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It would be an overstatement to say India Cole had the best tits in the world but she definitely had the best tits in London and nobody knew this more than renowned plastic surgeon Simon Ryder.

Simon worked out of Harley Street. He’d started his business with liposuction and Botox but beauty salons run by minimally qualified entrepreneurs had bitten hard into the market and the non-surgical part of his business had now become a sideline.

Dr Ryder now did tits. His clients came from all walks of life and almost every woman he'd had in his stark white operating room recommended him to her friends, her sisters, her daughters even. The other clinics lining the affluent street hardly got a look in on the action. Simon's secretaries were constantly swamped with enquiries and his waiting list stood at over six months.

And yet, it shouldn't have been that way. The doctor himself was by no means any more charismatic than his neighborhood contemporaries. His appearance had no apparent flaws but was dampened by his air of superiority; he spoke down to his employees and insisted they only address him using his title. His frequent jokes were distasteful and often offensive. If asked, the majority of his clients would admit that they found him obnoxious. And yet they still raved about his work, directing an endless freshwater stream of clients to his door. The reason? India Cole.

Before any procedure took place, there would be a series of meetings between Simon, the prospective client and one of the nurses. Relevant medical histories would be discussed along with any concerns and ideals for the final outcome. In the second meeting, a small lineup of models would be presented before the client so she could gauge what she wanted the final product to look like.

Clients often brought in magazine images of their ideal breasts or would offer names of celebrities but Simon had found that nothing worked as well as real life models. There were usually five models present, carefully selected in accordance with the client's general requirements. But whether enlargements or reductions were requested, one of the models was always India and nine times out of ten, her tits were what the client ordered. They were beautiful, of course, as were the other models’. But something about India just clicked. Maybe it was the natural tan of her skin - she was after all quarter Moroccan - or maybe it was the way she carried herself, serene and disinterested.

Or maybe it was her tits.

They weren't overly large like one might expect but on her slim frame, their average-plus size looked positively mouth-watering. The women who tentatively touched them as they deliberated their own future breasts seemed entranced. They gazed dubiously at India’s tits as if wondering whether such things were even possible. They desperately wanted to look like her, to have their lovers stare like India was stared at and feel the breathless joy of being wanted.

Simon had a selection of what he called trial implants; variously shaped and sized polyethylene samples which clients could put into their bras to get an idea of what the finished product would look like.

“You can take them home,” he always offered. “Wear them for a couple of days, get a proper experience before making a decision.”

The clients rarely took him up on the offer.

“No,” they'd say, eyes straying helplessly towards India's tits. “I'm happy with my choice.”

And they were. The website testimonials were glowing. For all his flaws, Simon was a spectacular surgeon and even the harshest critic would struggle to find anything amiss. But it was Harley Street after all. Private healthcare and cosmetics were big money and only the most talented of surgeons could justify prices with their work. Simon was good of course but so were the surgeons at the other clinics. His secret ingredient was India. Simon knew it and her value worried him a little. Long meetings with his accountant had informed him that since she'd started working for him, revenue at the clinic had proliferated.

The money had bought him cars, houses, holidays and every girl he'd ever desired. Except India, of course. His cock still moved every time he saw her perfect tits. But wanting her was like craving snow in the desert. She was taken. He'd never seen her estate agent fiancé but had heard her gush about him to the nurses, telling them about her quarter carat engagement ring and the intimate wedding she’d planned.

Quarter carat. Simon smirked every time he remembered. Loose change. He could have given her so much more, he mused as he waited for his final consultation of the day. But of course, he couldn't really. Not while she was working for him. It was important to keep her down. There was no sense in giving her an idea of just how valuable she was.

In fact, he focused on doing the exact opposite. Micro-insults. Like at lunchtime earlier that day.

“You gonna eat that?” He’d nodded at the cereal bar in India’s hand. “It's full of sugar. You don't want to put on weight. Drink some water instead, huh?”

He’d plucked the bar from her hand and tossed it into a wastepaper basket.

“I hate him,” India fumed, when she got home that evening, damp and distressed from the rain outside. “I fucking hate him so much I can't even look at him.”

“Baby, it's okay,” her fiancé Hunter consoled. “Everything passes. Soon he'll be a distant memory.”

