The weight of the grocery bags strained my arms, the plastic handles biting into my palms. Fuck. I'd overdone it, trying to get everything in one trip—pasta, canned goods, fresh produce, and a heavy jug of almond oil all stuffed into cheap, straining bags. My flowy sundress, a modest, knee-length thing, felt suddenly too warm, too constricting. The fabric clung to the sweat prickling between my heavy tits. I'd worn it to feel normal, to blend in, but the way it brushed against my bare nipples beneath was a constant, secret reminder of how utterly not normal I was now.
I shuffled into the empty elevator, dropping the bags with a grateful sigh. The doors slid shut. The quiet ascent felt like a reprieve.
Ding.
The doors slid open on my floor.
My blood turned to ice, then to fire in a split second.
Standing right there in the hallway, deep in conversation, were Mr. Callahan and Marcus. They both turned at the sound. Two pairs of eyes, one dark and commanding, the other sharp and observant, locked onto me.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Mia," Mr. Callahan said, his voice a smooth, familiar rumble. A slow, knowing smile spread on his lips.
"Hey, cutie," Marcus added, his deep baritone sending a jolt straight to my already-clenching cunt. His eyes swept over me, from my flushed face down the front of my dress, lingering on the way the fabric draped over my chest. "Need a hand?"
"I… I got it," I stammered, my voice a pathetic squeak. I fumbled for the bag handles, my fingers slick with sweat.
"Nonsense," Mr. Callahan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He stepped into the elevator, Marcus right behind him. The space, which had felt large a moment ago, shrunk to the size of a closet, filled with the scent of them—clean soap, a hint of motor oil from Marcus, and that dark, spicy cologne Mr. Callahan always wore. They each grabbed two of my heaviest bags, their strength obvious and effortless, and ushered me out into the hall.
I followed, a hot blush burning my cheeks and chest, as they carried the bags right to my door. I unlocked it, hands shaking, and they followed me inside, dropping the groceries just inside the entryway. The door clicked shut behind Marcus. The sound was final. The air crackled.
Mr. Callahan turned to Marcus, that smirk still playing on his face. "So. How do you know our sweet Mia?"
Marcus leaned against the closed door, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His eyes never left me. "Routine maintenance check, sir. Last month." His gaze dropped to the front of my dress again. "We got… acquainted."
Mr. Callahan let out a low, dark chuckle. He stepped closer to me, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back. "Acquainted. I see." His fingers splayed, possessive. "So you do know her, Marcus. Know her inside out, I'd imagine."
"Oh, yes, sir," Marcus said, pushing off the door. He walked toward us, his movements predatory. "I do. Every sweet, juicy inch."
Mr. Callahan's hand slid down from my back, over the curve of my ass. He gave it a firm, stinging smack through the thin cotton of my dress. I jumped, a gasp escaping me. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. "You've been a very busy, very naughty girl, haven't you, sweetie?" he whispered, his voice a nasty, thrilling promise.
Marcus was right in front of me now. His large, work-roughened hand came up, rubbing a slow, deliberate circle over my torso, from my ribcage, over the swell of my belly, up to cup the full undercurve of my right breast. The thin dress provided no barrier. "She's got a nice body, sir," Marcus said, his voice full of crude appreciation. "A real fucking nice body. All those soft, plump curves. Made for worship."
"Indeed she does," Mr. Callahan murmured against my neck, before sealing his mouth over a sensitive spot and sucking hard. The sharp pull of his lips, the promise of another mark, made my knees weak. My head fell back against his shoulder, a soft moan escaping me.
That's when it happened. A sharp rip. One of the overstuffed bags gave way, its contents spilling across my floor with a clatter. Cans rolled. A box of pasta cracked open.
And right there, in the middle of the mess, lay the large, clear bottle of pure almond oil.
Both men stopped. Their eyes locked on the bottle.
Marcus bent, picking it up. He held it up, the golden oil catching the light. "What's this for, sweet thing?" he asked, his tone thick with implication.
My blush felt nuclear. "It's… it's for my skin," I whispered, staring at the floor. "For massage."
A beat of silence. Then a low, dual chuckle filled the room.
Mr. Callahan's hand groped my ass again, harder this time, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. "Is that right?" he purred.
Marcus set the bottle down on my coffee table with a deliberate thud. "Let us take that honor, sweetie," Mr. Callahan said, his voice leaving no room for refusal. He looked at Marcus. "Your schedule free, Marcus?"
Marcus's eyes were on me, dark and hungry. "Absolutely sir. Cleared my whole afternoon the second I saw her in that lift." He took a step closer. "I'd love to see those piercings again, honey. Watch this oil make that pretty skin shine."
"No, Uncle, it's fine, I can—" I started, the old shyness surging up in a panic.
"Quiet," Mr. Callahan commanded, his voice dropping into that tone that brooked no argument. The one that made my pussy flood. "You've been naughty. Playing with others without my permission. You'll be punished for that later." His hand smoothed over my ass. "For now, you'll go to your room. You'll put on the micro bikini top from your shelf. And the black lace thong. Nothing else. You'll put all your jewelry in—nipples, navel, clit. Then you'll come back out here and present yourself."
The direct order, the filthy specificity, sent a wave of pure, liquid heat soaking my panties. I turned without another word and hurried to my bedroom, my heart a frantic drum in my ears.
In the sanctuary of my room, my hands trembled as I stripped off the sundress. I found the designated items—the bikini top was two tiny triangles of fabric connected by a string, barely covering my areolas. The thong was a scarlet slash of lace. I put them on, the flimsy materials doing nothing to hide the fullness of my body. Then, with shaking fingers, I carefully screwed the silver rings into my nipples, the cold metal a sharp contrast to my feverish skin. The barbell for my navel. Finally, the most intimate one, the small silver bead for my clit. Each insertion sent a bolt of dirty awareness straight to my core.
I took a deep, shaky breath and walked back out.
They were sitting side-by-side on my couch. And they weren't just waiting.
Mr. Callahan held my phone. On the screen, blown up and crystal clear, was the photo Marcus had taken of me on the rooftop. My swollen, glistening, meaty pussy, pierced and on full display for the camera.
My face burned. I stopped in the doorway, frozen.
They both looked up. Their eyes raked over me—the way the micro top strained over my heavy tits, the silver rings creating obvious bulges in the fabric, the black lace cutting into the soft flesh of my hips, the thick expanse of my bare thighs.
Mr. Callahan's smirk was pure wickedness. "Come here, sweetie," he said, his voice low. "We were just admiring your… presentation skills."