Growing into the Job, Post 514: A New Career Opportunity, p2

I should have picked shorter heels for her.

That was my first thought as Melissa led me through the softly lit entrance of Le Vésinet, the kind of upscale French restaurant where I already felt underdressed just for existing. My second thought was that I didn’t even remember if I had any other real choice for her footwear. The selection - she’d insisted I choose her shoes for tonight from the slew of new deliveries to my apartment over the last few days - had been overwhelming. There had been boxes upon boxes of brand-new heels, each more perilous than the last. Somehow, though, of all the towering stilettos Melissa modeled for me, I’d landed on these: basically the tallest. I - god help me - couldn’t help myself. They were heart stopping, the size of them, and Melissa giggled at me when I finally chose them. 

“Wow, you really want me tall tonight, hm?” she’d said. 

Ridiculously high, ten inches at least, which would make her - oh my god, she giggled again when she told me - just couple inches under eight feet tall. Sharp. White patent leather that now gleamed under the restaurant’s chandeliers, elevating her to a height that felt…unreasonable. Unfair. Unbelievable.

I mean, she was already enormous, but now she was a giant. 

Melissa’s white pencil dress - still pristine after a day at work and structured to lift and present her miraculous bosom - had already been pushing the limits of decency before. But now, with the finishing touches of her freshened makeup, the teased and fluffed volume of her dark mane of hair, and now those huge heels forcing her to take deliberate steps and accentuating her womanly strut, she wasn’t just entering the restaurant. She was becoming the focus of everyone there.

Like they had at the lunch restaurant yesterday, heads turned. Forks paused mid-air. Conversations stalled in collective, silent awe. I could feel the attention locking onto her and see the ripple of reactions moving outward from the tables we passed. The tall, curvy Amazon in white, the one from the news, was here. The staggering, voluptuous goddess striding with effortless, swaying confidence was going to be dining among them. The mortals.

And then there was me, one step behind. Buttoned up, laced in. Dressed by her. And so, so small. I actually had, horrifically, as Melissa had intimated earlier, shrunk during my nap. Before we left my apartment, Melissa had insisted she measure me. I was now just over 4’2”, utterly dwarfed by any other adult, and made to look absolutely childish by my towering date. 

The heels made the difference even crueler than usual; just they themselves were one-fifth my height, and came up to my knee. The top of my head barely made her hip, and my view of her as she tugged me along by the hand was of her massive, rolling ass and thick, heavily muscled thighs. My eyes, though,  darted upward to glance at Melissa’s face. She wasn’t even looking at the room of worshipful eyes around her - she had other things on her mind. Her full lips pursed slightly, brows raised in vague interest as she searched for our table as if she hadn’t just shattered the atmosphere of an entire restaurant with her entrance.

Then, we saw them.

Lucia Antonucci, the famous international model and her team of two other young women were already seated, their table positioned against a wall with a graphic pattern suggesting stars. Weirdly, the model’s name - “LUCIA” - was hung up in big gold lettering up behind them. Had the restaurant done that for them? Or did they do that themselves? Strange, but such is the vanity of celebrity, I guess. I saw Melissa take note.

Anyway - Lucia Antonucci, naturally, was at the center.

I’d seen her in photos, sure, online - she was hard to miss. She had started as just another Italian Instagram girl with gigantomastia until she became the go-to ‘it” model for designers selling these ‘Carrier” dresses that had become the rage. And I had, uh - well before Melissa, of course - done more than just look at her photos. I’d saved some away as a collection on my phone and on my desktop for, uh…further study. Melissa had also recently shown me runway clips and press releases announcing Incarnato by Lucia, her new fashion line of dresses and accessories, a business in which Ms. Antonucci somehow wanted me involved. That I was actually going to be meeting her, have to speak to her, and talk business to a woman I’d, uh, studied made me squirm. 

She was, in person as we approached the table, gorgeous. Blonde but earthy, she was still seated but already I could see the voluptuousness just oozing out of her. Her renowned figure was wrapped in a black bodycon dress so tight it pushed her celebrated bosom nearly up to her neck, so sleek and snug it might as well have been painted on. Her golden hair was worn in long loose waves, framing a face that felt engineered for camera lenses: lusty, with heavy eyebrows darker than her hair and voluptuous lips. The high- and low-lights of her mane fell down over tanned skin and the deep plunge of her dress.

To her left sat a young woman who I assumed was her manager -  Inviata Delseno, Melissa had told me on our ride over. She was thinner, her beauty more understated, more real world compared to Lucia’s bombshell glamour. Her black dress was business-appropriate, a fitted midi with sleeves and a v-neckline over a modest bustline. Her dark hair also hung loose.

And then, on Lucia’s other side, was the third girl. Younger, probably early-twenties, brunette and pretty also. She had a more eager, fresh-faced quality - an assistant, maybe? - dressed in something more fun, a black party dress that contrasted against Inviata’s sharper professionalism.

The manager noticed us first, and offered a wave. Then the younger girl, and finally Lucia. The bombshell herself gave us a slow blink, a shift of her posture, then the faintest upturn of her lips - cool and unreadable - as she lifted her chin in acknowledgment.

Melissa didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, leading the way as I followed (still regretting the heel choice, making me feel like an accessory already) and leaned in as Lucia and the others stood to greet her.

And just like that - <mwah, mwah> - the European-style kiss-kiss greeting. “Ciaos” all around, between Melissa and the three women. Melissa did it so smoothly, so automatically, that I barely had time to register it. One cheek, then the other, a fleeting brush of air and perfume exchange in a gesture with which she seemed utterly comfortable. I remembered her telling me something about travels she had overseas, as a child, with her mother. She was apparently good at this sort of thing. 

