Racism cure

THE ILLEGAL PUNJABI IMMIGRANT IN CANADA AND THE MEGA BUSTY WHITE BLONDE GODDESS.

CHAPTER-1 . The encounter

The late afternoon sun filtered through the sheer curtains of Emily's upscale suburban home, casting a warm glow over her pristine living room. At 35, Emily Hargrove was the epitome of white suburban perfection—or so she liked to think. Her long blonde hair cascaded in perfect waves down her back, framing a face with sharp blue eyes and full lips that sneered at anything less than ideal. But beneath her loose, oversized sweater and baggy sweatpants, she hid her most burdensome secrets: balloon-like tits that strained against any fabric, each one easily the size of a watermelon, topped with fat pink nipples that poked insistently through even the thickest material, surrounded by areolas as wide as dinner plates. Her ass, a massive 55-inch cushion of soft, jiggling flesh, made every chair creak under her weight. No store-bought bra or panties could contain her; she'd resorted to custom orders from a shady online service that promised discretion. Little did she know, her latest package wasn't coming via mail—it required a personal fitting from the company's 'specialist.'

The doorbell rang, a harsh buzz that made Emily jolt from her couch. She glanced at the clock—4:55 PM. Right on time, but she wasn't expecting anyone. Peering through the peephole, her stomach twisted in revulsion. There, on her porch, stood a squat, barrel-shaped man barely scraping five feet tall. Balwinder Singh, as his faded name tag read, was a nightmare made flesh: dark skin glistening with sweat under the turban wrapped around his greasy black hair, a thick forest of body hair sprouting from his open-collared shirt like weeds from cracked pavement. His gut hung over his belt, straining the buttons of his ill-fitting pants, and a pungent odor wafted even through the door—stale curry mixed with unwashed musk that hit her nostrils the moment she cracked it open. He grinned, yellowed teeth flashing, his small beady eyes leering up at her.

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'Hello, memsahib,' he rasped in a thick Punjabi accent, his voice like gravel scraping over her nerves. 'I am balwinder Singh from Custom Curves Lingerie. You order special bra and panty for big size, yes? Need to measure proper for fit. No worry, I expert.' He hefted a battered leather case in one hairy paw, the other scratching at his matted chest hair absentmindedly.

Emily's face flushed with instant disgust. An Indian? Here, in her home? She hated them—hairy, smelly foreigners who infested the city with their curry stench and backward ways. Her racist mind reeled; she'd only dealt with the company because they were cheap and anonymous. 'What? No, I didn't order any... visit,' she snapped, her voice dripping with condescension. 'Just send the damn things. I gave my measurements online.' She crossed her arms over her chest, but the motion only pressed her massive boobs together, making the sweater ride up slightly and reveal the outline of her wide areolas shadowing through the fabric. Balwinder’s eyes dropped immediately, locking onto the swell. He licked his chapped lips, not even trying to hide it. 'Online measure no good, memsahib. For such... generous proportions, must do hands-on. Company policy. Otherwise, no refund. You want perfect fit for those... assets?' His gaze lingered, rude and unapologetic, as if appraising livestock. The stink from him intensified as he leaned forward, invading her space at the threshold.

She recoiled, her fat ass bumping against the doorframe, sending a jiggle through her hips that she prayed he didn't notice. 'Fine, whatever. But make it quick, and stay out of my way.' Biting back a gag from his body odor—did the man ever bathe?—she stepped aside just enough to let him shuffle in, his short legs waddling like a penguin's. The living room suddenly felt smaller, tainted by his presence. Emily kept her back to the wall, arms clamped tightly over her chest to flatten her gigantic tits as much as possible, though they still ballooned out like overinflated pillows.

Balwinder plopped his case on her coffee table without asking, the thud echoing. He snapped it open, revealing tapes, pads, and scribbled notes. 'Sit, memsahib. No, stand first. Arms up for initial scan.' He straightened—or tried to—his turban tilting as he eyed her up and down, focusing on the way her sweatpants clung to the vast curve of her ass when she shifted. 'Very big woman. Punjabi women strong, but you... like goddess with extra blessings.' His tone was mocking, laced with that infuriating accent, as if her body was a joke to him.

'Goddess? Spare me your filthy immigrant compliments,' Emily hissed, her blue eyes narrowing in racial fury. She hated how his dark, hairy fingers fumbled with the measuring tape, knuckles thick and callused. No way was she letting those paws anywhere near her. 'Just... tell me what to do. And keep your distance—you reek like a goddamn sewer.' Her voice trembled with embarrassment; the thought of this ugly dwarf even looking at her curves made her skin crawl. She turned sideways, hoping the angle hid the full shelf of her ass, but it only accentuated the sway as she adjusted her stance.