“But how?” India despaired. “I can't get any other job.”

She couldn't. In her late teens she'd been scouted by a modelling agent and her perfect tits, narrow waist and work ethic had almost guaranteed an eventual progression to the Victoria’s Secret runway. But an unfortunate encounter with a sleazy photographer had brought her career to a screeching halt.

Actual bodily harm, they called it. The judge didn't care that the hotshot from Vogue had hit on eighteen year old India in an elevator. All he cared about was the fact that India’s elbow had broken the creep’s already crooked nose. Goodbye glittering modelling career; hello community service and criminal record. In a job market more overcrowded than the rush-hour Tube, India’s job applications weren't even glanced at once the ever damning DBS check came through.

“I could have been something,” she wailed, dropping theatrically down onto the torn sofa. “Instead I just get old women eyeing my stupid tits.”

“We'll figure it out,” Hunter insisted. “Your DBS will stop showing the record in what? A year?”

“Five years!” India corrected woefully. “Five years, Hunter! Sixty months!” She paused to think before dejectedly declaring, “Two hundred and sixty weeks!”

“Oh, baby,” Hunter surveyed her. “Stop being extra.”

India glared at him and he sighed.

“Look. We’ll fix it. I’ll find a way.”

She brightened. “You will? How?”

Hunter exhaled. “Give me time, huh? And sugar. You think I do anything without sugar?”

India groaned and he raised his eyebrows.

“All day long you get your tits out and then there’s nothing left for me?” Languorously, he unbuckled his belt. “You’re killing me, baby.”

India rolled her eyes extravagantly. “Don’t even.”

But she couldn’t help smiling. Everything about him was so perfect. She felt like she’d do anything for him sometimes. Anything. The wind hurled heavy raindrops against the window. Upstairs, footsteps stomped back and forth. Without Hunter, life would have been bleak and depressing. But his mere presence lit everything up. She didn’t think she could ever survive the monotonous days without him.

He freed his hard cock from his jeans and stroked it, hazel eyes on hers.

“You want some of this?” His voice dropped. “Come get it, baby.”

India wanted to protest but he looked too warm. Magnetically beautiful. Slipping off the sofa, she crawled towards him, eyes on the cock in his fist.

“God, you look so hot,” he growled. “I could just die right now,”

She reached him and paused, her hand coming out to touch his cock but he moved away, walking backwards.

“Take your shirt off,”

She complied hastily, also unclasping her lacy black bra and dropping it onto the floor. Hunter’s eyes went to her tits. She saw him swallow as he stepped backwards and she followed on her hands and knees, the heat throbbing between her legs. He dropped down onto the sofa and dragged his t-shirt off. India waited haltingly as he kicked off his jeans.

“Whatcha waiting for?” he murmured. “Come get it, baby.”

India’s teeth bit hard into her lip as she closed the distance between them. Hunter’s hand was still wrapped around his cock and it stayed there as she crawled between his legs. She extended her tongue to lick the tip and only as she took the head between her lips did he let go. She swirled her tongue, her lips moving further down the rigid length. His hands wove into her hair, guiding her further. Their eyes met. His face was set in concentration.

India’s eyes watered. She paused, sucking in air through her nose, her tongue continually swirling against his throbbing pole. She pulled back, almost to the tip and then went again, moving back and forth steadily and taking in more of his cock with each push. Hunter’s hand tightened in her hair. He groaned. His body moved of its own accord, thrusting back at her searching mouth.

Everything felt like wet heat. India’s hand moved to touch his heavy balls and he grunted out loud, gasping for air. Her lips tightened around his cock as she sucked harder and his face contorted into a snarl as her tongue danced maddeningly against his flesh.

“Fucking hell, India!”

He was thrusting back at her mouth uncontrollably, not wanting to finish but wanting to feel the moment forever. Her mouth was heaven. Her dark hair had fallen forward and he could see the delicate arch of her shoulder blades, the indent of her spine, the shadowed hollow between her jeans and tailbone. It was like an invitation. He wanted to lick a path all the way down.

His cock throbbed in her mouth and he pulled her away, suddenly afraid he wouldn’t last. She looked at him, lips wet and parted, saliva dripping down her chin. He wanted to kiss her until they both passed out.

