Instant loss #1

The Copper Penny wasn’t much to look at — a battered wood-and-brick bar tucked between a strip mall and a gas station — but it had a kind of charm that drew regulars back again and again. It was the kind of place where the jukebox still worked, where the bartender knew your name, and where a beer never cost more than it should.

And it had her.

Nobody remembered exactly when she started working there, but by now she was part of the Copper Penny's soul. The regulars called her "Red" — partly for the splash of deep red lipstick she wore like armor, and partly for the way her ginger hair caught the neon lights.

She wasn’t the prettiest girl to ever sling drinks, at least not by the glossy standards of the world outside. But when she moved across the scuffed floors with a tray balanced easily on one hand, the room bent toward her like iron shavings to a magnet.

It wasn’t just her body, though God knew that helped. Her blouse, standard-issue white, strained so visibly across the absurd weight of her tits that every man in the place had, at least once, quietly wondered how the buttons survived a full shift. She certainly didn’t have to flirt to get tips. But the real gravity came from elsewhere — the way she smiled without offering anything, the way her eyes flicked over you and found you wanting before you even opened your mouth.

The bachelor party noticed her the second she stepped out from behind the bar.

Six guys, already a few rounds deep, plastic crowns wobbling on their sweaty heads. They were loud, cocky, drunk enough to be trouble but sober enough to think they were being charming.

She clocked them immediately. She always did. But she didn’t falter. She smiled — not the dead-eyed smile you gave to the worst customers, but the real one, crooked and a little conspiratorial, like she was letting you in on a secret.

The tray on her palm held six fresh beers. She navigated the tables with ease, hips swaying, tits wobbling heavy under the white cotton, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or if she did, she wore her body the way a queen wears her crown — inconvenient at times, but not worth mentioning.

She slid the tray onto their table without so much as a ripple in the foam.

"Six beers for six fine gentlemen," she said, with a tone that made it very clear she didn’t believe the "fine" part for a second. "Unless you’re counting yourselves double after the shots."

The groom-to-be laughed, loud and delighted, smacking the table with one hand. His friends chuckled along, emboldened by her attention. One of them — the loud one, every group had one — fished a crumpled fifty from his wallet and slid it toward her across the sticky wood.

"Fifty bucks if you pop that blouse open," he said, leering openly.

The others hooted, egging him on.

She sighed, theatrical, letting the tray settle lightly against her hip.

"Fifty bucks?" she repeated, her voice warm and a little pitying, like she was talking to a dumb puppy.

"Sweetheart, that’s barely a tip on a slow night."

Another guy tossed a second fifty onto the table with a sloppy grin.

"Come on. Free the girls for the groom. It's his last night of freedom!"

She smiled then — a real smile, slow and wicked. She let the silence stretch just a little too long, letting them fidget under the weight of their own bravado.

Then she plucked the bills off the table with a single manicured fingertip, and shoved them into her blouse.

"I'll tell you what," she said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. "I'll save that cash for your bail money. You're gonna need it if you keep thinking you can buy what you can't even handle."

The table howled with laughter, the groom doubling over, slapping his knee. Even the loud one had the good grace to look sheepish.

She gave them one last smile — wide, knowing, devastating — before turning on her heel. But then a hand closed around her wrist.

Her blouse was gone — torn open somewhere behind her, scraps of fabric clinging uselessly to her waist like a forgotten afterthought.

Her tits — those impossible, ridiculous tits — swung and slapped against each other with every brutal thrust that rocked her forward. Each impact sent obscene ripples through her chest, her heavy flesh colliding wetly, dragging her down. She couldn't control the motion. She couldn't even slow it. The **** of the men behind her, the sweat slicking her body, the overwhelming mass of her own tits — all of it threw her off balance, left her sprawled helplessly across the sticky bar floor.

The bachelor party table was overturned in the chaos, chairs kicked aside, half-finished drinks spilling onto the ground. The bar itself had blurred into a shouting, laughing crowd — men hooting, jeering, filming with their phones.

Her massive tits pulled her down, swinging under her like twin wrecking balls, slapping her chin, dragging her forward every time she tried to lift herself even an inch. Sweat and beer and slick precum coated her chest, making every movement a slippery, degrading joke.

Hands grabbed at her, her waist, her hair, her tits. They squeezed and twisted the heavy flesh like overripe fruit, slapped them together with loud, wet claps that sent fresh waves of laughter rolling through the crowd.