I glanced up at her - an almost subconscious, searching look - and she was already looking down at me. In fact, all four women had their eyes turned to me.

Oh, right. My turn.

I froze.

Melissa had barely stepped aside before I found myself in the direct, unwavering gaze of the three women in black, each one looking at me with a different level of expectation.

I should’ve said ‘ciao’. That much I realized immediately. But instead I defaulted to the stupidest, driest, most awkward thing I could have possibly said in this situation:

“Uh. Hello.”

Lucia’s expression didn’t change. Inviata smiled a little. The third girl - her hands already hovering in a gesture like she wasn’t sure whether to hug me or just stand there - let out a small, nervous giggle.

Then Inviata, still smiling, took the lead.

“Dr. Vulni?” she greeted smoothly, as if the nickname belonged to me as much as my own skin.

I hated it. I hated how easily it rolled off her tongue, how legitimized it sounded coming from someone with actual business poise. It had started as a joke online, a play on some weird term being used to describe men of my, uh, stature and build. ‘Dr. Vulni’ was a name attached to one too many viral clips of me looking way too small next to way too much woman. But hearing it spoken now, in a setting like this-?

“Right,” I mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

Inviata reached out first, taking my hand in a firm shake.

Lucia did not. Lucia, instead, looked at me. Not in a way that suggested she was planning to greet me at all, but in a way that suggested she was still figuring me out. Her eyes flickered - up, down - measuring something I couldn’t quite place.

The third girl, however, was different. She was still watching me, almost in disbelief, like she couldn’t quite believe she was standing in front of an adult man my size, Dr. Vulni in the flesh. Her eyes flicked to Inviata, to Lucia, then back to me. Then, after a moment of hesitation, she gave a quick, eager nod, an almost schoolgirl-like excitement bubbling just beneath her polished exterior.

“Ciao!” she said brightly.

I gave a weak smile. “Hi.”

Melissa, sensing my awkwardness, smirked a little but - mercifully - didn’t make it worse.

Lucia, though, had already turned slightly, shifting her weight just enough to nudge Inviata with an elbow. She murmured something low in Italian - just a few words, slow and deliberate - but the tone was unmistakable: low and languid. Amused.

I felt my stomach tighten.

Inviata, apparently the professional, barely reacted. She only nodded, smoothing a hand over the front of her dress before relaying it to me in English.

"Lucia says you look nervous," she translated easily, "but that you shouldn’t be insecure about your height."

I blinked.

Lucia murmured something else to her manager. Something that made Inviata shake her head, and consider her translation carefully. 

“She says girls love it.”

Melissa, standing beside me, raised a single, sculpted brow. Lucia continued to murmur in Italian to her manager.

"And men, she says," Inviata continued, still perfectly neutral in her translation, "are secretly jealous. They all want to be like you. To be able to feel small next to a woman…"

She smiled, listening to her boss. Then shook her head, at Lucia’s Italian. She paused. 

"…held close by a woman."

I swallowed.

Melissa definitely smirked now.

Lucia? Lucia just watched me, watched and waited. But I think she knew damn well that Inviata wasn’t giving me an exact translation.

After a couple more pleasantries, we took our seats. The restaurant was upscale in a way that felt effortless. Dim lighting, polished wood, the scent of butter and wine lingering in the air. Melissa, of course, fit right in - lounging gracefully beside me, her curves poured into that white pencil dress like she was born to sit in places like this. Lucia and her team also looked like they belonged, draped and wrapped n sleek black like some kind of high-fashion mafia.

Me? Even though this meeting was ostensibly about me, I felt like an extra in a movie in which I had no business being.

We were seated at a table near the back, plush chairs sinking under us as a waiter swept in with menus. The next few minutes blurred into the polite rituals of ordering cocktails and French appetizers - light conversation, quiet nods, and the occasional amused glance when the youngest of Lucia’s team, the social media girl, eagerly snapped photos of the gathering. She tried some English here and there.

“Dr. Vulni! Smile?” she asked at one point, holding her phone up.

I gave a weak, awkward one, which Melissa - ever poised - effortlessly balanced out by flashing something dazzling beside me. But the assistant was more intent on capturing me, my face and frame, than on taking pictures of anyone else. She seemed like she wanted to get pictures of me from every possible angle.

Lucia, notably, said nothing.

I was beginning to realize she wasn’t saying much at all, actually.

She murmured in Italian when necessary, but every word was funneled through Inviata, who remained poised as translator and conversation guide. I was beginning to get the feeling that Lucia didn't know a lick of English, or at least wasn't letting on that she did. She had also been eyeing Melissa ever since we sat down - subtle at first, but then with an increasingly evaluative intensity, like she was studying every inch of her (and there were a lot of, uh, inches). Then, between sips of her bubbly drink, she muttered something low, something smooth in Italian, addressing Melissa:

“Il tuo corpo," she said with a wry smile, "è come il gigantesco sogno erotico di un adolescente arrapato.”

Inviata reacted with a bit of a raised brow, but if she was surprised by Lucia's words she didn't show it, merely turning to Melissa with a polite smile.

"Lucia admires your figure," she translated. "Says you are very beautiful."

Melissa blinked, clearly surprised. Then - grinning - she waved a hand as if to dismiss it, but I knew her well enough to see the flicker of satisfaction in her expression. Melissa loved praise.

"Awww! That’s very sweet," she said. "Tell her I think she’s beautiful too."

Inviata relayed it back.

Lucia merely smirked, and nodded at Melissa, a communion between beautiful women.

And then - because it was apparently my turn in the conversational crosshairs - Melissa turned to me with a playful tilt of her head. "Right, Jay?" she prompted. "Isn’t Lucia gorgeous? Isn't she built nice?"

