Vicky returned the next day, nervous, intent on winning her father’s approval. During the evening, Vicky had considered her choices, her life. She looked her estranged father up online. His net worth was several billion dollars, and he was on the Forbes list of the wealthiest men in the world. Growing up, the only thing that Vicky had heard about her father was that he was, “a rich asshole that never wanted anything to do with us,” and Vicky knew, now, that this was the case. Her mother had received some sort of money from him,
Vicky was sure, because they’d never wanted for much, even though her mother worked as a secretary for a small insurance agency. Vicky had, also, attended an expensive private school for girls, which had helped to instill her with her values. Until her most recent encounter with the man, the only interactions Vicky herself had with him had been the monthly checks she, herself, received, which allowed her to pay her meager expenses and rent a small apartment, while she attended a local college on a scholarship.
As Vicky rode the elevator up to her father’s floor, now, she felt better about winning his approval. Her father was a dinosaur, one of those tycoons from the mid-twentieth century, who grew up on the stories of railroad barons and industrialists, the kind that had oppressed the common man, while raking in riches for themselves. Still, he did have the money and Vicky dreamed of putting that money to use for positive things, like funding girl’s schools and fighting for equal pay for women. There was so much good that she could do with it, that her head was positively brimming with ideas.
While her father’s idea of an appropriate woman was demeaning, Vicky thought that she could make some concessions, while still retaining her values. To this end, she had carefully shaved her pussy the night before. While there was nothing she could do about the size of her breasts, short of some god-awful surgery, she had done something. Rather than her usual dour and drab clothing, she had purchased a shorter skirt, office-appropriate, and a low-cut blouse that was modest, but a little tight. She’d, also, picked up a bra with padded cups that gave her boobs a little more fullness, while lifting them up to make them more prominent.
Never one to go overboard on makeup, Vicky had, nevertheless, applied a bit of a seductive shade of lipstick today, as well as accenting her eyes to give them a bit of a smoky look. The overall effect, she thought, made her look very cute, but by no means slutty. The last part, her father’s expectation that she have a handprint on her cheek and tears in her eyes, she wasn’t certain how to accomplish, because Vicky did not want to be slapped or to cry. She hoped that her father would just forget about this part, once he saw how cute she looked.
Vicky approached the desk of her father’s assistant, a young woman about her age, who she had noted with disgust the previous day, was dressed like a tart. Today, it was the same. Knowing what she did, though, about the kind of man her father was, she supposed she understood. The job probably paid very well and, to some women, dressing up as eye candy for a wealthy man to ogle wasn’t such a big deal. Once Vicky had her inheritance, she would work to change that, she resolved.
“Good morning,” Vicky said to the girl, who looked up from her computer.
“Morning, honey buns,” the girl said, smacking a piece of gum and giving Vicky a once over, “Here for daddy?”
Vicky nodded and then said, “Is he… do you think he’ll like my outfit?”
The girl considered, then said, “The outfit, it’s okay. The boss likes legs and tits, and your problem is your lack of tits. You got anotha’ problem, too,” she added, frowning.
Vicky raised a questioning eyebrow.
“The boss likes a girl that looks all teary-eyed. You look happy, and that ain’t gonna make the boss happy.”
“But… How am I supposed to do that?” Vicky asked, blushing, angry.
The girl shrugged and said, “If I go in, I usually stop by the office next door and ask Carl to give me a slap or two. If he aint in, I’ll put a binder clip on my clit and pinch it real good until I cry. If I do that, the boss will give me a good slap himself.”
Vicky thought this sounded humiliating, degrading, and ridiculous. It was probably illegal, too. Still, what was she going to do? Go report him to HR? To the police? His cigar-smoking, backroom-dealing chums would probably laugh about it, pay a fine that was pocket change, and then go back to making ludicrous amounts of money, while Vicky would be shown the door.
“I could do it for ya’, I suppose,” the girl said.
“What?”
“Give ya’ a little slap,” she said.