Singh chuckled, a wet, phlegmy sound that made her want to vomit. 'Ah, memsahib so prude. In India, we measure whole family—no shame. But okay, you white ladies delicate. Start with waist. Turn around slow.' He stepped closer despite her protests, the heat from his sweaty body radiating like a furnace. His belly brushed her hip accidentally—or was it?—as he looped the tape around her midsection from behind, his breath hot and foul on her neck. Emily stiffened, every muscle tensing to keep her sweater from shifting and exposing the rigid peaks of her long nipples, which had hardened from the sheer tension and chill of his proximity.

The tape cinched, his hairy knuckles grazing the underside of her tits through the fabric—just a whisper, but enough to make her yelp and jerk away. 'Don't touch me, you disgusting ape!' she spat, whirling to face him, her blonde hair whipping. Her arms flew up defensively, but the motion caused her boobs to bounce heavily, the sweater stretching taut over their immense weight. Balwinder 's eyes bulged, drinking in the sight, his tongue darting out again.

'Sorry, memsahib. Slippery hands from heat. Now hips—very important for panty. Bend forward a little?' He grinned wider, knowing full well what that would do to her ass. Emily's face burned crimson; she could feel the soft flesh quivering already, threatening to strain the seams of her pants. No, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

'Measure from there,' she ordered, pointing rigidly, refusing to budge. The air thickened with unspoken tension, his rude stares clashing against her futile attempts to shield her body, the racial barbs hanging like a storm cloud between them.

He sighed dramatically, circling her like a vulture. 'Stubborn white lady. Okay, I guess. But for accurate, must press tape firm.' He inched nearer, the stink enveloping her, his short stature putting his face level with her waist. As he knelt to 'measure' her thighs—unnecessarily, she thought—his gaze crept upward, fixating on the shadowed valley between her legs, where her custom-order panties would need to cradle her hidden folds. Emily squeezed her thighs together, mortified, praying he couldn't see the faint outline of her fat labia pressing against the fabric. 'Hurry up, you lazy curry-muncher,' she muttered, her voice laced with venom, but inside, humiliation churned—trapped with this hairy beast, her body betraying her with every involuntary shift.

The 'fitting' dragged on, each minute a torturous game of cat and mouse. Balwinder jotted notes slowly, commenting rudely on her 'American excess' versus 'proper Indian modesty,' his eyes never leaving her curves. Emily countered with sneers about his 'filthy third-world habits,' all while twisting away, pulling her sweater lower, crossing her legs to conceal the jiggle. Sweat beaded on her forehead—not from heat, but from the slow-building dread of what might come next. He hadn't touched her bare skin yet, but the threat loomed, making her massive assets feel like ticking bombs under her clothes.

The tension in Emily's living room thickened like a fog of unspoken revulsion, Balwinder 's persistent circling wearing down her defenses inch by inch. He scratched at the thick mat of black hair peeking from his sweat-soaked collar, his nails leaving faint red trails on his dark skin, and let out a belch that carried the sour tang of cheap beer and garlic-heavy spices. The sound made Emily's stomach lurch; she pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to retch as the odor mingled with his ever-present body funk—a rancid cocktail of unwashed armpits, oily scalp under that grimy turban, and something feral, like animals rutting in a dumpster.

'Listen, memsahib,' Balwinder wheezed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the air between them. He wiped a meaty hand across his greasy forehead, smearing sweat into the folds of his turban before flicking it away carelessly, droplets landing perilously close to her pristine carpet. 'Tape over clothes? Useless. Like measuring cow through fence. For those... monumental udders of yours, and that planetary backside, need skin-close. Bra and panty only. Company rule. Otherwise, your money back in trash.' His small, piggish eyes gleamed with a mix of professional insistence and something far more predatory, raking over the way her sweater clung to the impossible swell of her chest, the fabric warped by the sheer volume of flesh beneath.

Emily's cheeks burned hotter than a furnace, her blue eyes flashing with pure, unadulterated hate. 'Udders? You filthy indian pig, how dare you talk about me like that!' she snarled, her voice a whip-crack of racial venom. She hated everything about him—the way his hairy gut jiggled when he shifted his weight, the coarse bristles sprouting from his nostrils and ears like unkempt weeds, the yellow stains on his uneven teeth that he bared in a leering smile. Indian men were the worst: invading her clean, white world with their barbaric customs and repulsive smells, thinking they could ogle a superior woman like her. She clutched her arms tighter over her ballooning breasts, feeling the long, fat pink nipples stiffen against her will, scraping the inside of her custom bra that already groaned under the strain. The damn thing was a reinforced beast of industrial elastic and steel wires, ordered from that sleazy site, but even it bowed to the pressure of her obscene melons, the cups digging into her soft skin like vices.