He didn’t.

“Take your jeans off,” he said.

India stood up. She slid the denim down her long legs, taking her lacy underwear with it. Hunter grasped her wrist, pulling her into his lap. He kissed her hard, his tongue pushing urgently into her mouth. His cock pushed between her legs like it had a mind of its own and she pushed back against it. The pressure against her throbbing snatch felt almost unbearable. All she wanted to do was fuck. But Hunter moved, pushing her down onto the sofa and drawing back so he could lean between her legs.

His hands slid under her ass and grasped, pulling her hard against his mouth. His tongue lashed at her wet snatch, needing to be everywhere all at once.

“Hunter, please,”

India shuddered out a breath and bit down hard on her hand as his tongue circled her throbbing clit.

His eyes flicked up to meet hers and he reached one hand up to pull her fingers from her mouth.

“I want to hear you,” he growled. His hand moved back down, fingers sliding into the wet clench of her pussy and curling.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” The word sounded like a prayer from her mouth and India repeated it endlessly as his fingers pumped in and out of her. His mouth closed around her clit and sucked until she shuddered against him and pushed back in a wave of hurtling pleasure. He didn’t let go even as she squirmed desperately beneath him and she came again, fingers pulling hard on his hair as her snatch flooded with warmth. Hunter pulled back and they watched each other breathlessly.

“Lie back,” India said.

He frowned.

“You wanna go on top?”

She didn’t answer but he rearranged himself regardless and watched, throbbing and aching as she moved on top of him. His eyes followed her hand silently as her slender fingers came out and touched his cock.

Her nails were painted silver. Her hand curled into a fist around his pulsing stalk and slid up and down.

“Baby,” Hunter's voice was a groan. He watched her helplessly, drunk on her beauty. His body strained to stay still. There were so many things he wanted to have, all at once and yet something about the way she stroked his cock rendered him speechless. Her eyes met his. Both of them were breathing hard. Hunter's hips lifted, his cock aching in her tight, warm hand.

“You're so patient,” India whispered and it was almost as though she were taunting him. A lock of damp, dark hair slid free from behind her ear and Hunter reached out to push it back. His hand stayed there, against the side of her pretty face.

“So patient,” India repeated reverently.

Hunter's hand gripped her chin hard, his thumb pushing against her soft lips.

“I'm really not,” he growled.

“What?” Her hand moved faster, encouraged by the wetness coming from the tip of his marble cock.

“I'm not fucking patient,” He almost spat the words, his thumb pushing into her mouth until she took the cue and sucked on it.

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away from his cock before it was too late. Then his hands were on her ass, pulling her on top of him properly so his cock could push between her legs. India reached down to guide him towards her entrance and sank down until he was buried inside her. She leaned forward, her hair hanging down around them as she pulled back a little as if to figure out the perfect position for him inside her.

Hunter’s grip on her ass tightened as he pushed, forcing the remainder of his cock back into her. India sighed.

“You fit me just right,” she said and she ground against him wetly. His hand came back up to grope the weight of one of her breasts. It felt so perfect in his hand; firm and warm, like everything a woman could ever be. His fingers dug in harder as she rode his cock, her palms pressed down against his chest. His hips moved upwards urgently, meeting her for every thrust until neither of them could tell who was in control.

His hands gripped tight to her waist as he pushed his cock into her desperately, chasing the impending release. She came first, her body tensing as she clenched hard around his cock. Hunter’s muscles strained as he urged himself on. His hand moved between her legs, finding her clit and rubbing it before she could stop him.

“Fuck!” He came just as she did; his cock spasming inside her as she dragged his hand away from her snatch. Their bodies moved against each other urgently for a long, aching moment. Sweat, skin and silence. India almost opened her eyes before remembering where they were. She pressed her face into his shoulder and breathed in the smell of him.

“If only life was just this,” she said. “Just this.”

Hunter’s arms went around her.

“Things are gonna change,” he said.

***

Simon had been ignoring his wife's texts all morning. On the street outside his office window, builders were noisily renovating the surgery opposite. He frowned through the blinds. The sign for the recently retired chiropodist was poking out of a skip.

