Sheree's Shame
A tale of surrender and acceptance
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Dating
Sheree stood before her mirror, her hands trembling as she smoothed the emerald dress over her wide, pear-shaped hips. The fabric hugged her enormous, wobbly bottom and thick, cellulite-dimpled thighs--features she'd hated since puberty transformed her appearance, when schoolyard taunts branded her 'thunder thighs.' Her tiny breasts, mere buds beneath her collarbone, disappeared without the padded bra she'd wrestled into, a rickety crutch for her fragile ego. She stared at her reflection, her round face flushed with anxiety, and felt a familiar wave of disgust wash over her. Too much here, not enough there, she thought, her chest tightening. But tonight, she had a date with Scott--a man whose crooked smile had sparked a flicker of hope in her lonely heart. She dabbed lavender perfume on her wrists, praying it masked the sour tang of her nervous sweat, and whispered to herself, Maybe he'll see something worth wanting.
At the restaurant, the clatter of cutlery and soft jazz cocooned her in a fragile calm. Scott's hazel eyes glinted with warmth as he leaned across the table, his rough fingers grazing hers when he passed the wine. Each laugh he drew from her shy jokes lit a spark in her chest--hope, fragile and unfamiliar, blooming like a bruised flower. She felt seen, almost beautiful, and when he suggested they head to his place, her pulse surged with a cocktail of longing and dread. She craved his approval so fiercely it hurt, a hollow ache beneath her ribs, but the thought of him seeing her--really seeing her--twisted her stomach into knots.
His apartment reeked of leather and stale smoke, a masculine haze that made her head swim. Scott poured wine, his gaze hardening as he sprawled on the couch. "Strip for me," he commanded, his voice a velvet blade. Sheree froze, her breath shallow, her mind screaming no even as her hands obeyed. She'd never felt so exposed, so raw, but his stare held her like a vice. The dress slithered down her soft, pale skin, pooling at her feet, and the padded bra followed, baring her small, pink-tipped breasts--so insignificant she wanted to claw them away. Her panties were last, rolling into a tight twist as she forced them down her thighs before dropping to the floor and revealing the heavy sway of her hips, the quivering expanse of her bottom, the meaty heft of her thighs. She stood there, naked and shivering, her heart a frantic bird battering her ribs, yearning for his desire, terrified of his rejection.
Scott's face contorted, his lips peeling back in a sneer. His laugh--sharp, guttural--ripped through her like shrapnel. "Jesus, Sheree, what the fuck is this?" he spat, gesturing at her body. "That ass--it's a goddamn landslide, wobbling like a blob of lard. And those tits? Barely there, fucking pitiful. You're a walking mismatch--thighs like tree trunks, no chest to balance it out." He circled her, his boots thudding, each word a sledgehammer to her crumbling self-worth. "You fooled me with that dress, but this? This is a joke." His laughter echoed, a cruel chorus, and her tears came hot and fast, scalding her cheeks. She crossed her arms, her soft belly folding beneath them, but the shame swallowed her whole--sharp, suffocating, a confirmation of every mirror's verdict.
Her legs buckled, and she sank to her knees, her heavy body trembling against the cold floor. Sobs tore from her throat, jagged and desperate. "Please," she whimpered, her voice a broken thread, "don't say that. I'll do anything--anything you want. Just don't hate me. Keep me, Scott, please." Her mascara-streaked face tilted up, her eyes pleading, drowning in the terror of losing him. She felt worthless, a discarded thing, and his attention--however cruel--was her only lifeline. His grin softened into something sinister, and her stomach lurched with a mix of relief and dread.
"Anything?" he purred, his tone a dark promise. She nodded, her desperation a pulsing wound, and he tested her. "Crawl to me," he ordered, and she did, her plump knees scraping the wood, her bottom swaying grotesquely, each movement a stab of humiliation. "Lick my boots," he said next, and nausea roiled in her gut, but she pressed her lips to the grimy leather, tasting dust and despair, her tears soaking the laces. He pushed further--making her beg aloud, her voice faltering as she pleaded for his approval; forcing her into poses that bared her thick thighs and tiny breasts to his scorn; using her body in ways that left her skin flushed and her spirit bruised. She obeyed, her shame a bottomless pit, because his gaze--cold and commanding--was the only mirror she had left. She hated herself more with every act, yet clung to the faint hope that he'd keep her.
He didn't cast her out. A week later, he called her again, and their dates became regular - each evening a warped dance--public charm masking private torment. She lived for his fleeting smiles, starved for them, even as his insults carved her hollow.
Then came the night he started taking things to another level.
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The Party
It was a sticky Friday, the air heavy with rain, when Scott invited her to a "party." She arrived in her clingy dress, her padded bra a flimsy shield, her heart fluttering with anxious anticipation. His apartment buzzed with strangers--gruff men with stubbled jaws, women with painted lips and cutting eyes, all clutching drinks and watching her like vultures. Scott pulled her close, his breath whiskey-warm. "Tonight, you're the show," he murmured, and her chest seized with panic, her mind screaming run even as her feet stayed rooted.