Balwinder didn't flinch at her slur; if anything, it seemed to amuse him, his thick lips curling into a smirk that revealed a gap where a tooth was missing. He stepped closer, invading her personal space without a shred of manners, his short, stocky frame forcing her to tilt her head down to meet his gaze. The heat rolling off him was oppressive, like standing too close to a rotting compost heap, and she could see the dark patches of sweat blooming under his arms, soaking through the threadbare shirt. 'Paki? Ha! I Punjabi, memsahib—real man from india. Not like your weak white boys with no hair, no stamina. Now, strip to underthings. I seen bigger women in village markets, no big deal. But you... you American snow queen, all prissy and racist. Bet your fat white ass never been eyed by real brown bull like me.' He chuckled again, that phlegmy hack that sprayed flecks of spittle onto the floor, and reached out as if to pat her arm—pure insolence—before she slapped his hand away.

'Don't you dare touch me, you stinking street rat!' Emily hissed, her body trembling with fury and a deeper, mortifying shame. Her 55-inch ass cheeks clenched involuntarily, the soft, doughy flesh quivering inside her sweatpants, pressing against the seams of her custom panties that stretched like overtaxed rubber bands. Those underwear were her last bastion—a wide, high-waisted contraption meant to corral her vast hips and the deep cleft between her globes, but they rode up constantly, wedging into places that made her squirm. The thought of exposing even that much to this hairy troll made her want to scream. Yet, the measurements so far had been a farce; she could tell from his half-assed scribbles that the lingerie would be worthless if not precise. And damn it, she'd paid a fortune—money she couldn't afford to waste on returns.

Singh persisted, undeterred, his mannerless barrage chipping away at her resolve. He lumbered to the couch, plopping down with a grunt that made the cushions sink under his bulk, his hairy legs splaying wide in a display of utter disregard for decorum. One hand scratched lazily at his crotch through his pants, the fabric tenting slightly in a way that turned her stomach, while the other gestured vaguely at her. 'Come on, madam. Five minutes, tops. I measure quick—promise no funny business. Though, with tits like overripe papayas hanging off you, hard not to stare. In Punjab, women proud of curves; feed whole village. You hide like ashamed goat. Strip, or I walk, and your giant knockers stay unsupported, flopping like sad pancakes.' His accent thickened with mockery, eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, forcing her to confront the full **** of his disgusting scrutiny. The room reeked of him now, that pervasive curry-sweat miasma seeping into the upholstery, making her eyes water.

Emily paced a tight circle, her massive breasts swaying pendulously with each step, the sweater riding up to expose a sliver of pale midriff before she yanked it down. Her mind raced—images of ill-fitting bras that pinched her wide areolas raw, panties that split under the weight of her jiggling ass. She loathed him, this dark, squat intruder with his turban askew and beard flecked with food crumbs from whatever slop he'd eaten for lunch. 'You're a perverted savage,' she spat, stopping to glare at him, her full lips twisted in disgust. 'All you Indians are the same—leering at white women, thinking you can get away with it in our country. Fine. But turn around, you greasy monkey. And if you so much as peek, I'll call the cops and have your brown ass deported back to your shithole village.' Her voice cracked on the last word, betrayal stinging as she realized she was capitulating.

Balwinder’s grin widened, triumphant and foul, but he complied—sort of. He swiveled on the couch, facing the wall, though his broad shoulders twitched with barely contained glee. 'As you say, Gori mem. But hurry; my patience thin like your fancy white bread.' He let out a dramatic sigh, shifting so his elbow rested on the backrest, close enough that she suspected he could hear every rustle of fabric.

Heart pounding like a war drum, Emily turned her back to him fully, her fingers trembling as they gripped the hem of her sweater. The embarrassment flooded her, hot and unrelenting—exposing her body, even partially, to this repulsive creature felt like a violation deeper than words. She peeled the sweater upward slowly, the material catching on the upper curves of her breasts, dragging against the sensitive skin of her underboob where sweat had gathered in the humid tension. Inch by inch, the fabric lifted, revealing the taut expanse of her back, the dimples above her ass, until finally, with a soft pop of elastic, her bra came into view. It was a monstrous thing: black lace reinforced with wide straps that dug into her shoulders, the cups overflowing with pale, creamy flesh that spilled over the tops like dough rising from a pan. Her long, fat pink nipples, thick as thumbs and erect from the cool air and her nerves, strained against the sheer panels at the center, their outlines blatant and obscene. The areolas, vast plates the size of saucers, darkened the fabric in shadowy blooms, impossible to conceal.

