The photo shoot proceeded roughly how Ben assumed it would, at least at first. Ms. Hoshoku, in her most expensive-looking suit and skirt yet, looked at her absolute pinnacle of beauty, strength, and bodily curvature. The camera loved her, her bulging breasts, and athletic hips. Every shot was a winner, framing her just right under the glow of the flared fixtures to create an angelic aura about her Olympian corpus.
Less loved by the camera lens was Ben, who wasn’t given a costume change from his torn up, wrinkled attire. It was bad enough he barely stood as tall as his business superior’s waist; he also had to look like a scruffy street urchin who wandered in out of the alley.
He’d quietly asked Ms. Hoshoku before they began if he required a cleanup, but she only shook her head, smiled, and informed him he was already wearing an accurate representation of his status. That, he had to admit with a heavy heart, wasn’t incorrect.
There was no excuse here. So much of his current misfortune could’ve been avoided if he’d just looked into it when Kendra explained. If he’d even bought one share of stock, he probably could’ve replaced this shredded child’s coat with a real one. Just a single token of whatever amount of humanity he still owned.
An hour dragged on at the pace of drying paint, at least in Ben’s mind. He and Ms. Hoshoku were posed like living dolls by the photographer into every possible photogenic position on the face of planet Earth. They stood next to one another; holding hands; seated on a bench; laying on the floor; each one holding a bottle of ForLit; holding onto the same bottle of ForLit.
Bright lights burned Ben’s retinas every time they flashed, and they flashed often. In one twenty minute span, there had to be at least three hundred extra pictures saved on file for potential use in the ad campaign. Was that truly not enough?
The woman in charge of the session was obviously a patron of ForLit. She was a mature forty-something strawberry-blonde, yet slender, well-endowed, and physically fit: the complete package, as was every woman who imbibed the mysterious substance. Ben didn’t even need to see what she looked like before to know it, because she was one of the taller ones he’d seen. She must have begun her addiction to the cherry libation quite early. She even rivaled Ms. Hoshoku’s height at a frightfully respectable seven-foot-eight, though she lacked the same degree of girth in the booty as Ben’s boss. In fact, he had yet to see anyone who didn’t.
“This is all good stuff,” the lofty photographer said. “However, I think we’re still missing a certain spirit from this partnership of yours. We want to show unity here, as I understand?”
“That’s correct,” Ms. Hoshoku informed. “The mission is to display the unique partnership of ForLit’s patrons from diametric departments coming together for the good of the consumer, strengthening the chain of command and increasing the value of the work.”
Ben couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at this last statement. Early on, when she’d described the goals of the campaign, it sounded like the idea was to put himself and Ms. Hoshoku on equal footing. Obviously that was impossible physically now that her feet were literally double as long as his, but it still had potential at an emotional level. But now she was using phrases like “chain of command.”
Was any of this song and dance now even still about Ben’s part in the accomplishment?
Deep down, he knew this answer, too. And it made him ill.
“Very good, very good,” said the photographer with a nod. “So let’s try for a different tone now. We’ve gone over everything you might see in any given catalogue. But Blend isn’t any given company, I gather.”
“Not at all,” said Ms. Hoshoku proudly.
“I see. Then if you’ll indulge me, let’s attempt a couple new angles,” the photographer said. She sauntered into the snow-white backdrop stage of the photo shoot. “Let’s see, little fella? Yes, you?”
“Benjamin?” barked Ms. Hoshoku.
“Yes?” he peeped.
“Why don’t you come over here to your boss, and she’ll give you a lift. Then we’ll see what kinds of shots we get.”
Unwilling but also unprepared to face Ms. Hoshoku’s passive-aggressive wrath later, the man considered that he'd already done far worse things for his dignity than be picked up. So, with little left to lose, he approached his leviathan superior. Her tray-like palms clamped easily around his shallow ribs and scooped him up into the air like a baby.
Ben wanted to keep his eyes closed, but was told to reopen them, just as soon as he tried to take refuge from the harsh flash. So he endured a few dozen shots hoisted easily up in the air by Ms. Hoshoku’s omnipotent arms and firm, controlling hands. All the while, Ben didn’t think he detected even a quiver in her limbs indicating she was becoming tired. He was cradled, draped over her shoulder, and tucked under her arm as if she was about to run for a touchdown. Then, just for good measure, a regal and rather humbling position where Ben was hoisted high above the ground, his arms and legs hanging limply, and the rest of him at the mercy of gravity and Ms. Hoshoku’s hopefully secure grip.