Vicky considered her options. She could go in, unslapped, without tears in her eyes, and get shown the door. She could walk to the office next door and ask a stranger to slap her face, which would do the trick, but that was going too far. Lastly, she could hurt herself in some way, which was not even an option.
“O… okay,” she agreed.
The girl stood up and rounded the desk, then slapped Vicky across the face, hard. The pain and humiliation did the trick, and Vicky’s eyes began to water. The girl gave her a second, backhanded slap, which did make Vicky begin to cry and left a nice, red print on both cheeks. The girl nodded, returned to her desk and picked up the phone. She waited, then said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up the phone.
“Boss says he’s busy,” the girl said, “You’ll have to wait a bit.
Vicky cringed. She’d just let the girl slap her for no reason. She took a seat in one of the chairs and waited. Nearly thirty minutes passed, and then the phone buzzed. The girl picked it up, said, “Yes, sir,” and hung it up.
“Boss will see ya’ now,” she said.
Vicky stood and asked, “Can you… do it again?”
The girl rounded the desk, slapped Vicky again, then again. Vicky, sobbing, opened the door. Her father didn’t look up or acknowledge her presence, continuing to pour over the papers on his desk. Vicky waited, wishing he’d look up at her teary eyes and reddened face, before the handprint started to fade. Finally, he did.
“Vicky,” he said, with a slight nod.
“I… I’m back,” she said.
“I’m old, not blind, Vicky,”
“I’d like to see if you approve of the changes I’ve made,” she said, then added, “Sir.”
“That’s a nice handprint on your cheek,” he said, “Did the slut at the desk give you that? Or were you mouthing off to your betters?”
Vicky flushed, angry, but she said, “Your assistant.”
He nodded approvingly and then said, “Show me your twat.”
Vicky demurred.
“Your twat,” he said again, “or the door. I’m busy.”
Vicky, reluctantly, let her fingers fall to the edge of her skirt, then lifted it to expose the pair of cute, lacy panties she’d put on over her sex.
Her father’s face screwed up in disgust and he said, “Did a man ask you to put on panties?”
“What? No,” Vicky said.
It was not the right thing to say. Her father sighed.
“Just like a girl,” he said, shaking his head, “Gotta lay it all out in tiny words for them, or their little brains will start making decisions on their own. I’ll have those.”
He held out his hand, expectantly.
“But-” Vicky began to argue.
“I’m busy, Vicky,” he said again, “Be quick about it. How is anyone supposed to see your twat when you’re wearing panties?”
Blushing, Vicky bent and slid the panties down her legs, removed them, and walked to the desk. She handed them to her father, who set them on the desk, spreading them out neatly, so that she could see them.
“Now,” he said, “Show me your twat.”
Vicky raised the skirt again, revealing her shaven pussy. For an uncomfortable minute, the old man just stared at her denuded mound, and then nodded his head, once.
“Good,” he said, then pulled a checkbook from his desk, scribbled something on it, then handed it to Vicky.
The amount was $1,000.
“Get yourself an appointment for laser removal. If you come back in here with a single hair on your twat, in the future, you’re finished.”
Vicky took the check, disgusted and ashamed, because she knew she was going to do it.
“Now your tits. Did you go out and get some bimbo jugs yesterday? By the looks of them, I’d say not.”
Vicky dithered again. The old man reached into his desk, pulled forth a rubber band, drew it back, and let it fly, smacking Vicky directly on her twat.
“Ow!” she yelped, though it had been more surprising than painful.
“Your tits, Vicky Licky,” he said again.
Vicky pulled up her top, exposing her padded bra.
“Take it off,” he said, shaking his head, his cheeks reddening with anger, “You’re really not very good at this.”
Vicky reached behind herself, undid the bra, but it was, of course, not possible to take off, because it was stuck by her sleeves. Feeling even stupider, she fumbled with the top, getting it off, while the old man watched with amusement, and then removed the bra. He held out his hand. Vicky handed him the bra, which he placed on the desk with her panties. She tried to put her top back on.
“Did I tell you to put on your top?” he asked.