I nearly choked on my drink. A setup. This was a setup.

I hesitated - too long, probably - before fumbling for a response.

"Yeah, uh. She’s - " I cleared my throat. "I can see why she’s very…successful."

Melissa burst out laughing and Inviata translated for her boss.

Lucia, meanwhile, had begun subtly shifting in her seat - adjusting her posture in ways that just so happened to emphasize the deep plunge of her dress and the enormous amount of boob that bulged above it. I realized she wasn’t, pointedly, wearing a “carrier” dress with a signature boob-window or cutout, or carrying a “manikin” between her buoyant tits. Unless, of course, it was buried deep, deep in there - which it certainly could be…

I refused to look. Refused - which was difficult, considering that before I ever met Melissa, Lucia had been one of the many women online that had once occupied an, uh, very unhealthy amount of my attention. Basically, I'd jerked off to her more times than I'd like to admit.

I needed a distraction.

So, I latched onto the most neutral, inoffensive conversation topic I could think of.

"So, Miss Antonucci," I began, glancing to Inviata for her help in translation but directing the question to Lucia, who was idly picking at her Niçoise with visible disinterest, "How’s your salad?"

She barely glanced up before giving her response:

"Il cibo qui fa schifo."

Inviata, after a pause, translated that to:

"Lucia prefers pasta to French food," she said lightly.

Melissa smiled and nodded, swallowing her own forkful of salad and agreeing.

I sighed, and sipped on my water, which somehow tasted stale. I hadn't ordered anything for myself as a starter, and was already praying we could get through this meal without too much focus on my, um, eating habits.

More appetizers arrived. A bottle of wine appeared. The young assistant snapped more pictures, sometimes muttering enthusiastic little attempts at English in my direction. Through it all, I could feel Lucia’s attention shifting again - not onto Melissa this time, but onto me.

It wasn’t just that she was watching me. It was almost as if she was watching how I wasn’t watching her. Maybe not having the slavering attention of all males in the immediate area  (I mean, my lord, I had Melissa) was a bit of a change for her, because then, abruptly, she launched into a full Italian monologue - low, impassioned, her eyes narrowed slightly as she spoke. I had no idea what she was saying, only that it was long, flowing, and - if I read her hand gestures right - pointedly about me:

“Questo ometto non mi dimostra il rispetto che merito. Dovrebbe sentirsi fortunato a essere nella stessa stanza con me. Uomini in tutto il mondo si masturbano pensando a me e ucciderebbero per essere piazzati tra i miei seni. Milioni di uomini morirebbero volentieri per la possibilità di essere schiacciati dalle mie tette come fottuti insetti.”

When she finished, Inviata smirked for a moment, but then cleared her face back to its obliging baseline.

I tensed. "What - wh-what did she say?" I asked cautiously.

Inviata gave an easy shrug. "Oh," she said airily, "She can’t wait to work with you."

"That can’t be all she said," I pressed, eyeing Lucia’s self-satisfied expression.

Inviata hesitated, then gave an almost dismissive wave. "Yes, yes," she said. "Lucia goes on a little bit into her volunteer work with children too, but that’s not important."

Bullshit. I, though, had the definite feeling that I did not want to know what was actually said. Again I sipped at my water, and asked Melissa how she liked her salad. She smiled through a mouthful of Bibb lettuce, nodding. I tried to ask the assistant if she was enjoying the canapés, but something got lost in translation and she just started taking more pictures of me. Eventually, I went back to listening to the women talk, Melissa, Inviata, and the assistant. Even Lucia was becoming more animated, maybe after a couple drinks. Each of the women were onto white wine, and Melissa started pouring me a small bit.

“N-no…that’s okay…” I stopped her, pulling the elegant glass away before she could get too much of the white Burgundy into it. Though I’d love to have some wine, the scent of the alcohol had already turned my stomach a bit.

“Oh, you should have some,” Melissa insisted, taking the glass in hand and bringing it to her own lips. As gracefully as she could, she took the dram of wine in my glass into her mouth, swirled it about a bit, and then delicately spit it back into the glass.

She handed it back to me. The other women had watched that with interest.

“He doesn’t like his wine too cold,” Melissa explained, glancing down at me with a mischievous glint in her eye, “It hurts his teeth.”

Apparently satisfied, and after a bit of translation for Lucia, the three Italian girls shrugged and went back to chatting with Melissa. I, for my part, took my first tentative sip of the wine. It was good. Really good. Maybe it had been too long and I’d missed fine, French white wine. Or maybe it was something else. Nonetheless, I soon finished the whole (albeit small) glass.

Though it was only a few ounces, I felt the effects pretty quickly. Again, maybe it had been a while, but what it did to me and my inhibitions were pretty apparent, at least to Melissa.

”I’m sorry he keeps looking at your chest, Lucia,” Melissa said to the blonde across the table, into whose bosom my eyes had, admittedly, found themselves. “He honestly can’t help it.”

Gurk!

I quickly averted my gaze, heat creeping up my neck. Melissa had caught me, and called me out on it.

The moment was mortifying as Inviata, ever the diligent translator, relayed Melissa’s remark in Italian to Lucia. Lucia listened, snorted, and said something in response - something short, dismissive. There was an implicit truth behind Melissa's words, and by the smug look on Lucia’s face, she knew it too.

Inviata gave me a look. I hastily picked up my water glass for a sip, tried to hide behind it.

"It’s okay," she said lightly, as she turned to Melissa and continued, "Lucia says it’s good to know her greatest assets are appreciated, a powerful attraction. Our entire marketing campaign, for Lucia's new company, is after all centered around the big, beautiful breast of Ms. Antonucci."

