Chapter 7: The Second Private Session
The lavender-scented calm of the home gym was a lie. Iliana knew it as she slid onto the reformer, the leather carriage cool against her leggings. The room was her sanctuary, her control. Or it had been. Now, the polished steel springs and the smooth glide of the carriage felt like props in a different kind of performance. The last session here, after seeing that woman at the studio, had ended with her fingers jammed against herself, a frantic, angry orgasm that left her breathless and ashamed. Today, the itch was deeper.
She moved through her routine with mechanical precision. The footwork, the hundred, the coordination. Her body obeyed, muscles firing, core engaging, but her mind was a radio searching for a signal. It was during the cool-down, during the long, slow stretches meant to center her, that the signal found her.
The playlist shifted. A familiar, soothing piano piece began, but underneath it, a new layer had seeped in—a voice, so soft it was almost subliminal, a murmur that wasn’t quite music. It wove through the melody, words melting into sound. “…so open… so wanting… let the need fill you… it’s all you are…”
A pulse, thick and hot, bloomed low in her abdomen. It wasn’t a thought. It was a chemical command. The ache between her legs sharpened from a background hum to a piercing demand. Her skin felt hypersensitive; the brush of her own sports bra against her nipples was agony. She tried to focus on her breathing, on the stretch in her hamstring, but the voice kept murmuring, promises dripping like honey into her ear.
…empty without it… you need to be filled…
She abruptly stopped, fumbling for her phone. The track listing showed only the piano piece. She blinked, sweat cooling on her spine. The throbbing in her cunt was a second heartbeat. The images flooded her unbidden: the orderly’s slack jaw, Dr. Chen’s averted eyes, the heavy, perfect sway of the brunette’s tits. Her own small breasts felt like an accusation.
She left the reformer mid-session, something she had never done. The drive home was a blur of streetlights and her own ragged breathing. She didn’t think of patients, of charts, of mortality. She thought of weight. Of being pinned. Of being so visibly, undeniably fuckable that a room would stop. Her hand drifted to her lap, pressing hard against the seam of her jeans. A low groan escaped her. She was soaking wet.
The house was dark except for the blue glow of the living room television. Atlas was already in bed, a lump under the covers, his breathing deep and even with near-sleep. She didn’t turn on the light. She stood at the foot of the bed and pulled her shirt over her head. The sports bra followed. In the scant moonlight, her small breasts were pale shadows. She hated them. The feeling was a physical revulsion, a nausea of inadequacy.
She unzipped her jeans, shoved them and her panties down, and let them pool on the floor. The cool air hit her wetness. She climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under her knees. Atlas stirred, mumbling something.
“Shhh,” she whispered, her voice not her own. It was a guttural, hungry sound.
She yanked the covers down. He was wearing an old t-shirt and boxers. She pushed the shirt up, her hands rough, and then hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down. His cock lay soft against his thigh. She didn’t wait. She didn’t touch him with any tenderness. She straddled him, her bare cunt pressing against his flaccid flesh. She ground down, the slick heat of her folds smearing against him.
“Iliana… what…?” His voice was thick with sleep and confusion.
“I need it,” she hissed, rocking her hips, using his body to rub against her swollen clit. “I need your cock.”
She felt him stir, the blood rushing, the flesh thickening under her relentless friction. It hardened slowly, a betrayal of his bewilderment, rising to her insistence. When it was fully erect, she didn’t guide it. She raised her hips, reached between her legs, and grasped him, the shaft hot and rigid in her hand. She positioned the blunt head at her entrance, which was dripping, and sank down in one brutal, unyielding motion.
A sharp gasp tore from Atlas’s throat. She settled fully onto him, his length buried inside her to the hilt, and let out a choked sound that was part agony, part triumph.
“Fuck,” Atlas breathed, his hands coming up to grip her hips, not to guide her but to hold on.
She began to move. Not the slow, building rhythm of lovemaking, but a relentless, piston-like fucking. She rode him with her eyes screwed shut, seeing not him but the phantom stares of a dozen men, the impossible curve of silicone, her own reflection in a surgeon’s office mirror. Her tits jiggled with each downward slam, a pathetic, small movement that fueled her fury.
“You like this?” she panted, not caring if he did. “You like me riding your cock like a cheap slut?”
He didn’t answer. His fingers dug into her flesh. His hips stuttered upwards, meeting her thrusts. His face was a mask of conflicted rapture—guilt, shock, and a dark, swelling pleasure.
“I can feel you,” she moaned, the crude words tumbling out. “I can feel you in my guts.I want more. I want to be so full…” Her voice broke as a coil tightened deep within her. Her movements became erratic, desperate. She was chasing it, that obliterating peak, using his body as a tool.
She came with a silent, violent shudder, her inner muscles clamping around him in a series of brutal spasms. She collapsed forward, her sweaty forehead resting on his chest, his cock still twitching inside her. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing.
Slowly, she rolled off him. He slipped out of her, wet and spent. She curled onto her side, facing away from him. Her hand snaked back, her fingers wrapping around his softening, sticky shaft, holding him like a claim.A final possession.
In the darkness, Atlas stared at the ceiling. The sick thrill of what he’d done—the hypnosis, the manipulation—curdled in his stomach, mixing with the afterburn of a potent, shameful orgasm. He could feel the slight tremor in her hand still gripping him. She was already asleep, or pretending to be. The woman beside him was a stranger, a beautiful, ravenous phantom he’d conjured. And he was terrified to let her go.
And he was terrified to let her go.
Dawn was a gray smear against the blinds. Atlas lay rigid, haunted by the animal sounds she’d made, the ruthless grip of her body. Iliana was already moving, a silent silhouette pulling on scrubs. She didn’t look at him. The space between them on the mattress was glacial.