Vicky stopped, shook her head, blushed, and held the top in her hand, exposing her naked tits. Another long minute passed, during which the old man stared at her small breasts.
“Just as disappointing as yesterday,” he said, stood up, rounded the desk, and then pulled roughly on one of her tits, making Vicky scream.
“Ow! Stop!” she said.
Her father slapped her across the face with his free hand, saying, “How do you expect anyone to push these little eggs of yours together and pleasure their cock with them?”
Vicky did not expect to do any such thing, thinking that it was awful and degrading that anyone would want to masturbate their penis with her breasts. Her father released her tit. The old man went back to his desk, wrote another check, and handed it to Vicky.
“I’m assuming that you don’t have money for an udder upgrade,” he said, waving the check like a dollar bill at a strip club, “So stop by the desk and ask the little cow up front to schedule you an appointment with her guy. He did a great job on hers. I don’t want to see you back in here, until you have tits that aren’t a disappointment.”
“That’s… I can’t!” Vicky complained.
Her father reached into the desk again, withdrew a pistol from the drawer, and Vicky screamed. He pulled the trigger. A little plastic bead struck her left tit and she screamed again at the sharp impact, her hand flying to cup her tit as tears welled up in her eyes. The old man took aim, fired, and another hard pellet struck her cunt. Vicky cried out again, her free hand clutching her twat. A third shot caught her in the right tit, bringing forth a further cry of pain.
“I can’t,” he said, “is not a phrase that is part of your vocabulary any longer. Replace it with, ‘Yes, Sir’. Is that understood?”
Vicky clutched her tits and cunt, crying, and said, “Yes, Sir!”
“Good girl. Now, understand that as long as you’re walking around with those disappointing little bumps, I will not approve of you. When you’re ready to get serious, you can come back. Also, I’m giving one billion dollars, today, to the Institute for Modern Misogyny. It’s a great charitable contribution that I can take off my taxes. Every week, from now on, that you aren’t meeting my approval, I’m going to give another billion away to another group that is the antithesis of your stupid, girl power beliefs. Now, go plump up those tits and get your head straight.”
Shaking with humiliation and anger, Vicky put her top back on, smoothed her skirt, and fled the office. She looked at the two checks in her hand, wiped the tears from her eyes, then met the gaze of the assistant at the desk. Vicky did not want fake tits. Vicky did want billions of dollars, though. Her father’s appalling attitude further reinforced Vicky’s determination to put that money to use for good. That kind of wealth didn’t belong in the hands of a disgusting man, like her father. She needed to win this contest of wills, and if she needed to get new tits to do it, well, then new tits it would be. She stepped to the desk.
“He… he said I should ask… about your guy. The one that did your… your boobs,” Vicky said, her cheeks coloring.
The girl nodded, cupping her large jugs and giving them a bounce, saying, “He did great, dontcha think?”
Vicky did not think they were great. She thought they made the girl look like a ridiculous sex doll, but she nodded her head in agreement.
“He uses this new thing called Maximizer. I heard about it from a top influencer named VixyViv. She’s got a great pair. They just use an injection, instead of surgery, so the recovery is only a couple of days, and the results are, like, totally natural.”
That gave Vicky a feeling of relief. At least no one was going to cut her tits open and stuff them full of implants.
“Give me your number. I’ll book you in and send you the appointment. You know what size you want?”
“No. What… what do you think?” she asked.
“If you’re tryin’ to please the boss, you should go at least a DDD. I went for an E, just to be safe, and he seems to like ’em. A good rule to follow is that it should be uncomfortable and embarrassing to carry them around.”
Vicky paled. She did not want enhanced melons, let alone melons of that ridiculous size. Vicky was quite petite and, looking at the girl’s breasts, she could already picture how ridiculous she, herself, would look with a set of breasts that were too large for her body. Still, if she opted for smaller ones, she might show up, meet with disapproval, and then have to go back in for a larger size. That would put her out for an entire week, and then her father would give another billion of her inheritance away to some other vile group.
“I’ll… I’ll do the same size as yours,” she said.
The girl nodded agreement.
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