Stepping outside for fresh air, he’d only just begun calling his student girlfriend Dinah to arrange a post-work rendezvous when a suited young man approached him. At first, Simon presumed the stranger to be a worker from the nearby office district but his assumption was quashed immediately.

“Hi,” the man said. “I'm Doctor Brandon Kennedy. Renting the building opposite. Number eight?”

Simon reluctantly pocketed his phone and shook the man's outstretched hand.

“Simon Ryder. What're you looking to do with the place?”

“Tits,” Kennedy said shortly. He went into his inside pocket and extracted an expensive-looking business card.

Simon took it. “You’re a plastic surgeon?”

“Guilty. Big money for big boobs, right?”

Simon laughed awkwardly.

“Well, reduction is big business too.”

“True. They're all into crazy shit now. Enlargement, mastopexy, augmented mastopexy, change of implants even. And then the inverted nipple thing,” Kennedy shook his head. “Crazy, right?”

“So – you’ve been doing this a while?” Simon asked casually. Despite his dominance of the London market, the idea of competition opening directly opposite did more than irk him.

“Yeah. A few years.” Kennedy smiled evasively.

His green eyes went to Simon’s midlife crisis earring and the faintest glimmer of amusement pricked the corner of his mouth.

Simon narrowed his eyes and fought the urge to scowl.

“Well. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other,” he said and walked briskly away, even though he hadn’t been planning to go anywhere. He ended up circling the block while bringing up Brandon Kennedy’s LinkedIn profile. The contents were impressive enough to make him very uneasy.

***

For the next two weeks, Simon spent his free time eyeing the building opposite. He found himself hoping the builders would screw up, or a crane would tip over, or something would happen to halt Dr Kennedy’s ambitious plans.

He tried to reassure himself. Why would things change? The other clinics on the street hadn’t managed to compete with him so why would Kennedy fare any better? So what if he’d won awards for research papers? It didn’t mean anything in business. He didn’t have Simon’s experience and most importantly, he didn’t have anyone like India. Selling dreams was easier when a fantasy was tangible.

Simon snapped the venetian blinds shut and smiled contentedly. He had one last appointment, and then he was planning to meet up with Dinah for a few hours of no-holes-barred sex before taking his unsuspecting wife for a birthday meal. Which meant more sex. Could life get any better? Simon smiled. He smoothed down his hair and made his way to the consulting room.

Mrs Lexington was the final client; a full-time mother of four with enough money to rectify the havoc her kids had wreaked on her body.

“I once had breasts like yours,” she said forlornly, looking at India. “I know it’s unbelievable, but I did. Then I had kids. And breastfed. And then life. Life drags you down.” She almost smiled at her own pun but caught herself. She looked again at India’s naked chest.

“This is exactly what I want, if possible.”

“It’s definitely possible,” Simon said. “In fact your frame is perfect for the size. Now, I just need to -”

“India?” A young receptionist stuck her head around the door. “There's a call for you. A Doctor Kennedy.”

“Doctor Kennedy?”

Simon’s head whipped around while India frowned.

“Could you take a message?” she asked. “We're in the middle of something.”

The girl looked both anxious and mortified.

“He says it's urgent. He wants to speak to you personally.”

“He can't!” Simon interrupted loudly.

“Oh no, you go, India, dear,” Mrs Lexington insisted. “I've seen everything I need.”

“Thank you.”

India deftly buttoned her top and followed the receptionist out of the room as Simon watched, helpless and perplexed.

***

His helplessness only increased. The next morning, he saw Kennedy cross the road to approach India on her way to work. They shook hands as though meeting for the first time. They laughed. Simon didn’t laugh. He glowered. A sense of ominous unease settled in his stomach and refused to move.

The next day he saw them walking down the road at lunch, talking animatedly. Later that week, he overheard India on the phone with someone she amiably called Brandon. She seemed happier than he’d ever seen her and even smiled at him as he passed. It was bizarre. On Thursday, he watched through the blinds as her and Kennedy stood across the road. He could only guess from Kennedy’s gesturing that they were discussing the new surgery.

By Friday, he couldn’t take any more. He caught India just before she left for the day.

“What does Kennedy want from you?” he demanded.

India looked surprised.

“You know Brandon?”