She tossed the sweater aside, arms crossing instinctively over her chest, but the motion only mashed her tits together, creating a deep, wobbling cleavage that heaved with her ragged breaths. Next came the sweatpants—god, the humiliation of bending even slightly. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband, shimmying them down her wide hips with deliberate slowness, the fabric whispering against her thighs. Her ass resisted at first, the 55-inch shelf of soft, plush meat bunching up before yielding, the panties beneath emerging like a flag of surrender. They were a matching black set, high-cut to wrestle her curves into submission, but failing spectacularly: the rear panels rode high into her crack, exposing the huge lower swells of her cheeks, while the front strained across her mound, the seams pulling taut over her plump labia. Every quiver sent ripples through the flesh, a sensual undulation she couldn't control, her skin flushing pink with shame.

'Done,' she barked, voice laced with fury, standing there in her straining undergarments, one arm shielding her chest while the other hand futilely tugged at the panties to cover more of her ass. The bra creaked audibly, a faint snap of a thread somewhere in the underwire, as her breathing quickened. She felt exposed, ****, her body's obscene proportions on full, barely contained display—the way her breasts dominated her torso, heavy and pendulous, threatening to burst free; the ass that jutted out like a shelf, soft and inviting despite her horror. And him, that disgusting Punjabi dwarf, just feet away, his back turned but his presence a suffocating weight.

Balwinder Singh turned slowly, as if savoring the moment, his eyes widening to saucers at the sight. 'Wah, gori mem! Like fertility goddess from old tales—tits bigger than my head, ass wide as village drum.' He rose unsteadily, licking his lips with a wet smack, his gaze devouring her form without shame. The persuasion had worked, but now the real torment began; he approached with the tape, his hairy hands flexing, the air between them crackling with erotic dread and racial loathing. Emily backed up a step, her bare feet silent on the carpet, but there was nowhere to go—trapped in her own home with this mannerless Indian beast, her body a battlefield of humiliation and unwilling allure.

He started with her bust, circling behind her like a shark, the heat of his breath ghosting her neck as he draped the tape across her back. 'Arms up, snow bunny. Let me wrap this around your milky mountains.' His fingers brushed her sides—accidental? No, deliberate in their clumsiness—sending shivers of revulsion through her. The tape pulled tight under her arms, then forward, pressing into the undersides of her breasts, lifting them slightly and making the bra dig deeper. Emily gasped, a mix of anger and mortification, as the numbers climbed: 50 inches around, maybe more, the flesh compressing but rebounding with elastic balwinder's knuckles grazed the swollen curves, his touch lingering a beat too long, nails scraping lightly over the lace. 'So heavy, memsahib. Bet they ache all day, swinging like pendulums. White girls not built for this—must be curse from too much cheeseburgers.'

'Fucking shut up, you woolly ape!' she retorted, her voice a venomous whisper, but she held still, fury boiling as his stink enveloped her. The measurement dragged, his 'adjustments' forcing him to prod and pull, each contact a spark of unwanted sensation—her nipples peaking harder, areolas puckering against the fabric. He moved lower, to her waist, then hips, kneeling now at ass level, his face inches from the vast expanse of her rear. The panties strained audibly, threads whining as he looped the tape around her widest point, his palms pressing flat against her cheeks to 'steady' it. The flesh yielded under his touch, soft and warm, dimpling where his calluses dug in. Emily's thighs trembled, a flush creeping up her spine; she hated how her body responded to the proximity, a traitorous warmth building despite the disgust.

'55 inches exact—perfect for custom sling,' Singh murmured, his voice husky now, breath hot against her skin. He didn't pull away immediately, instead letting his fingers trace the tape's edge, 'testing' the give of her ass meat. 'Jiggles like fresh butter. In India, man grab handful for luck. You hate touch? Too bad—need full check for seams.' His free hand hovered, almost brushing her inner thigh, the rudeness escalating as he rose, wiping his palms on his pants with a satisfied grunt. Emily whirled, covering herself as best she could, tears of rage pricking her eyes. The session stretched on, each measurement a slow, sensual invasion—touches turning bolder, comments cruder, her embarrassment a living flame while his disgusting presence fueled the erotic undercurrent, pulling her deeper into the web of **** exposure.