I nearly choked on my drink.

Melissa, for her part, blinked - fighting back a smile but clearly not expecting such a blunt statement. Lucia, however, only sat taller - unapologetic, unabashed - and pushed her remarkable bosom up and out, over the table between us. It is a fact, is it not? she seemed to be saying, An open secret. Her body was her brand, her currency, her tool. And she knew it.

Inviata, noticing Melissa’s reaction, tilted her head slightly, studying her.

"You are familiar with that, no, Ms. Monroe?" she asked smoothly. "Using your breasts in marketing? In your marketing campaign?"

Melissa’s brow furrowed slightly, her expression somewhere between amused confusion and curiosity. "I… don’t know if I’d call it a marketing campaign," she said, her voice measured. It was a fair distinction, her tone seemed to say. Sure, her TV appearances, her online presence - heck, even her everyday existence - tended to highlight her absurdly pneumatic figure. But she wasn’t selling anything. Was she?

Inviata, however, seemed unconvinced. "You are selling something now, though," she countered, her head tilting again, eyes glinting with genuine curiosity. "How do you call it? A - religion, no? A ‘cult’?"

My stomach did a weird little drop.

I had no idea if this was a case of language barrier - or if Inviata actually meant what she was saying.

Melissa, however, didn’t falter. If anything, her lips curled ever so slightly, and her eyes glinted with a spark of something unmistakably dangerous. She exhaled a soft chuckle, though, and flicked a hand, waving off the implications with practiced ease. "Oh, no," she said airily, her tone glibly insouciant, "They’re just fans."

She left it at that, and - though the other three women seemed satisfied with her clarification - I wondered if Melissa believed it herself.

The conversation meandered through a few more polite exchanges - small talk drifting effortlessly between the clinking of glasses and the occasional, carefully translated remark from Lucia. Despite myself, and my struggles with maintaining my gaze most definitely away from Ms. Antonucci's formidable bosom, I was beginning to settle. Maybe it was the wine (I was given another small, ‘warmed’ pour) or the rich ambiance of the restaurant, but for a moment, I could almost forget that I was surrounded by four beautiful women, two of whom were staggeringly so, and each of whom seemed to possess an almost unnatural level of confidence. Such, though, was my life these days. You would think I’d be getting practiced, more at ease with it. No such luck. I still basically felt like a stammering goof most times.

Anyway, speaking of fans…

The conversation had lulled, just for a moment. Lucia was swirling her wine in lazy circles, the young assistant was tapping something excitedly into her phone, and Inviata was showing Melissa something on her phone about Mexico when I noticed them. They were a small group of other diners, five people, sitting at a nearby table. They were looking our way, and one was even pointing. They were not close enough or loud enough to be intrusive, but they were clearly deliberating something. They kept sneaking glances at our table, probably at the women - but now that I think about it, maybe me too.

Lucia noticed them also, and as if on instinct she straightened. Her posture, already studied, shifted into something even more poised. She angled her shoulders, adjusted her arms just so, pushing the deep canyon of her cleavage and the curves of her torso just a little more into prominence. It was a move that seemed automatic, like muscle memory, like she’d done this a thousand times before.

I could feel her expectation: that these people, clearly, were her admirers.

Of course they were, right? She was becoming famous the world over. And when Inviata - who had also caught sight of the lingering group - gave them a small, gracious smile and waved them over? Lucia tilted her chin just slightly, a queen graciously permitting her subjects to approach. And they did.

A nervous-looking woman in her twenties. Three younger guys, maybe fresh out of college. And an older woman in a smart blazer. They all hesitated a few steps from our table, expressions ranging from 'starstruck' to 'sheepish' to 'oh my god, am I really doing this?'

Lucia turned toward them, already lifting a delicate hand in practiced, benevolent acknowledgment-

And then the young woman in front beamed, clutched her phone to her chest, and gushed:

"Melissa Monroe? Oh my god, it is you!"

Lucia’s hand froze.

Melissa, startled mid-sip of her wine, blinked. “Huh? Oh! Hi!”

The floodgates opened.

They were her fans, Melissa's. They said they loved her work (what kind of work, exactly, was that?), her image (they mean her tits), and what she was, like, doing (‘starting to take over the planet, maybe?’ one of them joked). The woman in the blazer mentioned the New Dawn piece about Melissa (she’d framed the article in her living roo- wait? What's 'New Dawn', and what was this article??), and one of the young guys stammered something about seeing her huge new Valkyrie Motors XX Behemoth outside before - barely keeping it together - blurting, “Oh my god, you’re even bigger in person!”

“Aww, you guys are so sweet,” Melissa giggled, "but watch your language."

As Melissa began up a light, pleasant conversation with the group, I glanced at Lucia.

Lucia had gone rigid.

From the moment that first ‘Melissa Monroe?’ had hit the air, something in Lucia had snapped. And now? Now, as the group fawned, she was just sitting there. Smiling. Tightly. And then, in a voice that could curdle milk, she muttered - at first under her breath but slowly growing in ire:

"Chi diavolo è questa puttana americana e perché dovrei sopportare che questa bestia da fiera mi metta in ombra? Sono Lucia Antonucci. Sono conosciuta in tutto il mondo. Il mio seno è più famoso della loro fottuta regina. Perché stanno guardando lei? Che cazzo sta succedendo!"

A beat, as the group had frozen in their admirations, under the icy Italian diatribe. 

Then, smoothly, Inviata cleared her throat, smiled at the group, and translated. “Lucia says she is so happy to see women celebrating other women.”

Lucia’s nostrils flared. She had obviously just been incomprehensibly vile, but her manager had turned her words into PR-friendly soundbites.

