses in neon hues, skirts short enough to be belts, tops designed solely to showcase cleavage, faux-fur jackets, fishnet stockings, sky-high stilettos in every color. It was a curated collection of the bimbo aesthetic he adored. A giant tote overflowing with even more skimpy items sat half-open on the floor.

Betul stopped dead. Her eyes widened, scanning the sheer audacity of it. She let out a low whistle, stepping inside. "Holy shit, Dom," she breathed, running her fingers over a sequined micro-dress. "You weren’t kidding about the appreciation society." She picked up a pair of stark white thigh-high boots, raising an eyebrow at him. A genuine laugh escaped her, rich and surprised. "This is… impressive." She turned, holding the boots. The earlier self-consciousness was gone, replaced by fascinated curiosity and that simmering heat. "Okay, maestro," she challenged, a playful glint in her eyes. "Impress me. Show me what 'appropriate but fun' looks like in Russo-land. But," she added firmly, holding up a finger, "I am changing out of this thong. Even I have limits for restaurants." She gestured towards the en-suite bathroom door visible across the master bedroom. "Mind if I use that?"

"All yours," Dom said, leaning against the doorframe, utterly captivated by her exploration of his world. The sadness was receding, pushed back by this new, charged dynamic. She scooped up a few items he subtly indicated – a tight, cobalt blue mini-dress with cut-out shoulders, a pair of sheer black stockings, some strappy silver heels. She paused, holding the clothes, and gave him a look that was pure, smoldering promise. "Don't get too comfortable out here," she said, her voice dropping to a low purr. "This won't take long." She turned, the blue dress draped over her arm, and walked towards the bathroom, the tiny red thong she still wore the only defiance against the apartment's cool sophistication. The soft click of the bathroom door closing echoed like a starting gun. Dom stared after her, the air crackling with unspoken anticipation.