Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
He shakes his head.
“You’re right. You haven’t, so I’m just going to put it out there: would you consider plastic surgery, sweetheart? It’s not that what you have isn’t great. It’s just that we think you could use a tighter ass and a tighter pussy too, not to mention bigger breasts.”
That makes my jaw snap shut as I stare at this man with shock. Is he kidding? But the look on Art’s handsome face is totally serious as he regards me.
“Again, you’re beautiful the way you are, Xenia. But when we were playing “which hole is tightest” last week, a few of us began talking. It’s not that you’re not tight, honey, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that Mother Nature could use some improvement. Besides, didn’t you say that you were with three men before us? So maybe they loosened you up a little too much, and now it’s time to get you into the best shape possible.”
I gasp while tears spring to my eyes because how can Arthur say these words to me? I did reveal to that prior to the club, I was dating three men simultaneously, but I never thought they would draw this conclusion from my confession. How can they imply that I’m second-rate?
“But I’m only twenty-five,” I stammer. “I can’t be loose down there already. I’ve never even had children.”
“Of course, you’re not loose per se,” Art rushes, his expression concerned. “It’s just that things could be better down there,” he says by way of explanation. “It wouldn’t be a big deal, honey. Just an outpatient procedure, and you wouldn’t even feel anything.”
I stare at him.
“Vaginal tightening is major surgery,” I manage in a strained tone. “I’m sure anal tightening is too.”
Art shrugs.
“Yeah, but we’d take good care of you,” he says in a smooth tone. “Your recovery time would be over in a flash, and you wouldn’t have any scars at all.”
I stare at him, still distraught.
“Yeah, but what about the boob job? That comes with scars, you know. They try to hide the incisions in a woman’s armpits these days, but still, you can see them if you know where to look. Plus, a lot of girls lose sensation in their nipples after the surgery. Would you want that to happen to me?”
Art stares at my creamy mounds, currently bobbling slickly beneath the cover of bubbles. He licks his lips hungrily, but then looks away and shrugs again.
“Of course not, sweetheart, and trust me, your breasts are delicious as they are. We appreciate the Double Ds and love fucking those babies at every turn. But you know how the world works: gravity comes for everyone, and especially for women with big knockers. So a boob job could be worth it, don’t you think? The surgeon would elevate and lift your titties, and possibly even take you up a size or two. Wouldn’t you like that? You’d go from being Double Ds to maybe an H or even an L. Fuck, that makes me hard,” he rasps, his dick already twitching within his pants. “You’d look gorgeous if you became a top-heavy Barbie.”
I nod woodenly, but inside, I’m utterly devastated by the revelation that the men of the Cannon Biker Club want me to submit to surgery as the final part of my initiation. I thought I was doing great with my current performance, but clearly, I thought wrong. Instead, these guys see flaws everywhere, and want me to go under the knife to correct them.
Setting my jaw into a line, I look away.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I say in a wooden voice. “I’ll consider it.”
Art nods, his expression thoughtful.
“Don’t take our conversation the wrong way,” he says in a smooth tone. “These are just suggestions because the final choice is yours, Xenia.”
But of course, I can hear the unspoken words lingering in the air. If I don’t get surgery, then the bikers are effectively done with me. I won’t be good enough for the club, and tomorrow will be my final day here. It’ll probably be the last time I see any of the bikers, come to think of it, and my heart breaks at that realization.
But I have to stay strong because they’re the ones who have subjected me to this impossible situation. So I merely smile tightly at Art once more and nod while biting my lip.
“Thanks,” I repeat again. “Appreciate the suggestions.”
With that, the handsome man nods and gets up before leaving me to my ablutions in peace. But there’s no peace to be had because my heart’s breaking into a million pieces. How can they think this of me? How can they want me to undergo not one, but three major procedures, and to subject myself to the vagaries of the knife? Am I really so defective in their sights?