At the hospital, the ICU’s relentless beeping fused with the hum in her head. Changing a drainage bag, she imagined the weight of saline implants swinging forward, brushing against the patient’s arm. The fantasy was crystalline. She saw the outline of perfect, round orbs under thin cotton, the deep cleavage, the way her nipples would point outward in a permanent, hungry invitation.
“Gregova, you with us?” Dr. Chen asked, his eyes carefully fixed on her face.
“Always,” she said, but her mind was under a knife, on a table, her small breasts being sliced open and discarded.
Her lunch break was spent not eating but scrolling on her phone in a stall. She found an app. With a few clumsy swipes, she altered a selfie from their beach vacation two years ago. She pinched and pulled the digital flesh of her chest until two ludicrous, smooth mounds strained against her bikini top. They were inhuman. Perfect. A bolt of pure need, sharp as a catheter, stabbed straight to her clit.
She stared at the morph. Her breathing shallowed. Without a thought, she sent it to Atlas.
Iliana: Found this old pic. What do you think?
Atlas: …That’s not old.
Iliana: Do you like what you see?
Atlas: It’s… a lot.
Iliana: But do you LIKE it?
He didn’t reply for ten minutes. She pressed her thighs together, the rough texture of her scrubs against her swollen labia. The ache was a living thing.
Atlas: It’s Photoshop.
Iliana: What if it wasn’t?
Atlas: I love you how you are.
His words were a bucket of ash. They meant nothing. Love was a hollow bone. What mattered was the frantic pulse between her legs, the image of those fucking flawless tits, the power they would radiate. She needed his complicity. His corruption. It was the only thing that felt real.
That night, she ordered takeout but didn’t eat. She showered, scrubbing until her skin was pink. When she came out wrapped in a towel, Atlas was at his desk, staring at lines of code. She dropped the towel.
He flinched, then stared. Her body was still hers, toned and narrow.
“I’ve been looking at sizes,” she said, her voice flat. “I was thinking 550cc. High profile. They’d sit like this.” She cupped her hands where they would be, hefting imaginary weight.
“Iliana, that’s… that’s enormous.” He swiveled his chair, his face pale. “That’s for porn stars.”
“So?” She walked toward him, letting him see the slick evidence of her arousal shining on her inner thighs. “You wouldn’t want to fuck a porn star?”
“That’s not the point.” His gaze was trapped, flicking between her eyes and her nakedness.
“What is the point, Atlas?” She closed the distance, putting her hands on the arms of his chair, caging him in. The scent of her, clean skin and deep, musky want, filled the space. “The point is I want them. I want to feel them every second. I want you to feel them.” She leaned closer, her small breasts brushing his shirt. “I want strangers to see them and get hard instantly. It makes me wet just saying it. Can you smell how wet I am?”
He could. His Adam’s apple bobbed. A tremor ran through his hands.
“Tell me you don’t want that,” she whispered, her lips a centimeter from his. “Tell me you don’t want to see your wife with a pair of world-class tits. Tell me you wouldn’t bury your cock between them.”
A low groan escaped him. It was all the answer she needed.
She sunk to her knees, her movements deliberate. She unbuckled his belt, yanked his zipper down, and freed his half-hard cock. She didn’t tease. She took him into her mouth, deep, her throat working open around him. She sucked with a grim, focused intensity, her head bobbing, one hand working the base of his shaft with rough strokes.
“Fuck… Iliana…” His hands tangled in her damp hair.
She pulled off with a wet pop, looking up at him. “Tell me what size. Say it.”
“I don’t know…”
She took him again, deep-throating him until he hit the back of her throat, then released him. “Say it.”
“550,” he choked out.
“Bigger,” she demanded, her hand stroking him fiercely, her own need a throbbing, open wound.
“600,” he gasped.
“Bigger.” She spat on his cock, the saliva mixing with her spit, slicking her brutal hand.
“650cc! Jesus, 650!” he shouted, his hips jerking off the chair.
A victorious smile touched her lips. She rose, turned around, and bent over his desk, shoving his keyboard and monitors aside with a clatter. She presented herself to him, her glistening cunt exposed, her ass in the air. “Then prove it,” she snarled. “Prove you want them. Fuck me like you want them.”
He was on her in a second, his hands gripping her hips, his cock finding her entrance with a single, brutal thrust. He slammed into her, the impact jolting her forward. There was no tenderness, no pretense. It was a frantic, pounding fuck, his balls slapping against her, her juices smearing down her thighs.
“You want these fake tits?” he grunted, each drive punctuating a word. “This… plastic… fuck… doll?”
“Yes!” she screamed, pushing back against him, taking him deeper. The desk shuddered with their violence. “I want to be your plastic doll! Fill me up! Mark your fucking property!”
He came with a sound like a sob, pulsing deep inside her. She followed, her orgasm a razor-edge of perfect, empty release, her vision whiting out at the edges as she imagined the cool, sterile silicone flooding into her, reshaping her, making her finally, completely whole.
Later, splayed on their bed, she picked up her phone. The shopping cart on her screen was full. Lacy, underwire bras in 30G. She ordered them. Then she found the tops—sheer mesh, plunging necklines, bands of spandex meant to display, not conceal. Things he would think were too revealing. She added them all.
Her finger hovered over the purchase button. She looked at Atlas, asleep beside her, his face etched with exhaustion and shame. Her cunt, sore and used, gave a fresh, wet throb.
She clicked ‘Buy Now.’ The charge hit their joint account. The anticipation was better than the orgasm. It was a promise. A future. A new her, built for a hunger that would never, ever end.