Seriously, how do women live with these things? For the third morning in a row, I'd been awakened by simply rolling over onto my stomach. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't in pain. I just wasn't used to the sensations which could come so quickly and easily as my nipples grazed across my silk sheets. My hard nipples were acting as my new alarm clock.
As you might remember, I spent my high school and college years fairly flat-chested. Well, that's an understatement. More accurately, an A-cup bra was roomy. And while I'd still had a satisfying sex life over the years, and even managed to compete with big-busted women for the attention of men, the stakes were higher now that I was out of college and looking for work.
I had graduated with my communications degree expecting to walk right into a job. After all, I had a near-perfect academic record, fantastic letters of recommendation, and had always been blessed with the ability to interview well. But how was I to know that I'd be looking for my first professional job in the midst of a recession? Interview skills hadn't been necessary so far - I wasn't even getting the calls in the first place.
Add to that my increasing jealousy of other women's assets. I'd split up with my college boyfriend, Jason, just after graduation. It was a mutual decision, as it was clear he'd be moving out of state for a job and our lives were headed in different directions. But the fact that my old nemesis Danielle had thrown herself at him, tits first, the moment he was single, just served as a reminder that he never had been satisfied with that one aspect of my anatomy.
So, I took the plunge. I did my research, visited the best plastic surgeons in the area, and finally settled on one I felt I could trust to do a good job. And in one afternoon, I went from completely flat to completely stunning - hardly an A-cup to an ample C-cup in a matter of hours. My new tits were perfect. And I don't even feel like I'm bragging. After all, they're not a God-given asset, they're a tactical investment in my future.
The change to my daily life was amazing from the start. Everywhere I went, guys checked me out. Don't get me wrong, I've always been cute and could always get attention from the hottest guys - but it usually took some conversation first. Yes, I'm pretty: long blonde hair, beautiful green eyes, fit and tan, but without a nice rack, I had to rely on my personality to reel them in. Now, just one look at my perfect figure, and random strangers would follow me anywhere.
The only problem was, the surgery had taken the last of my savings, and I was still without a job, so I was a little desperate. After swallowing my pride and taking one last futile look at the university job boards and newspaper classifieds, I made an appointment at a temp agency that some of my college buddies had recommended to me.
It was the owner who met with me, a certain Mr. Sanders, although he promptly instructed me to call him Jake, an example of his very comfortable demeanor. His office was surprisingly well-appointed compared to the sparse reception area, I thought to myself as I settled into one of the comfortable leather chairs across from his desk. He was a confident, good-looking 40-something man wearing a tailored suit that I couldn't help but think seemed a little expensive for someone running a temp agency.
He interrupted my wandering mind with his first question: "So, Amber, tell me a bit about yourself." His eyes were moving over my body as he spoke, settling, as most eyes had been in the past few weeks, on my chest.
"Well, Jake, it's been almost six months since I graduated from State U with my degree in communications, and in spite of a wonderful record there, great recommendations, and a couple of internships in the field, I haven't had a single interview. There don't seem to be very many jobs to apply for, and the ones I do find, they tell me up front that I won't have much chance - they can hire an experienced professional willing to work for entry-level wages because of the bad economy."
"Well put, Amber. Unfortunately that's the story I'm hearing from a lot of people lately. Fortunately, there is always temp work out there. What I can't guarantee is that you'll find anything in the career path you were intending."
"At this point, I'll settle for anything. I just need some money in the bank."
"Well, sounds like you've resigned yourself to the right attitude for the time being. Now, let's see. Here's what I'd recommend, given your assets."
Since his eyes were still plastered on my chest, I wasn't sure if he meant my brains or my breasts. He soon clarified that he meant a little of both.
"With your communications background and your great looks, I could hook you up with some temp work as a table presenter down at the convention hall. How does that sound?"
"What exactly would I be doing, and what does it pay?"
"Good questions. The pay varies by company, and keep in mind we take 10%, but typically you would take home a few hundred dollars. You would meet with a company rep for a few hours so that he could explain the pitch, and then the following day you'd stand at the company's table in the expo hall, looking beautiful and answering questions."
Gee, only slightly objectifying. But hey, it would let me pay my rent for another month, a pressing need since that rent check was due next week.
"There are a couple of big conventions coming in over the next few weeks, and with a pretty young woman like yourself, I'm confident I could get you placed almost every day. Just call in to the office tomorrow, and they'll give you the details."
"Thanks, Jake, I appreciate your time."
The next few weeks were certainly interesting. I wore everything from a silver bodysuit to a red bikini with heels, was groped by men and women alike, and went home exhausted at the end of each day, my throat hoarse after talking for hours, struggling to be heard over the hundreds of other voices in the expo hall.
Don't get me wrong, it was great to be working and putting some money in the bank. And I continued to enjoy the new type of attention my new rack was bringing me. It was a new experience for me to be the center of attention, rather than having to fight for it from the sidelines. And with the outfits some of the companies had me wear, I was most definitely the center of attention. Why a red bikini and heels was appropriate to selling roofing material, I'll never know - but apparently it works.
But when the first round of assignments was over, it was clear to me I wouldn't be able to keep it up. The money wasn't good enough, and it wasn't exactly fulfilling from an intellectual standpoint. A few weeks might be entertaining, but as a permanent gig, it would get old fast. And then there was my seeming inability to remember my new chest when I would reach across it to point out facts and figures on the various companies' displays. Some women have the benefit of years of practice to realize they shouldn't reach their right arm across their body to point at something on their left, but I made the mistake multiple times.
I shared all of this - well, except that last bit - with Jake when I visited his office after the last of the visiting company reps had left town and the final convention came to an end.
"So," I said, winding up the tale of my past few weeks for Jake as he sat across the desk from me, "I'm hoping you can give me some advice on getting back into the job market on my career path, or maybe find another temp option that could bring in a little more money with a little less grunt work?"
"Well, I don't know if I can resolve the grunt work issue, but I do have another suggestion for a temp job if you're interested. It would definitely be more money."
I was perplexed by his comment about the grunt work, but asked him to please go on.
"Well, as you already know, a lot of the work I get is for businessmen passing through town briefly for a conference or important meeting, right?"
"Yes?"