“Aww, thank you Lucia!” Melissa grinned, unaware that it was bad enough when she arrived at the restaurant stepping onto Lucia’s stage looking like she did. Now she was actively stealing the spotlight by charming the madding crowd and drawing all attention her way. 

Lucia’s wine glass creaked under the grip of her manicured fingers. She looked moments away from hurling it at someone’s head.

Thankfully, it was then that the food began to show up. Melissa’s new fans returned to their table as our server arrived at ours. The waiter - a young guy who had been doing his best to remain professional despite the sheer amount of pulchritude at the table - set our plates down with a slightly dazed expression. I could hardly blame him. Thankfully for all our sakes he did nearly as much staring down Lucia’s top as he did Melissa’s. That seemed to mollify our hostess back to her baseline nonchalance. 

Melissa had ordered me something small. The thought of letting me order for myself had been quickly laughed off, as she reminded me that yielding to her in this sort of decision was part of our ‘homework’ from Dr. Chou at the Regression Clinic. The other girls at the table seemed fascinated by that, and I flushed in shame as Melissa went on to explain the therapy. 

For myself, I tried to ignore the conversation and took my first tentative bites of the modest salade verte Melissa had helped me decide on, served with a few pieces of plain bread - but it was mostly a charade as we both already knew that I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite of it. My stomach was, I told myself, far too knotted with anxiety…but of course my issues with eating went much deeper than a simple case of nerves. The others, of course, seemed entirely at ease. Lucia, already working through her plate of steak frites with an air of disinterest, flicked her eyes toward Inviata, who took the cue to begin the important part of tonight’s meeting.

Inviata set down her fork, dabbed her lips with a linen napkin, and leaned forward ever so slightly. "Dr. Vulni," she began smoothly, still for some reason insisting on using the online moniker, "allow me to tell you a little about Ms. Antonucci’s career."

I resisted the urge to glance at Lucia, who was idly swirling the wine in her glass, as if the topic of her own success was barely worth her attention.

"Lucia Antonucci," Inviata continued, her tone taking on a practiced rhythm, "is one of the most recognizable faces and figures in the world of high fashion. Perhaps you have seen her wearing the Manikins of some very famous - and powerful - men?"

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, as if she expected me to deny it.

I didn’t.

Perhaps ‘high fashion’ was a bit of a reach, but it’s pretty likely that just about everyone had seen Lucia Antonucci, and everyone had seen her wearing men - or, at least, those little plastic ‘manikins’ that carrier dresses were meant to display. And just like everyone else I’d stared at those little fuckers exactly the way they wanted us to: in envy.

Inviata continued without pause. "Her body - the ideal of the new world - has graced the runways of Milan, Paris, New York as well as the covers of  Vogue, Glamour and Elle. She has collaborated with the designers of Carrier Dresses since the beginning, ensuring that their creations do not simply clothe a woman, but enhance and empower her presence. Now, with her own brand - Incarnato con Lucia - she intends to take more power into her own hands."

“Voglio che le mie mode siano ovunque. Voglio che tutti soffochino in me, che mi vedano ovunque, tutti intorno a loro.” spoke up Lucia. Her nonchalant indifference to the conversation had, for the moment, disappeared. She looked halfway between impassioned and annoyed. “Amano tutti le mie tette?” she finished, “Bene. Soffocherò il mondo con loro.”

Her imperturbable manager cocked her head, thought for a moment, and translated: 

“Lucia wants to be felt all over the world, by everyone,” she explained, “She wants Incarnato to be very successful.”

The way she said it sent a shiver down my spine. 'Incarnato', I mused silently to myself. I'd done a bit of research earlier, with help of a translation app, when I'd been told of this meeting. It could be taken to mean 'flesh, made divine', 'embodied’, or even - <gulp> - ‘embosomed’.

I felt Melissa shift slightly beside me, as if responding to my private thoughts.

Lucia, again silent, sipped her wine, watching me over the rim of the glass.

"The brand," Inviata continued, "will specialize in carrier dresses, of course. But we will also be expanding into tethers, manikin-ready casual wear and a full line of accessories - jewelry, ornaments and attachments." She let her words hang in the air for a moment. "That is where you come in, Dr. Vulni."

Lucia, still watching me, finally smirked.

And for some reason, I felt smaller than ever.

Inviata's voice remained smooth, as she continued. "This is what we are thinking. Show him, Lucia -" She turned to the blonde woman beside her, switching effortlessly to Italian. "Lucia, per favore mostra al Dottor Vulni chi hai portato nel tuo seno."

Lucia’s smirk deepened. Without a word, she reached two fingers into the tightly pressed valley of her cleavage. Her movements were slow, deliberate - every motion dripping with the satisfaction of someone entirely aware of their own power, someone utterly commanding the attention of others. She pinched something between her fingers and, in one fluid motion, drew it out.

At first, I didn’t fully comprehend what I was looking at: a small, gray figure, maybe an inch and a half tall. It rested delicately between Lucia’s manicured nails. It was plastic, unpainted gray, the details rough, but the shape was unmistakable.

A miniature man. Dressed in a doctor’s uniform.

I stared at it, a cold wave of something - shock? embarrassment? outright horror? - rippling up my spine.

Beside me, Melissa leaned in to get a better look, her brows lifting before she let out a sharp, delighted laugh.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasped, covering her mouth. “Jay! It’s you!”

The thing had my face.

Lucia, still grinning, extended the tiny figure toward me, her eyes locked onto mine like a cat playing with a trapped mouse.

