Story: Sea Cow

It was Helen’s fault, so it was only fair that she fix it.

She was communications director at Alleytes Fashion. When the story broke that a model was accusing Alleytes’ Head of Product, Peter Bains, of rape, Helen made the mistake of Tweeting, “Fake news. Have you seen the bimbos who model for us? They’ve never met a cock they didn’t thirst for.”

It was offensive, of course, and now the modelling union was refusing to work for Alleytes, with the summer catalogue photoshoots coming up.

Bains was apoplectic. “Fix this,” he demanded.

“You want me to apologise?” Helen asked.

“No, I want you to model the line for the catalogue. You already look more like a stripper than an executive, and judging by this Tweet apparently you’re not smarter than you look. Get down to marketing and meet the photographer there. If this catalogue bombs, you’re never working in this town again – and the company will withdraw our generous offer to defend any defamation action arising from your tweet.”

Helen was humiliated, but did as she was told. The photographer introduced himself as Miles, and explained that the theme of the line was “rape victim”.

“The idea is you’ve just been raped, these are all the clothes your rapist left you, you’re beaten and vulnerable, and you still look hot as fuck, got it?” he told her.

He had makeup give Helen dark eyeshadow, a bruised look, and mussed hair. He had her pose wearing a full top above the waist but only panties below; skirts with no panties below the waist and only a bra above; naked but for panties, her arms covering her tits. It was humiliating and she never seemed to please him.

“Enough,” he finally cried. “Are you brain dead, you silly bitch? You’re just not getting it at all. Go back to the agency and tell them to send a different girl.”

“Please,” she begged. “There are no other girls. Just show me how to do it right.”

He thought for a while. Then he slapped her, pulled off her clothes, forced apart her struggling legs, and raped her right there on set. Afterwards, a bruise forming on her cheek and cum leaking from her pussy, she found it much easier to get into the role…

She hoped that would be the last of it, but the next day Bains reminded her of the new bikini line. “Sea Cow, remember? It’s a whole new market.”

He told her she would need preparation for the bikini shoot. She thought he meant training, but when she arrived at the address he gave her it was a private hospital. She got as far as the reception before realising. She turned to leave, but two male orderlies grabbed her and gassed her.

When she awoke, she found her tits were larger. Already naturally buxom, she now had ridiculous giant sex-balloons that hurt her back and wouldn’t fit into any of her clothes. She recuperated in hospital for two weeks, but when Bain turned up to collect her he didn’t bring any clothes, so she had to climb into his car nude and blush the whole way back into town.

“You look good like that,” he told her. “You’re the spirit of Sea Cow.”

The Sea Cow line was swimwear aimed at very buxom women. Marketing thought there might be four key groups in their target demographic – complete sluts; anti-feminists looking to disempower themselves; women with body issues looking to shame and degrade themselves; and men who would force their partner to wear it.

None of the swimwear in the line was remotely decent, as Helen discovered when Bains delivered her, naked, to the beach where the shoot would happen. Every scrap of fabric became translucent when wet, and there wasn’t much of it to start with. The crotches would disappear between her ass cheeks and pussy lips; the chest area would slide off her newly-massive fuckmelons. That was okay – the line was designed that way, and many photos focused on her cameltoe-pussy and unsuccessful attempts to cover her titflesh.

Her humiliation wasn’t private. Most of the company turned up to watch the shoot, jeering and mocking her poses. She was required to change outfits on-set, stripping nude with everyone watching. After the first hour the photographer told her she didn’t look aroused enough, and made her masturbate publicly between shoots. “No, honey, let the audience see,” he instructed when she tried to face away, and she blushingly turned to spread her cunt to her former peers.

At the end, they filmed the TV spots, in which Helen crawled and writhed suggestively in the obscene swimwear. Bains told her they would run the ads uncensored on the internet, so the audience would get a good look at her tits and cunt.

They had her read the marketing lines too: three versions for three markets. They all started with, “My name is Helen, and with udders like these, I know I’m a Sea Cow.”

In one she said, “Like most women, I’m not very smart – but I still know that Sea Cow is the swimwear I deserve.” In another, she said, “I let my tits do the thinking – and my tits demand Sea Cow swimwear.” The third said, “Men like seeing me in Sea Cow swimwear – so does it really matter what a silly little bimbo like me thinks?”

For the final shot of the ad, she was helped by the photographer, Bains, and several co-workers. They had to hold her down at first, but her pussy was so wet after masturbating all day that she stopped struggling and started moaning as soon as the first cock went in.

There were three versions of the finale too. All of them started with a shot of her face and bulging tits, and had her say the brand tagline – “Sea Cow – because there’s only one thing I’m good for.”

In the first version, it cut to a shot of her giggling as sperm leaked from her lips. The second panned down from her face until only her tits were in frame, a coat of fresh semen shining on her titflesh. And in the third, she deliberately spread her legs to show cum leaking from her pussy.

The ads were a huge success, although Helen didn’t enjoy it much. It was hard enough to live a normal life with her giant new udders, but in addition everyone she knew was being constantly exposed to advertisements where she was covered in cum and telling them there was only one thing she was good for. Her friendship circles narrowed – those who were disgusted by her abandoned her, and those who weren’t only saw her when they wanted to fuck her. They didn’t always ask permission.

She begged Bains to let her get a breast reduction. She had to suck his cock on her knees in his office to get him to listen to her. Even then, the answer was “no”.

“Helen,” he explained, “you’re the face – or should I say the tits – of Sea Cow now. We have a whole tour lined up. You’re going to go on talk shows and talk about what a dumb bitch you are and why big-titted sluts should wear Sea Cow. You’re going to go to schools and tell the girls why they should aspire to udders like yours and tell the boys why girls with big tits don’t deserve respect. We’re going to hold competitions where the winners get to fuck you. And we’ll need you to promote the next catalogue too – the theme is going to be “breed the best in your woman”, and we’re going to get you pregnant and lactating for it…”

Bains didn’t learn what Helen thought of this, partly because he didn’t care, but mostly because he was plugging her mouth with his cock. He ejaculated down her throat, pulled out, wiped his cock clean on her face, did up his trousers, and left, leaving the new Tits of Sea Cow gagging and sobbing on his office floor…

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