Lipstick On A Pig

The tits were perfect. They were her best feature, and the dress was cut to show off the deep cleavage. Not the biggest, but more than a handful, and the most exquisitely shaped hangers that Sam had ever seen, jutting out and with a round fullness like ripe fruit begging to be plucked...and he didn't know if they were real or implants, and at that moment he didn't care. Eagerly, his eyes looked over the rest of her...the red dress was short, coming to rest high halfway to her knees, with slits up the side to reveal the delicious, well-shaped gams. The calves were elegant, well-muscled, the ankles slim and firm, the feet in the red three-inch heels delicate. Sam gazed at her up and down, taking in at a glance the narrow waist, the flared hips, the long bare arms with the trim burgundy nails, the elegant neck...

...and then he saw her face.

The left eye was lower than the right, and blue where the other one was brown. That was the first detail that Sam noticed, the one that came back to him as he stared at her face, which was somehow too broad for the slender neck, and seemed somewhat unsteady. There were lines of pink scar tissue that radiated out along the lopsided jaw, which **** the left side of the mouth into a permanent sneer. The lipstick was perfect, but the more he looked, the more Sam realized he was looking at a jigsaw puzzle...a face, a head, that had been taken apart and put back together as well as it could.

One ear was gone, though the red wig which fell down below the jaw helped to cover that up. A single gold earring hung down from her other ear, which was cauliflowered into a pink lump. The little pug-nose had been split almost in half at some point, and a small gold hoop pierced what was left of the septum. The surgeon must have been a genius, and the makeup artist had gone heavy to try and cover up the worst of the scar tissue, but the whole effect was to send her face deep into the uncanny valley.

She fished a handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed at the corner of her mouth, where a line of drool had begun to slide down.

"I'm Shelly," she said to Sam, with a bit of a slur or a lisp. "I haven't really been the shame shinche the acchident."

Sam nodded, slowly.

He recovered. Tried to focus on Shelly's tits as he invited her in. She tried to smile...a shy, terrible half-grin that hit Sam like a punch in the gut. The terrible thing wasn't her face; she couldn't help that. It was knowing that he was going to have to hit that, and hit it hard.

This is not going to be my proudest fuck, Sam admitted to himself as he ushered Shelly into the bedroom. She asked if she could freshen up, and he pointed her toward the bathroom. Uttered a sigh of relief as the door shut and she was out of sight. It gave him a minute with which to plan. This would recover a radical solution...