She looks at my name tag. “Stefan,” she says, her voice deadpan. I nod at her and smile. “Welcome, ma’am,” I say, “I’ll be your masseur ...his afternoon.” She nods. She pulls off her tee shirt, and I almost gasp. Her bra is very sheer, and is barely enough to hide her large nipples, which peep out at me, from behind the wisp of opacity that each cup of the bra provides in one corner. Her breasts are larger than they appear with the tee shirt. Much larger. Too large for her athletic frame. She. The attention, the willing fans, and the praises flying in from all over the globe by both men and women that adore her. Then there are days when she regrets it. She hates the time it takes up, the way those same fans that claim their undying love demand so much out of her. Hates the way that some people perceive her. Are they real? Are they fake? Is that a weave? Are you a stripper? Are you a whore?She tries to ignores the haters but they unfortunately come with the job. It is the job, the. More

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