Inviata, seemingly unfazed by my stunned silence, continued as though this were the most natural thing in the world.  "This was made just in our office, with our three-D printer, a - how you say? - prototype," she explained, watching Lucia turn the little figurine in between her fingers, playing with it. "We used some photos we found online to craft a preliminary design."

“It’s so cool!” Melissa squealed, “A little toy Jay-Jay!”

Inviata tilted her head, studying me carefully. "What do you think, Dr. Vulni?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

What did I think? I had no idea. There was something deeply uncanny about staring at this tiny, plastic version of myself, its placid expression. There was also something disturbing about the fact that it had been riding around, nestled inside Lucia Antonucci’s cleavage this entire time. Was I supposed to be flattered? Horrified? I couldn't even be sure what words were coming out of my mouth as I stammered some barely coherent response, caught between awe and unease.

Melissa, meanwhile, was still chuckling, though I could sense her glancing at me sideways, gauging my reaction.

Inviata took my stunned silence as permission to continue. "We want to license your likeness, Dr. Vulni, here in the US and internationally," she said smoothly, her eyes gleaming. "An exclusive partnership for a new line of signature Incarnato con Lucia manikins. And then maybe more - jewelry, accessories. Your face, in modo efficace, would be the male face of Incarnato con Lucia. The small, tiny, dipendente, sottomesso, impresso male face."

I could hardly process what she was saying, just that this night had suddenly gotten weirder…and more serious.

Inviata smiled, watching me carefully as she went on, her words thick with certainty. "They will be very successful," she assured me. "Everyone will want their own little Dr. Vulni - the man who empowers women. Who makes them grow. Who sacrifices himself, shrinking so they can become more.”

I barely registered the clinking of glasses, the sound of Lucia shifting in her seat, the way the restaurant buzzed around us. I was unaware, suddenly, of my surroundings because in that moment, I was picturing it - an entire line of these things, little figurines like the one Lucia still held out for me. My face, my body, scaled down, packaged, mass-produced. Nestled inside hundreds, thousands, maybe millions, of women’s dresses. Hung from necklaces, embedded in jewelry, tucked into the very fabric of their lives. A little replica of me, owned.

I had thought they wanted me as a model - which, I guess, in some ways, they did. But not in the way I'd been imagining. And it felt like they also wanted something else entirely.

I must have looked as overwhelmed as I felt, because Inviata’s voice softened - taking on an almost melodic quality as she leaned in ever so slightly to present her own neckline, and a breath of her own perfume. I felt how her words now dripped like warm honey:

"Oh, piccolino…” she continued, “you will be perfect tucked inside one of Lucia's designs. Pressed snug against the warmth of her body, every breath reminding you of just how effortlessly she carries you - how naturally you belong there."

Lucia, still silent, still watching, let her lips curl into a knowing smile. She may not understand English, but she understood full well what was happening here.

And all I could do was sit, pulse thudding in my ears, as the weight of what they were offering settled around me like a net.

Ever since the - yikes - 'Dr. Vulni' manikin was pulled from Lucia's consuming cleavage, Melissa had gone atypically silent. It was unusual for her - not just the silence itself, but the way she was staring at the tiny figurine, lips pressed together, deep in thought as she listened to Inviata's proposals. Then, finally, Melissa leaned in to join the conversation herself.

“So…” she began, her voice slow, deliberate. “You’re saying…other women would get to just wear him?” Her eyes flicked to Inviata, then to Lucia, then back to the tiny plastic version of me in Lucia’s fingers. “Like, anywhere they want? Like they own him?”

Something about her wording, her turns of phrase and inflections made my stomach twist. You don’t 'own' me either, I thought, inwardly bristling and making me begin to speak up. But my half-spoken protest went unheard because, as had happened several times tonight, my opinion was brushed aside as the women carried on the conversation above me.

Inviata had made a show of translating Melissa’s concerns to Lucia, who snorted and replied in Italian.

"Sapevo che l'avrebbe detto,” the bosomy blonde began, “La capisco, è difficile lasciare che gli altri giochino con il tuo giocattolo preferito. Raccontale il nostro piano."

Inviata smiled as if she had expected this reaction. She turned back to Melissa, her tone warm, reassuring. “Lucia anticipated your concerns,” she said smoothly,“She understands completely. And she wonders if you might be more comfortable with the arrangement if you were involved as well.”

Melissa narrowed her eyes. “Me? Involved how?”

“Well…” Inviata tilted her head. “Perhaps as a model.”

Melissa’s brows lifted in interest.

“We know you spent some time before your current job doing some modeling,” Inviata went on, her words carefully measured, as if this were something she had prepared well in advance. It was true. I'd known Melissa had done some low-profile modeling work several years back, for an energy-drink company and a few other brands. Her pictures still circled the internet, in the dark-alley forums that slathered over women of her, uh, dimensions - even though, back then, they were certainly more modest. “Perhaps you’d like to revisit that lifestyle? You would of course still be able to continue working where you are now. We would not demand too much of your time.”

Lucia, still silent, still smirking, gave Melissa a slow, appraising look, her gaze sweeping from Melissa’s stunning face, down her elegant neck, and to the generous curves hugged tightly by her dress.

Melissa shifted slightly in her seat, arms folding over her bust - not to cover it, but more as a subconscious flex of her presence. “I don’t knowwwww...” she murmured, but her voice had lost some of its skepticism. She had definitely had her interest piqued, her considerable ego stroked by the modeling team's suggestion.

Inviata took that as an opportunity to push forward. “We could even arrange for some custom clothing, for you to try, Melissa,” she added lightly, as though the thought had just occurred to her. “Something designed specifically for your… unusual stature.”

Melissa blinked, intrigued despite herself. “Really?”

