So, that dress had always meant so much to her – it had meant a lot when she had bought it. She had bought it especially for that funeral because in her own little way she was giving the old fart the send-off that she thought he would have liked. He would have LOVED to have seen her in that dress. All deep plunging neckline, stacked cleavage and lots of back flesh contrasting with the jet blackness of the dress. The dress hugging her torso and then slightly flaring at the hips. The material slightly silky and yet at the same time, slightly see through if the light was falling in the right direction. And that was the view, if she were back lit as she had come into the church, the taper of impossibly long legs under the dress clearly defined and viewable.
“Oh yesssss now I just knew this one would look hot on you – and I was right.”
Dorothea was making her second journey down the catwalk. She cannot have known the enormity of what she was promising when she had agreed to do the 'private fashion show' for Lucy the Tailor. The catwalk walks were the hardest and most traumatic of anything she had come across so far in the time she had been in this nightmare like world. It had seemed an easy thing for her to agree to do – and at the time it had seemed like she 'owed' Lucy for all those years of bullying – all those years of her making Lucy taste the pee out of her panties. It seemed the least she could do, to do a little fashion show for her. Like a re-payment of a debt. An old debt. But that had been the easy part – agreeing to do it.
The dress was almost, but not quite, unrecognisable from the one that she had worn on that funeral day – the one that she had continued to wear on many occasions after the funeral of her husband, such had been the effect it had seemed to have on people. She had loved that 'being the centre of attention' feeling. It was almost an addictive thing – and that dress had been the one that had had the most profound effect on those around her. She had measured that in the amount of people she had stopped in their tracks. That dress had most definitely not been one that would be consigned to the back of the wardrobe once the funeral was over. But now, now the dress – it just wasn't 'that' dress any more. Not in that way in any case. When she had seen it, before the fitting on the day of the fashion show she had broken down in tears. That breaking down was a sign of her diminishing mental state since she wasn't in the habit of simply breaking down over the wrecking of a dress. She had wrecked more dresses by the simple act of spilling red wine over them than she cared to remember. But this was a tugging at the emotions too far. It didn't get any better as she had been helped into the modified dress. In the first instance it had been turned into a micro mini dress. No longer maxi in length, and yet it still flared out from the hips. That flare over the hips giving the skirt something, almost, of an adolescent look and feel. And where the front used to caress the breasts, now it didn't. The front of the dress used to house the main bulk of her breasts, and just leave tantalising glimpses of uplifted, squeezed cleavage. But the modified dress didn't do that. Apart from the fact that there would have been insufficient material to house the new, massive, cumbersome and heavy udders, it wouldn't be right for them to be held in in any way. And so the hooters – the entire massive bags of heavy fun that were her mammaries now, were left hanging, and swinging and exposed to the elements. Except that was not strictly true either. Those tits were not left to the elements. The plunging neckline and clingy material was still there, and it still did its job, weirdly, but on first look it was just like the hooters had been scooped up and out of the dress. That maybe the dress was after all the right size to house those monstrous tits but that the bags of fun flesh had been simply scooped up and out. But such a design on closer inspection would defy the laws of physics. A closer yet look revealed the breasts not out in the open at all – not like the illusion that the presented itself on that catwalk. Rather, each mammary bag was shrink wrapped in skin tight, clear latex and as Dorothea made her way up the catwalk, again slowly and painfully, the latex could be seen and defined by the light shimmering off the transparent rubber surface of the hanging breasts. It would be true to say that the bagging of the hooters in this way curtailed the side to side swinging that was inevitable had the tits been free. There was movement, but it was like a regimented and 'permitted' movement – the rising and the falling of the chest and breasts as she made her way slowly, step by step. The same stiletto shoes. Simply stilettos that she had worn under the trousers. In their simplicity was also the degree of difficulty with which she was able to take step after step. Had she been booted, there would be no ways that she would have to move in a way to prevent the boots slipping off. Had the shoes had ankle straps, likewise that would have been one less thing that she would have had to think about – losing a shoe. These were simple, strapless court shoes, or pumps with seven inch heels that forced her feet to arch, and the toes to bend right back painfully. But on top of that there was the fact that with every cumbersome, awkward step that she took, there as the chance that one shoe or the other, or both could slip off – that she could lose her shoes in this way. So she had to put more strain through her feet and toes in order for her feet to 'grip' the shoes. That on top of everything else was something that forced the pain through her eyes to show up, emphasised and enhanced. The micro skirt part of the dress swirled around her upper thighs – and there was the sight of pale white thigh flesh above delicate lace band of self-supporting stockings. The stockings, not black, but a dark brown, a shade called 'barely black'. The shade enhancing the still gloriously long shapely legs of Dorothea. It became more of a shuffle down the catwalk – the slow handclap of Lucy the Tailor, more of a constant thing now. As Jugs made her way painfully down, and with a smile, it became clear that etched into the latex that was shrink wrapping her tit bags were two words. One across the arch of one udder – the other across the arch of the other breast. The words read simply.
“KILLER TITS”
Those two words, speaking the truth – although to anyone not in the know, those words could have just meant that they were sexually attractive and addictive breasts. Unfortunately for her husband – that had been very much the case. But those words in this new life, this new world, this new existence had very nearly completely, and utterly broken Dorothea completely, and totally.
The End
only to be continued
Mega Tits 1 Page 28
