Although he was retired, he was still a wealthy and powerful man, and still enjoyed entertaining his hobbies. When he saw the photo, he made a few phone calls and, two days later, he found the meat in his playroom, bound, hooded, gagged, helpless, its perfect breasts framed and lifted by the same shirt it had worn in the picture.
He spent a long time caressing them, enjoying their perfection, the smooth, pale skin, the soft flesh, the perfectly pink, small nipples hardening under his attentions, the struggles and whimpers from the bound gagged meat a pleasant accompaniment to his explorations. Sighing in contentment, he got up and gathered some rope, some paddles, some canes, some whips, some clamps, a package of punks and a lighter as well as some other instruments.
Before he really got started, though, he spent some time using his hands and fingers to maul and bruise and pinch and slap the perfection that was its breasts, enjoying its increased struggling, the sounds coming from its gagged mouth, but most of all enjoying the way the flesh responded in his hands, the way it reddened and bruised.
By the time he was finished, his cum splashed across its chest, its breasts were unrecognizable as the perfection they had been, and the meat had been reduced to a whimpering, sobbing, sweating mess. Both mounds were blackened with bruises, reddened with the blood oozing from the welts covering every millimeter of them, dark and puckered where he had held the burning punks, wilting its flesh, turning its nipples into char.
He stood, deeply satisfied, and left his men to clean up the mess. He did so love destroying perfect things.