She reached behind her back with shaking hands and unclasped the bra. The straps slid off her shoulders, and she lowered it, exposing her breasts to the room. They were magnificent—big, firm, with dark puffy nipples that stood out prominently against her olive skin, the areolas large and swollen, the nipples themselves thick and prominent. The men gasped, some adjusting themselves in their seats, phones held up to record, flashes going off.

Kimberly sat there, arms at her sides, face burning with shame, as Doug attached the electrode pads to her chest. His fingers brushed her nipples deliberately as he positioned the pads, and she flinched but didn't pull away—she was too terrified. The pads adhered to her skin, pulling at her puffy nipples, the wires running down to the monitor.

The monitor beeped to life, showing her heart rate—elevated, frantic, galloping at 120 beats per minute. Her embarrassment was literally on display, the Bluetooth signal transmitting to Doug's tablet which showed her vitals in large numbers.

"As you can see," Doug said to the audience, "the monitor accurately tracks even elevated heart rates. Perfect for cardiac patients or... anxious assistants. Heart rate is 120 and climbing."

The men leaned forward, their digital cameras clicking, recording her shame. Kimberly sat there, completely topless, her olive skin glowing under the conference room lights, her big firm breasts defying gravity, pointing straight out toward the audience. Her nipples were the centerpiece—prominent, puffy, dark areolas standing out against her lighter olive skin, the nipples themselves swollen and erect from fear and the cool air, looking like ripe berries.

"Questions?" Doug asked.

A man in the front row raised his hand. "How sensitive are the electrodes to... stimulation? Can they detect arousal?"

"Excellent question," Doug said. He turned to Kimberly. "Kimberly, I need you to stand up and turn around slowly. Let the gentlemen see how the monitor tracks your vitals during movement and... exposure."

She stood on shaking legs, her wide hips swaying, her thick ass barely covered by the tight denim shorts. She turned slowly, giving the room a full view of her body—the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, and her bare back. When she faced the audience again, her breasts bounced slightly, the puffy nipples jiggling, the electrodes pulling at her tender flesh.

"Heart rate increasing," Doug noted, pointing at the monitor. "One hundred thirty-five beats per minute. The system detects her distress... or is it excitement?"

More questions, each designed to prolong her exposure. "What about range?" "Can the Bluetooth signal penetrate... barriers?" "How long do the adhesive pads last on... sensitive skin?" "Do the nipple readings change with temperature?"

Doug played along, adjusting the pads, his fingers lingering on her puffy nipples, rolling them slightly between his fingers. "As you can see, the contact must be firm for accurate readings."

Finally, Doug called for a break. "Ten minutes, gentlemen. Kimberly will be available for... individual questions."

As the men filed out, Kimberly scrambled for her bra, but Doug snatched it away. "No. You're doing so well. The buyers love you. Here's what you're wearing next."

He tossed her a hospital gown—light blue, paper-thin, barely covering anything, clearly designed to be revealing. "Bathroom. Put this on. Nothing underneath except your panties. And Kimberly? If you try to leave, I have your license plate. I'll call ICE. I'll tell them you fled the scene of an accident. Understand?"

She caught the gown, her hands shaking, and fled to the restroom. The gown was obscene—short, backless, tying only at the neck and waist, made of ultra-thin fabric that would show everything. She stripped naked, her olive skin covered in goosebumps, and put it on. It barely covered her wide hips and thick ass, and when she moved, it gaped open in the back, showing her lime green thong and the olive skin of her backside. The front was equally revealing, her big firm breasts stretching the fabric, her prominent puffy nipples clearly visible through the material as dark circles.

She walked back into the room, her curly dark hair wild around her face, her eyes red from crying. The men had returned early, waiting for her, their digital cameras and smartphones ready, positioned to capture her entrance.

"Gentlemen," Doug announced, "Euro-Medical also imports hospital garments. Kimberly is modeling our premium examination gown from Holland. As you can see, it allows full access for medical procedures while maintaining... some modesty."

He laughed. The men laughed. Kimberly stood frozen, humiliated, her olive skin flushing dark red.

"Kimberly, walk among the buyers. Let them inspect the fabric quality. Start at the front and work your way to the back. And smile. Remember your father's status."