“Oh, of course,” Inviata assured her, “Lucia’s line is all about embracing the extraordinary. We would love to send you some outfits, of carrier style, and some of our more experimental designs as well. We would love for you to try them on. Hear what you think.”

I could practically see the shift happening in Melissa’s mind - the way her initial resistance was being quietly, expertly redirected. I knew it was best not to speak up, not to interfere, because this wasn’t just about me anymore. Now, it was about her. Her presence, her image, her sense of control. Her ego loved it.

I swallowed, feeling an odd sense of inevitability settle over me as I watched the conversation unfold.

And for the first time since all this had started, I was now entirely sure whose decision this was going to be - and it wasn’t mine. I was, though, looking to reclaim at least some part of this conversation, as I was for sure involved in this, uh, transaction. So, swallowing down my unease, I cleared my throat and finally spoke up. “And, uh… what kind of money are we talking about? For, uh...me, at least.”

It was a simple enough question. A fair question. An important question because I was, well, pretty much broke.

Inviata’s lips curved at my query as if she’d been waiting for it. From her sleek black purse, she produced a simple white envelope with my name on it, sliding it smoothly across the table. I reached for it -

But Melissa was quicker.

Her hand landed on it first, snatching it and sliding it towards herself before I could even brush my fingers against it.

“Ah ah ah,” she tutted, wagging a scolding finger at me. “That’s for Mommy.”

I froze. 

So did Inviata. For a split second, her brows lifted in something like amusement - or maybe it was just mild surprise. Either way, she seemed to decide against commenting on it. Instead, she simply offered a knowing smile. “You’ll find it quite generous,” she said smoothly, to Melissa.

Melissa didn’t bother opening it. She just smirked, slipping the envelope into her purse with a practiced motion. “I’m sure,” she murmured, “We’ll have our, like, business people look it over tomorrow.”

I should have felt relieved that she wasn’t making a decision right then and there. But something about the way she said 'our business people' made my stomach tighten. Who were these people? Her friends?

Inviata took a measured sip of her wine, then set the glass down lightly. “There is one small thing I’d like to clarify,” she said, her tone perfectly even, perfectly composed. Lucia had taken to her steak again: the woman could eat. “One of our major investors has a strict policy about direct payments to, well, males.”

I stiffened.

Oh, here it comes.

“So what we propose,” Inviata continued, “is that Ms. Monroe start her own company - just something simple, a small business on paper. Dr. Vulni can then be listed as an employee of that company. That way, Incarnato pays her company, and the company pays Dr. Vulni.” She smiled. “And of course, management could take an appropriate cut.”

I felt my pulse thud dully in my throat. This wasn’t just about licensing my image anymore. This wasn’t just about some weird novelty fashion accessory. This would make Melissa, in this endeavor at least, my boss.

Melissa, of course, looked utterly unbothered by the idea. “Well, I guess that sounds easy enough,” she shrugged, “We know some, like, lawyers.” She glanced at me. “Jay, maybe we should have Sheryl look into doing that.”

And that sent my stomach plummeting. Sheryl? My ex-wife? Setting me up for my modeling career? Just picturing the look I'd see on her face made my bones shiver. Before I could even begin to form a response, though, Melissa was already looking back at Inviata, smiling sweetly and nodding.

I clenched my jaw. I knew, after some experience, that this was definitely not the place to argue. I’d save that for later - if I even had a say in it at all.

I took a sip of my water, willing my nerves to settle. Later, I told myself. Later I’d talk to Melissa about all of this. About the contract, about the money, about - ugh - maybe having her as my boss. Hadn't we just had to handle this yesterday? Over lunch with the new Far Horizons contracts? Was this overgrown Hooters waitress destined to be my superior in every way? I knew I needed to talk to her about the situation, but maybe now wasn’t the time.

So, I bit my tongue. Focused on my fork, the edge of the table, the flickering candlelight, anything but the fact that my entire identity was apparently being shuffled between these towering, beautiful, powerful women as casually as if they were swapping designer handbags. I exhaled through my nose, finally mumbling, mostly to myself: "Yeah, sure, why not? You women are already carrying me in every other way."

It wasn’t meant to be a real statement. It wasn’t even meant to be heard. Just a bitter, muttered little joke to myself - an attempt to wring some humor out of my own ridiculous existence. But Inviata? She heard, and of course Melissa of the superhuman, pin-drop-across-a-stadium hearing did.

They both paused. They both blinked once. And then, Inviata's lips curled. Her sharp, calculating gaze flickered between me and Lucia, and I saw the moment it hit her. She smirked. “Oh, che romantico,” she murmured, then turned to Lucia and said something in rapid, flowing Italian:

"Dottor Vulni dice che lui appartiene già interamente alle donne. Che lo portano, lo proteggono e che ci sta addosso come qualcosa di prezioso."

I frowned. Wait, what? I didn’t know much Italian but - That didn’t sound like what I said... 

And then I saw Lucia’s reaction. She had been toying with her fork, still playing at disinterest with her fries, but the moment the words left Inviata’s lips, I saw her go utterly still. 

Her long, dark lashes lifted. Slowly, so slowly, she turned her head toward me. And then - then - she leaned in. It was slight - just a few inches forward, just enough for her cleavage to shift and bulge against the table, just enough for the candlelight to catch the glossy red of her lips as they curved into something predatory. For maybe the first time all night, Lucia Antonucci actually looked at me. Directly.

And I immediately wished she hadn’t.

Her gaze dragged over me like a slow, deliberate, heavy caress - assessing, sizing up, contemplating. Her lips parted, and when she finally spoke, her voice was as smooth and decadent as melted chocolate. "Oh, piccolo uomo…che dolce. Sai già il tuo posto, sì?"