“Good start. Now we’re cooking with gas,” said the photographer.
Next came a role reversal. Whereas Ben was supported by Ms. Hoshoku, it was the employee’s turn to support his employer. Obviously his spine would’ve bent back and snapped like a cinnamon stick if he attempted to lift the woman’s entire body up in his arms; instead, he was laid out flat on a bear skin rug, with the image of a crackling fire superimposed on the background. And of course, to complete the imagery, Ms. Hoshoku was to take a seat upon him.
“Remain still, teamplayer,” she instructed coolly. “I’m sure we’re almost through.”
This was Ben’s hope as well as he braced himself, tensing every muscle in his body, and waited out the oncoming calamity of body weight and statuesque mass of butt heft. After this morning beneath Mariah, he hoped his abdomen was inoculated to the risk of air deprivation by a single, well-placed, pair of globular ass cheeks. And as per usual in this terrifying new age, Ben was completely wrong. He wasn’t ready.
The woman swept her skirt up in the flash before she descended, ensuring the only barrier between Ben’s back and her humongous, naked tush was a paper-thin layer of underwear.
“Ffuuughhh!” he spat instinctively, his lungs emptied on impact. Ms. Hoshoku sunk back lavishly, sandwiching Ben hard between the bear skin and her pale, exposed rump. He’d had many a chance to admire her rear from up close already, even bury his face into the crescent valley and plant kisses on her skin. She still had yet to put her weight, her full weight, upon him. To use him as a seat cushion. And Mariah was by no means a comparable substitute for the experience.
Within seconds, Ben was flailing wildly for her attention. This wasn’t simply a case where his breathing was restricted, as it was under Mariah’s harshly gyrating caboose this morning; he actually couldn’t breathe now. Ms. Hoshoku, as he’d long suspected, simply was far too much to handle. He could feel his cheeks turning bluer within a minute. Kicking, flapping his arms like a chicken, and whining low in his throat were his only defenses. None made a lick of difference, not to the photographer, the assistant whom Ben ran into earlier, and definitely not to his superior as she utilized his spine as a comfortable place to rest her unparalleled keister.
Flash after flash, cameras rolling and spinning, lenses being changed. The photographer, and Ms. Hoshoku, seemed to take to this specific pose with great affinity, because far more photos were taken here than in any other arrangement. From lack of oxygen, Ben’s brain was beginning to lose its mathematical capacity, but he was fairly sure the photographer snapped at least five hundred images of Ms. Hoshoku in various stages of relaxation upon her employee’s body: her legs crossed demurely; chin resting on her firm fist; spread-eagled; full recline, as though she was floating on beachy waves off Costa Rica.
And then, through the sensory deprivation and simultaneous nervous overload of it all, Ben became aware of something. Something which made him feel furious: a kind of quiet rage he hadn’t experienced in weeks as he passively allowed himself to be molded into Ms. Hoshoku’s personal servant.
His dick was erect. Harder than he’d ever been in his life, in fact. His skin was alive and electric with the need for progression and climax. How absolutely fucking typical, he fumed to himself within his reverie. What had become of him? Was there any part of the old, self-sufficient, well-adjusted Ben left in this puny husk of a freak who was sexually aroused to new heights through the sensation of a giantess crowning him with her planetary derriere?
Ms. Hoshoku discovered this new development in Ben’s pathetically prone body, though she didn’t even, as far as he could tell, glance down to the lower half of her cushion. Her fingers simply found their way to his hips, which she squeezed, her thumb leading the charge along his own rear end, and under, where she was able to easily cradle his miniature hard-on through his grit-stained slacks. Then, with two fingers, barely exerting any effort into the act, she began to pinch and tease his cock through the fabric. Little input from Ms. Hoshoku was required after all the build-up this morning and during the photoshoot.
She made sure to lean back especially far, transferring every cubic gram of her lovely bum density into Ben’s hapless, abused form, and then gave his penis a final clawed massage through his pants. Writhing briefly, the broken Blend tech came explosively in his pants, and found himself almost drifting into unconsciousness now from the all-consuming weight of his boss, who had no intention of releasing him from this ass-weight prison until she’d extracted each and every teamwork-displaying photo that this godforsaken stage had to offer.