When Dreams Come True

Episode 2

'Can't believe I agreed to this…' — Marisa thought to herself, sitting on the cold black box by the window. The curtains behind her trembled from a light draft, letting in the soft glow.
Miguel’s apartment reeked of cheap coffee, cigarette smoke, and something sweet and heavy — perfume that other girls before her had used. Marisa wrinkled her nose, but the smell seemed to stick to her skin, soak into her hair, into those yellow mesh thongs that hid nothing, and into the bright red lipstick she had put on almost playfully, without even thinking how once it had turned her on so much that at night, still being David, he would tremble just from the thought of such lips and such thongs. Back then it had been a secret fantasy, a dirty game of imagination. And now...
She sighed, lowering her gaze to the green heels. The hoop earrings brushed softly against her neck as she tilted her head. The cold metal pricked her skin, and Marisa shivered, reaching for the stockings that had been lying beside the box this whole time.
— ¡Madre mía…! (Oh my God…!) — she muttered under her breath, bending down and instantly feeling the soft weight of her heavy tits fall onto her knee and spread across her thigh, making her moan quietly from the surprise.
— ¡Malditas sandías...! (Fucking melons!) — burst out of her when she tried to lift her tits with her hand, but the weight was such that it felt like she was holding two huge, warm, overly soft pumpkins. They literally seeped through her fingers, spreading to the sides, but at least for that moment her back was grateful, because for once she had taken some of that unbearable strain off it. But as soon as she let go, the weight dropped down again, making her boobs jerk painfully and forcing Marisa to exhale through clenched teeth.
— ¡Dios mío, qué castigo…! (My God, what a punishment…) — she groaned, leaning back against the box and covering her face with her hands.
She took a deep breath and felt the hot heaviness of her breasts press against her ribs, pulling her skin and making it hard to breathe. Every move reminded her that this was her body now, her reality. Before, as David, he had dreamed of these curves, fantasized about women with tits so big they barely fit in his hands. He could spend hours staring at pictures, trembling at just the thought of what it would be like — to carry such excessive, sinful weight inside him. But now it wasn’t arousal anymore, it was torture.
'I wanted to feel like a woman… — the thought flashed. — Well, here you go, David. You felt it. Only now it’s no longer a game. Now it’s life.'
She lowered her hands from her face and looked again at her reflection in the cloudy window glass. Red lips, tanned skin, those ridiculous hoop earrings that seemed both too big and at the same time too natural for her. A woman from a cheap calendar. A woman David once bought with just a couple of clicks online. Only now it was her.
In the dorm, the girls laughed when she tried to read the announcements in English out loud. The words tumbled out in fragments, got tangled, turned into some kind of childish babble. In those evenings she locked herself in the bathroom and whispered, trying to relearn English: “My name is…”, “I want to…” — but her tongue just wouldn’t obey. And that only dragged her deeper into the dirty reality of that fatal fantasy of hers: an illegal, too dumb to even learn another language and dependent on someone else’s whims, with a body that by itself screamed “work with your tits and ass, there’s no other way out.”
She remembered how a couple of months ago she had slammed the door of Sally’s house when George hinted far too openly that she’d have to “work” in his bed if she wanted to stay under their roof. Sally didn’t believe a single word, accused her of being shameless, and threw her out. After that everything went downhill, because immigration police almost kicked her back to Mexico. And she knew it was George who tipped them off that she had no papers. If it weren’t for Clara, her dorm roommate, who managed to hide her and slipped her a new address, she would have been deported long ago. Now she didn’t even have the keys to the apartment David once bought.
And then that same Carla introduced her to Miguel, a photographer who was “looking for girls with fiery bodies for special work.” At first Marisa brushed it off — she was ready to mop floors, wash clothes for rich ladies, but anything but this. However, without papers and without money, deportation was a straight road ahead. When Miguel showed her the advance — fifty dollars just for coming in and trying on lingerie — her hands started shaking. Once, she wouldn’t have even counted such small money, but now...
— ¡Carajo…! (Damn...!) — she whispered, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as if begging for a miracle. But no miracle came.
Right at that moment, the door opened.
Marisa flinched so hard that the stockings nearly slipped out of her hands. A tall, slightly balding man in his forties walked in, wheezing heavily, completely naked. Broad shoulders, a gut, and between his legs exactly what made the air catch in her throat.