I swallowed. Hard.

Inviata smirked, turning to me. “Lucia says,” she translated breezily, “that you are very - how do you say? - self-aware, and that you will be a very good addition to Lucia's company. ”

Bullshit. That was not what she said.

Melissa, somehow completely oblivious to the suddenly charged atmosphere - or maybe just looking to defuse it - beamed.

“See, Jay?” she cooed, elbowing me playfully. “She loves you! We all do!” She, uh, certainly seemed to be warming up to this deal.

Meanwhile, Lucia just kept watching me. Now like a cat deciding whether to play with its food or swallow it whole. That slow, knowing smile. Those dark, heavy-lidded eyes. She was amused - but worse than that, she was engaged.

Her whole brand was built on the idea of integrating men into a woman’s presence - adorning themselves with them, cradling them, displaying them. So the moment she actually found herself intrigued by me, personally? Yeah, I saw it. She was going to lean hard into the idea that I belonged in her collection, figuratively (and, god help me, maybe literally). I didn’t want to know what she was thinking. I really, really didn’t.

But she told me anyway.

She reached for her wine glass - someone at some point had ordered her a Super Tuscan - and swirled the deep red liquid in the candlelight. She then murmured - half to herself, half to the table - "Ma dimmi… se ti infilassi in uno dei miei vestiti, se ti tenessi contro di me, sentendo il tuo piccolo cuore battere attraverso il tessuto… vorresti mai uscirne? La tua ragazza mi aiuterà a portarti lì, e io aiuterò anche lei."

She downed the rest of her wine in one strong gulp.

Inviata let out a short little hm of amusement before turning to me.

“Would you like me to translate that?”

I blinked.

My throat worked around a response. And then, finally, voice a little too tight-

“N-n-no.”

Lucia, still holding the tiny manikin of me between her fingers, and showing it to me, gave a final, lazy smirk. Then, she brought it back towards herself, pushed out her voluminous chest, and seemed to move to tuck it back into the deep valley of her cleavage.

My eyes were wide, watching her, and she was fighting back a smile. But, instead of sliding the tiny figurine back into its previous resting place, she looked across the table to Melissa, and held the little grey plastic figure up for her. She said something in Italian, voice dripping amusement. “Vorresti il ​​tuo ometto tutto per te?”

Melissa cocked her head, looked to Inviata.

Inviata smiled. “The manikin of Dr. Vulni,” she said, “Lucia wants you to have it. It is a gift for you.”

Melissa squealed. “Omigosh, really??” She clasped her hands together, eyes shining. “That’s so sweet!!”

Lucia purred something else in Italian, twirling the tiny figure between her fingers. “Posso affondarlo lì dentro?”

Inviata translated. “She asks if she may do the honors.”

Oh shit.

Melissa beamed. “Of course!!”

Lucia’s smile stretched slowly across her face. And then, with agonizing drama, she leaned across the table toward my girlfriend, raised the tiny gray figurine over Melissa’s monumental chest, and rested it atop her cleavage. The bulges of her two huge upper breasts swelled like hillocks aside it.

Then, with one single finger, manicured in red, Lucia pushed. 

The little plastic man immediately sank into the plush, pillowy embrace of Melissa’s décolletage, disappearing between the smooth, perfectly sculpted rounds of her bosom.

Finger inserted, Lucia let it sit there for a moment. Paused.

Then, deliberately - so deliberately - she pushed it deeper, deeper, until her whole right index finger had disappeared between Melissa’s breasts.

Melissa giggled, biting her lip as she looked down and shimmied her shoulders a bit. “Oooo he’s really getting cozy in there, huh?”

Lucia hummed in agreement, drawing her finger back out and leaving the little manikin man behind, deep in Melissa’s cleavage. She then murmured something in Italian - “È scomparso dentro di te” -  that Inviata did not translate.

I swallowed, hard.

“Awww, babe, I can feel you in there!” Melissa laughed, her glimmering gaze finding my own as she wiggled her shoulders more enthusiastically, giving her neckline a surge of swells and ripples, “You’re right where you belong!”

Inviata chuckled, Lucia smirked, and the young social media assistant snapped pictures.

Melissa then gave her bust one final, playful shake and - grinning ear to ear - she turned to me. “What do you think, baby? Jealous?” she giggled, “Want to join him?”

I blinked. My mouth had gone dry. I had no idea what to say.

Lucia was watching me. Melissa was watching me. The entire goddamn table was watching me. I was obviously now a plaything for these women, passed around like a trinket, and the moment had become one where they bonded over their shared amusement and control over me. They watched me, and I needed to say something. So, after a long moment, I cleared my throat, forced out a weak, strangled chuckle, and muttered -

“H-he’s probably… probably pretty…c-comfortable.”

Melissa laughed. “Oh, sweetie, he is…”

The girls laughed as I flushed and tried to take a drink of my water - hiding behind the glass. I found myself sputtering awkwardly, and coughing. 

“s-s-sorry…” I apologized, as Melissa began to gently pat my back.

The women were cooing their concerns, even Lucia. Taking her time soothing me, Melissa took a napkin to my lips, drying my chin. “Say, Lucia, I was wondering,” she said, as my eyes watered while I struggled to fight off another coughing fit. I don’t know if I was really hearing her. “I can’t wait to try on anything you send me, but does Incarnato do any custom designs?” 

Inviata answered for her.

“Hm what do you mean?” she asked, “Something for yourself?”

“Well…maybe, and maybe something for some friends,” Melissa replied, back to patting my back and now offering me a gentle sip of water, “It’s just something we may need later on…”

============================

we at theBasic apologize to the people of Italy for our barbaric use of their beautiful language.