Simon glared at her.

“What does he want?”

India sighed.

“Maybe we should get coffee,” she said, heading for the door. For the first time since they'd met, Simon obeyed her wordlessly.

***

They sat at a small table at an overcrowded and overpriced café.

“Brandon’s giving me a job,” India said, as the waitress delivered drinks.

Simon stared.

“The fucking snake,” he spat. “Doing what?”

“The same thing I already do.” India shrugged. “I guess the technical term would be modelling.”

Simon stared. He went to add sugar to his coffee but tipped the spoon prematurely. Sugar snowed onto the table.

“What's he paying?” he asked. “Living wage?”

“Nope,” India sipped tea. “Ten times that.”

Simon eyed her disbelievingly.

“Like hell he is.”

She shrugged. “Why would I lie?”

Simon snorted. He shook his head. He walked out of the cafe and back towards Harley Street. He could see builders going in and out of number eight. Digging in his pocket for Kennedy's card, he dialled the number.

“Kennedy speaking.” The voice was maddeningly cool.

“I'm not about to let you steal my fucking business, you hear me?”

There was a pause.

“Excuse me? Who is this?”

“Simon Ryder. I’ve been here for decades. You don't know what you're doing, okay?”

Kennedy snorted. “I trained under Karl Maxwell, actually. He pretty much invented the modern game. Pioneered the next stage of gummy bears. Have you heard of him?”

Simon seethed. Any doctor in cosmetics knew Maxwell.

“You can't steal my models!” he raged.

“Steal?” Kennedy asked. “No. You pay peanuts, and I'll pay caviar. Simple as. It's not my fault your staff have such low morale. You should take an employer seminar. Happy workforce is key, right?”

“Fuck you!” Simon yelled. He felt so full of burning rage it was a wonder he hadn't combusted. “I'll sue you!”

“What the fuck for?” Kennedy laughed. “Making people happy?”

He hung up. Simon trembled with fury but as soon as it flooded him, the anger receded and flowed away leaving a shaky sense of loss. What now? He staggered back to the cafe and dropped into the chair opposite India.

Picking up his cup, he gulped tepid coffee. He'd never felt so desperate.

“What do you want, India?”

India finished her tea. She drew a circle in the sugar scattered on the table.

“To stay?” Her eyes met his. “Fifty percent.”

Simon blinked. He set his cup down unsteadily. A wave of cold coffee splashed out.

“Of what? Profit?”

Her laugh tinkled like wind chimes in a summer breeze.

“With your margins? Fifty percent of revenue, Doctor.”

Simon paled to a colour only seen on corpses.

“Revenue?” The word came out as though he had two hands around his throat. “I can't.”

India laughed again. “Please. I'm not asking for what you can't afford.”

“I can't do it, India. Be reasonable.”

“Be reasonable? From the man who told me to skip breakfast and lunch? The man who's made a million times what he's paid me from my fucking tits?” India caught her anger and carefully suppressed it like she was screwing shut a bottle of perfume. She exhaled. “Fifty percent.”

Simon looked at her tits. Even beneath her wool sweater, the shape was apparent. Men across the shop kept stealing glances at her. The gawking barista had already broken two cups.

“I don't even need you,” Simon mumbled. “I’ve given hundreds of women your tits. I'll employ one of them. I'll use photos. I don't need you.”

“You don't?” India examined her fingernails. “But without me, your clients will walk down the street to one of the other guys. The moment they go with you is the moment they see my tits in the flesh. The moment their eyes can't look away. The moment they touch my tits and start dreaming of everything their own can be. Silicone isn't remotely similar.”

Simon's eyes met hers. He gripped the edge of the table.

“Your tits belong to me!”

India laughed. He'd never seen her laugh before and she looked devastatingly beautiful, her dark hair loose and her golden eyes shining like warm honey. He wanted to hate her but how could anyone hate something so aesthetically entrancing?

His phone chimed. He grabbed it to see an x-rated picture message from Dinah, captioned with a simple waiting. Simon stared at the picture. His cock moved in his Savile Row pants. Life had been so good. So incredibly good. Dinah and champagne and sex and then home to his Kensington house with his beautiful cold wife and adorable screaming children. Everything had been perfect.