— ¡Santa María…! — she whispered, covering her breasts with her palms, but it looked like nothing more than a pitiful parody of modesty. Her huge, soft boobs spilled out of her hands, sliding to the sides, as if reminding her it was impossible to hide them now.
The man, as if ignoring her panic, smirked and shut the door behind him.
— So… this is the new girl, huh? — he said in hoarse English, as if talking to himself. His eyes slid downward, lingering on the yellow thongs that cut into her hips, stretched across her tanned skin so tight it looked like they could snap at any moment.
— ¡No… no, espera! (No… no, wait!) — Marisa jumped off the box, but gasped right away, because her tits, no longer held in place by her hands, swung painfully down and to the sides. She barely kept on her feet, clutching at the curtain.
— Relax, chica… — the man came closer, his bare steps on the worn floor sounding both hollow and sticky. — Miguel said you’re ready.
…
'Shit, shit, shit, ' — Marisa thought to herself, fixing the strap of her mesh bra that painfully dug into her shoulders. She stood by the exit of the small side room where she had been changing, listening to the hum of voices from the makeshift stage in another room of the small house. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like her breasts were about to burst out of the bright yellow bra, and then that pathetic mesh would just snap, scattering her “melons” everywhere.
She swallowed hard and tried once again to convince herself:
'It’s just a photoshoot. Just a photoshoot. They’ll pay for it. This isn’t what happened a minute ago… He left, Miguel promised… said he’d pay extra for this… Everything’s under control…'
But the memory of that man, who had walked in naked and looked at her as if she already belonged to him, flared in her head brighter than any spotlight. Marisa shuddered and pressed her hands against her tits, only to make the heavy flesh spill through her fingers, her breasts nearly slipping out of the mesh.
— ¡Mierda…! — she whispered, pulling her hands back and forcing herself to take a step forward.
The hall opened up before her in the bright glare of the spotlights. In front of the white screen stood Miguel with a camera, fiddling with the settings. And next to him — that very man. The one who had 
just made her freeze inside. Only now he was wearing sports shorts and a tank top, as if nothing had happened.
The improvised studio looked like it had been thrown together in a hurry: two spotlights, an old white sheet stretched across the wall instead of a backdrop, and a couple of wooden crates stacked with cables and lenses. In the corner — a folding table covered with bottles of cheap water and some bright rags that looked like lingerie for the next “outfits.” The smell was even worse than in the changing room.
Marisa took a few hesitant steps inside, the floor creaking miserably under her heels. She saw that it wasn’t only Miguel in the room but also that same man, the one who had left her minutes ago with a crushing sense of shame. Now he stood slightly to the side, staring at her with a kind of lazy look, but in that gaze there was something that made everything inside her shrink.
— ¡Miguel! ¿Por qué... por qué él? (Miguel! Why… why him?)
— ¡Cálmate, Marisa! (Calm down, Marisa!) — Miguel raised his hands, not even looking away from the camera. His voice sounded gentle, but far too confident, as if he had already predicted her reaction. — Él sólo mira… nada más. (He’s just watching… nothing more.)
— ¡No quiero que me mire! (I don’t want him looking at me!) — Marisa flared up, but it came out weak, more like a complaint.
She took a step back but bumped against the cold wall. The mesh bra stretched tight again, and her breasts swung down with painful heaviness, forcing a quiet moan out of her.
— Entrad, todo está listo. (Come in, everything’s ready) — said Miguel, waving his hand.
Marisa, taking a deep breath and convincing herself this was just a photoshoot that paid well, stepped forward into the center of the improvised stage.
The spotlights burned her skin, and she slowly lifted her gaze, locking eyes once more with that man. He was still standing to the side, but now his smirk had grown wider, and in his eyes burned a fire that made her knees tremble.
— Bien… (Good) — Miguel drawled, aiming the lens. — Mano en la cintura. Sí. Arquea la espalda… más. Perfecto. (Hand on the waist. Yes. Arch your back… more. Perfect.)
Click. Click. The camera rattled nonstop.
Marisa obediently placed her hand on her hip, but that only pushed her tits heavily forward, and the strap cut into her shoulder so hard she hissed involuntarily. The mesh stretched to its limit, and for a moment she thought her breasts would just rip through the fabric.
— Excelente… (Excellent…) — Miguel exhaled, stepping to the side. — Ahora más despacio... pasa la mano por el muslo. Sí, eso es. (Now slower… slide your hand down your thigh. Yes, that’s it.)
