Right Door (Author: Psydonis)

It felt as if her body dissolved into a mist of nothingness. It was eerie, hovering in mid-air, mind perfectly clear and all-knowing. She was still trying to make sense of her surroundings when she spotted the exact scene pictured in the image just a few feet away and excitedly levitated over there.

Hovering right in front of the young lady carrying the box, she suddenly realized that she knew her name and how she got into this awkward situation.

With bated breath, she watched the story unfold.

Daisy didn’t know how much longer she was going to be able to endure this.

Suddenly dropped from her paid internship when the starter company went under, she’d needed a new source of income REAL fast, and hadn’t really been able to be choosy. But being **** to accept a job offer at the latest incarnation of chain “breast-aurants” still made her eyes roll all the way into the back of her brain.

“Honkers” aimed to carve out a niche in the more **** corners of the market. Nobody under 18 was allowed inside their establishments, and the server-girl uniforms were fetishized clown outfits, putting plenty of central emphasis on lifting, projecting, and ballooning the wearer’s boobs to a cartoonish degree. The targeted re-shaping framework underneath the fabric constantly pinched in all around their bouncing bags, and kept a mild corset-like elastic constriction around their ribs that ensured they were always subconsciously driven toward taking deep, heaving breaths. And for every $30 on a customer’s final bill, before the tip was added, they were allowed 1 good, hard, deep dual-squeeze of their server’s melon balls as they departed their table to pay at the cashier. Each repetition of which would elicit a loud signature “HONK!” from the patented noisemaker design of the eatery’s mandatory uniform bras.

However, an even more special role was always reserved for Daisy on all of her shifts. With her heart-stopping L-cup whoppers, not a single other employee at her location would permit otherwise. Not the manager, and even more stoically not the other girls. And that’s because any and every time she was made to take up this position, the cash flow that day would outright multiply. Both for the restaurant on the whole, and for all of her starry-eyed, ever-grateful co-servers on a personal level too. That position being: The Tit-Tip-Till. Or the “Tee-Tees Box”, as it was nicknamed.

Daisy would be made to push her mammoth chest into the open end of a box, securing it to her front with straps that clasped around her back like a bra. On the opposite end, the part that faced anyone who stood in front of her, were two round openings that were veiled by stiff, segmented rubber. Over the openings were the words “Tit Tips”, and arrows pointing down from them to each hole. A hand pushing into the rubber segments would pass through easily enough, but once withdrawn the rubber would spring back upright, giving visual cover to prevent freebie enjoyment. Daisy would stand next to the cashier, where every final bill was brought up to be paid, and after the initial total was revealed her job was to smile, giggle, and shake the box back and forth to encourage as big of an extra tip for the server girls as possible. In one of her hands was strapped a stopwatch, and it would be set based on how much money a patron agreed to tip, either with their card through a scanner or with physical cash into the box. A 10% tip would earn 2 seconds of “box time”. 20% would earn 5 seconds. 30% would earn 10. And no matter what mischief a patron’s hands got up to in there, she was required to keep grinning, cooing, and telling them how much she *adored* it. And how she couldn’t wait for them to come back and do it again, *real* soon.

This was a difficult act to keep up on even her easiest days, and a grueling gauntlet of gasping, teeth-grinding endurance olympics on the intense ones. The “gentle” patrons would merely gift her with giant titty-twisters, squash her humongous hooters like they were juicing two watermelon-sized oranges, or spear her straight in the bullseyes of both nipples with their index fingers to see how far her boob-beds swallowed them in. But plenty of pranksters made it their life’s mission to come back over and over to slight-of-hand extra surprises inside. Clamps. Feathers. Icy Hot. Little suction cups that they’d press on, then YANK off with a loud “Pop!” when they took their hands back out. Occasionally someone would even go to the expense of leaving a vibrating egg in there. But unless the issue looked like something that could cause a medical problem, nobody would help remove the offending effects until the end of her shift. It usually just made her act in even more entertaining ways for the customers who came after, driving even more of them to make “contributions” too.

Suddenly, a gust of wind grabbed Becca and pulled her back through the door.