“Brandon isn’t opening for another fortnight,” India said. “So you’ve got a while to decide.” She stood up. “See you.”

Simon stared after her, eyes riveted on her tight ass. She seemed more attractive than ever. Even in his current predicament, his cock was raging hard. Fifty percent. It was a ludicrous amount. And for a woman he’d never even fuck. But the alternative would devastate his business. He could not survive without India. Either way, the good days were over. Dead.

His phone chimed again. Dinah. Where are you?

He stared at her picture. She was like a canapé; pretty and delicious but never enough to satisfy him. If anything, she only made him crave India more. Regardless, he dragged himself out of the café and took a cab to Claridges. He fell into their hotel room to see Dinah naked on the flawless bed. She was gorgeous, wearing nothing but jewellery he’d given her. Diamonds. Colombian emeralds.

“You’re late,” Her cherry lips formed a pout.

The collar of Simon’s shirt was choking him. He undid the top three buttons.

“Sorry,” he said vaguely.

Dinah’s forehead creased with a frown. She walked towards him and kissed him hard. Her hand reached down to snap his belt free. Eyes on his, she dropped to her knees, her hand finding his cock and freeing it from his clothing.

“I missed you,” she purred.

“I missed you too,” Simon said but he didn’t know whether it was true. He’d thought of her, of course, but had he really missed her as a person? It was just sex. Her mouth had closed around the head of his hard cock and he pushed her away.

“Let’s just fuck,” he said.

Dinah shrugged. Her blue eyes betrayed mild surprise but she stood up and helped him out of his clothes before leading him to the bed. She got on her hands and knees and looked over her shoulder at him for approval.

“Perfect,” he said.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine she was India. It didn’t make any sense. He shouldn’t have wanted her. She was disloyal and uninterested in him and yet all he wanted was to fuck her. He’d thought of it so many times and seeing her laugh, seeing her in control only made him want her more. Snow in the desert. Fire in the rain. As pathetic as a teenage boy’s obsession with a swimsuit supermodel.

He shoved his cock into Dinah repeatedly, until her moans fell into one long wail and even then he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop until the sweat ran down his face and his muscles burnt with exertion and the rest of the world swam out of focus. It was just him and this girl he was pretending was another girl and everything was a mess of desire and money.

Dinah’s body was damp with perspiration, her skin smooth and beautiful. Simon’s hands ran over her, grasping and groping and he got so lost in the fantasy that he reached to feel her tits and they were so fundamentally different to how he imagined India’s to feel that the fantasy crumpled like a deflating balloon. He could’ve cried. He didn’t. He came instead and it felt draining and empty and cheap.

Afterwards he sat on the end of the bed, watching Dinah smoke a cigarette on the balcony. He thought vaguely about how his wife would be waiting for him. Dinah crawled onto the bed and her slender arms went around him from behind. She smelled like smoke.

“What is it?” she breathed. “I’ve never seen you like this, Simon.”

Simon looked down at the diamond bracelet dangling from her wrist. Endless extravagance.

“Things are gonna change,” he said eventually.

***

A month later India and Hunter stood at an ATM, staring at the balance displayed on the screen.

“Jesus,” Hunter breathed, “Does this mean you're gonna leave me?”

“I can't believe it,” India gazed wide-eyed at the line of numbers.

“You think he'll figure it out?” Hunter asked. “When Kennedy doesn't show up? As far as I know, the place is really being rented to an acupuncturist. And I took down all the fake profiles. Won't he figure us out?”

India shrugged. “Nah. I'll just say that without me, Kennedy gave up on the idea.”

She turned to kiss her fiancé.

“You really got him, baby,”

“I still can't believe he thought I was a doctor.”

“I still can't believe you did all that for me.”

Hunter’s hands went down her back and slid around the curve of her ass.

“I told you I’d fix things, didn’t I? You know me. Anything for sugar.”

India smiled, her body pressing into the warmth of his.

“Things are finally looking up,” she whispered.

 

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © Copyright 2016-17 browncoffee
Let's be clear: I wrote this story and I decide where it appears. I have two older brothers who enjoy cage fighting. I also have a father who does karate and a husband who once greeted me at the door with a baseball bat.
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