She obeyed, feeling her trembling fingers glide over her warm skin, and immediately heard the hoarse chuckle of that man off to the side. Inside, she froze cold.
— See? — Miguel said in English now, turning to the man. — I told you she was made for this. No words needed, the body performs on its own.
Marisa froze, but Miguel just waved his hand:
— Sigue, sigue… (Go on, go on…)
She drew a deep breath and forced herself to keep moving. 'Just photos. Just photos,' — she repeated in her head.
But the next moment Miguel bent over the wooden crate and pulled out something that made Marisa’s head spin.
A huge, bright pink dildo.
He set it right on the floor, under the spotlights, next to her heels.
Marisa’s eyes widened, her mouth opened on its own.
— ¡No…! — burst out of her. She almost stumbled, her boobs jolted down and swung heavily, and right at that moment the shutter clicked.
— Perfecto, — Miguel smiled, as if this was exactly what he had been waiting for. — Más cerca de él. Sí, más cerca. (Perfect. Closer to it. Yes, closer.)
— ¡No quiero! (I don’t want to!) — Marisa almost screamed, pressing her hands to her tits as if the mesh really was about to rip.
But the man in the tank top stepped toward her and spoke quietly, with a lazy sneer:
— Nobody’s asking if you want to. Just stand there. Beautiful.
Marisa licked her dry lips, her heart pounding so hard the yellow bra shook with it. She dropped her gaze down and saw that monster of rubber sticking up right next to her shoes.
— ¡Dios mío…! — burst out of her.
Click. Click.
Miguel was capturing her terror, turning it into pictures, and then he added:
— ¡Te pagaré extra, todo está bien! (I’ll pay you extra, it’s all fine!)
Marisa froze like a statue. Miguel’s words hit her no less than the burst of the spotlight. 'Extra? — echoed in her head. — So he knew… he knew it all from the very start.'
She bit her lip, tasting the cheap lipstick.
— ¡No… no quiero dinero! (No… I don’t want money!) — she rasped out, but she was already taking a tiny step forward, her heel clicking on the floor, and the toy was closer now.
— Cien dólares extra (A hundred bucks more)
Marisa froze. A hundred dollars.
Once, back when she was David, that amount seemed like laughable pocket change, not even worth thinking about. But now it was a serious sum, enough to stretch out for an entire week — pay for a bunk in the dorm, buy food, and even put aside a little for the documents Clara promised to “get” through her contacts.
Marisa swallowed hard, and in that moment the spotlights felt hotter than fire. In her temples it pounded: 'a hundred dollars… a hundred dollars… a whole week.' But along with that, everything inside her screamed: 'No, no, I’m not like this, I can’t…'
But the man in the tank top stepped closer, leaning in so that his breath brushed her ear:
— Chica… nobody will know. It’s just a toy. You’re not against the photoshoot, are you? — his voice was lazy, but the words hammered at her nerves. — Stand pretty. Take it. Just for the look.
Marisa squeezed her eyes shut, her lips trembling. She didn’t understand the words, but she understood perfectly well what the bastard meant. The camera clicked, and she caught her own silhouette on the white sheet. Everything felt like a dream.
— Hazlo, Marisa. (Do it, Marisa.) — Miguel said softly, almost tenderly, but the camera in his hands clicked without stopping. — Tómalo en tus manos. Es solo una instantánea. (Take it in your hands. It’s just a snapshot.)
She raised her hand slowly, as if in a dream. Her fingertips brushed against the cold silicone, and the chill sent shivers racing over her skin.
— ¡Dios…! — she breathed out, covering her mouth with her other hand.
Click! Click! The camera caught her trembling fingers wrapping around the toy.
Miguel nodded in satisfaction:
— Perfecto. Un par de tomas más...sí...eso es todo. (A couple more shots… yes… that’s it.)
The man on the side whistled, crossing his arms over his chest:
— See? Look how easy it is.
Marisa stood there, holding the rubber in her hand, feeling the world around her dissolve.
And then Miguel, without lifting his eye from the lens, spoke quietly but clearly:
— Si lo metes en ti… cincuenta dólares más. (If you put it inside you… fifty dollars more.)
The words struck something deep inside.
Marisa’s eyes widened. She squeezed the thing with all her strength, while inside everything clenched: 'another fifty… a hundred fifty… almost a week and a half of life…'