She stepped off the stage, the gown riding up immediately, showing the bottoms of her thick ass cheeks. She walked between the rows, cameras flashing, men reaching out to "feel the material"—their hands brushing her hips, her waist, the sides of her breasts through the thin fabric. She reached the last row, where Yasob Al-Rashid sat waiting, his smartphone resting on his knee.

He stood as she approached, adjusting his tailored suit jacket. He was impeccably dressed—Italian suit, silk tie, gold cufflinks, expensive leather shoes, the picture of a wealthy, educated Saudi businessman. He looked like he belonged in a boardroom negotiating oil contracts, not at a medical equipment seminar. But his eyes were hungry as they roamed over her body, lingering on her puffy nipples visible through the gown, on her wide hips.

"Miss Haddad," he said, his accent refined and cultured, educated at Oxford from the sound of it. "I represent the Saudi Ministry of Health. We are considering a very large order of these garments—fifty thousand units. I must inspect the quality thoroughly to ensure they meet our standards."

Kimberly froze, recognizing the authority in his voice. This was the big contract—the one that could save Doug's company.

"Turn around, please," Yasob commanded. "I need to examine the stitching near the hips. The fabric must withstand rigorous hospital use in our climate."

She turned slowly, presenting her back to him. She felt him step close—too close. His hands touched her waist, running along the curve of her wide hips, measuring her waist-to-hip ratio with deliberate slowness, his thumbs pressing into her olive skin. His fingers were warm and dry, professional in their touch but lingering too long, exploring her curves.

"The stitching here," he murmured, his fingers tracing the tie at her waist, then sliding down to her hips, cupping them, squeezing slightly. "Very... interesting construction. The hips are quite wide. The fabric must be flexible to accommodate... diverse body types."

He stepped behind her, and she felt his body press against her thick ass for a moment—just a moment, but unmistakable. Then his hands moved to the back of her gown, lifting it up.

"I must check the back closure," he said formally, but his voice had dropped to a husky whisper. "The ties must be secure. We cannot have gaps in our hospital garments."

The gown lifted, exposing her lime green thong, the thin strip of fabric disappearing between her olive-skinned ass cheeks, her thick ass fully exposed to the room. Yasob made a sound of approval under his breath. The men around them leaned forward, phones recording, some standing to get better angles.

"Fabric quality seems... adequate," Yasob said, his hands still holding her gown up. Then, slowly, deliberately, he slipped his hand between her legs from behind.

Kimberly gasped, her body going rigid. His fingers pressed against her panties, against her vagina through the thin material, probing, examining, rubbing slightly as if testing fabric quality. He was touching her pussy, right there in the conference room, with thirty men watching. His fingers found her slit through the panties, rubbing up and down slowly, pressing harder, exploring her folds through the thin material, pressing against her entrance.

She froze, too terrified to object, too scared to move. Her father's green card, her family's future, her own freedom—all of it hung in the balance. If she screamed, if she fought, Doug would call the police. ICE would come. Everything would be destroyed.

Yasob's fingers pressed harder, finding her clitoris through the panties, circling it slowly. "Yes," he said thoughtfully, his voice loud enough for others to hear. "The material is... responsive. Breathable. Good for... intimate examinations. The fabric allows for... thorough access."

Doug watched from the stage, his face impassive. He said nothing. He couldn't risk the Saudi contract. Millions of dollars hung in the balance.

Yasob leaned forward, his mouth close to her ear, his hand still between her legs, fingers pressing against her vagina, rubbing her clitoris through the thin fabric. He whispered something in Arabic—low, guttural, unmistakably obscene. She didn't understand the words, but she understood the tone. He was telling her what he wanted to do to her, what he would do if they were alone, describing her body in filthy detail.

Then, slowly, he removed his hand, patted her hip possessively, and returned to his seat. "Excellent quality, Mr. Sharpe," he said loudly, adjusting his suit jacket. "I think the Ministry will be very interested in these garments. Very interested indeed."

Kimberly stood there, shaking, her gown still lifted in the back, her panties visibly damp where he'd touched her. She was in a daze, barely able to function, her mind shutting down to survive the degradation. She lowered the gown with trembling hands.

"Kimberly," Doug called. "Back to the stage. We have more equipment to demonstrate. And remember—smile."

She walked back on autopilot, her wide hips swaying, the gown gaping open, her olive skin flushed and her eyes glassy with shock.