"Jesus, she's like a fucking waterbed!" someone yelled, gasping between fits of laughter.

Another voice, sharp with mockery:

"Bet those fucking udders weigh more than the rest of her!"

Her massive tits scraped across the filthy floor, leaving streaks of beer and spit as she twitched and bucked under the brutal use.

She tried to lift her head again — a feeble, trembling attempt — and one enormous breast swung upward, smacking her hard across the face, knocking her back down into the puddled floorboards.

Cum oozed from her ruined pussy and gaped asshole, slick and heavy, pooling under her hips, smearing down her thighs. Her belly, once flat and taut, now bulged grotesquely outward — stretched tight and trembling from the endless, thick loads being pumped into her.

A massive cock — monstrous, veined, glistening — **** itself deeper, driving her swollen belly even higher, forcing a low, broken sob from her drooling mouth. Her tongue lolled out against the floor as the pressure inside her built, as her body sagged under the relentless ****.

Cameras flashed in relentless bursts, carving her collapse into cold, permanent snapshots. In the puddles of beer and cum beneath her, she glimpsed her own reflection — sagging tits dragging across the filthy floor, face slack and ruined. Every flash stretched grotesque shadows across the bar walls, monstrous images of her broken body jolting and leaking under the crowd's laughter. Phones buzzed with fresh recordings, some men filming lazily while jerking themselves off, others narrating her downfall into live streams with hoarse, laughing voices. "Look at those fucking udders swing," one crowed, stroking himself slow and mean. "Smile for the camera, sweetheart — you're gonna be famous." She tried to lift her head, tried to pull herself together, but her own swinging tits slapped her back down, leaving her drooling and sagging for the world to see. Every second was captured, shared, memorialized — her dignity dissolving into a thousand videos, a thousand jokes, a thousand strangers' dirty little trophies.

At some drunken signal, rough hands seized her hips and shoulders, flipping her carelessly onto her back. Her tits, no longer swinging freely, flopped up with the motion and crashed down across her face, smothering her in a heavy, sticky wall of sweat-slicked flesh. She gasped instinctively, struggling to clear her mouth and nose, but every **** breath only dragged more salty skin across her lips. Every time she tried to beg — a broken "please—" or a gasping "stop—" — her own cum-slicked tits swung up and slapped her face wetly, cutting her off mid-word with a heavy, humiliating smack. She whimpered, shook her head, tried again, only to be silenced once more by the obscene, bouncing mass that had once made her untouchable.

Before she could even push at the suffocating weight, another man — huge, grinning, shameless — **** himself between her trembling thighs and drove into her with a brutal, mindless thrust that rocked her whole body up off the floor. Her tits bounced wildly with the impact, slapping obscenely against her face and shoulders, crushing her deeper into the sticky floorboards. She writhed weakly beneath the weight of her own body, every movement turning into a pathetic, clumsy flailing as her monstrous tits pinned her down like living restraints. Around her, the laughter rose again, sharper now, the crowd filming, stroking themselves, cheering each obscene, jiggling slap of tit against ruined face. She was drowning — not in cum, not in spit, not even in cock — but in the humiliating betrayal of her own useless, oversized body.

They used her like she was a set of holes stitched together for their convenience, passing her from hand to hand without ceremony. Fingers pried her gaping cunt wider for new cocks, squeezing thick gouts of milky cum out around every thrust, splattering her thighs and pooling in slick puddles beneath her sagging hips. Others shoved their cocks between her spit-slicked lips, forcing her head back and forth by the tangled wreck of her ponytail, making her throat bulge grotesquely as fresh loads pumped down into the sloshing mess of her stomach. Her tits — once carried so high and proud — became sloppy, glistening toys for every lazy hand; men squeezed the swollen, cum-soaked flesh together, fucking the deep valleys between them with wet, obscene slaps that echoed over the drunken laughter. With every brutal use, more cum squeezed from her overstuffed cunt, dribbled from her nose and lips, wept from the corners of her raw, battered asshole. There were moments they split her so wide — stuffed from mouth to cunt to ass — that her entire body seemed to shudder loose, her bloated belly trembling with the weight of all they had poured into her. She didn’t fight. She didn’t cry. She only sagged and leaked and twitched, her body jerking stupidly under the endless rhythm of hands and cocks, filmed from every angle, reduced to the most pathetic kind of immortality: a drooling, sagging, gaping trophy of her own downfall.