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Sitting here, tightly bound, I shut my eyes as She nooses my breasts, arrogantly winds the rope around and around, tightening, digging into the udders, driving them out, pushing them up, squashing them until I jerk against the restraints miserably. The rope squeezes back against my chest, wrenching the skin into its rough grasp, the big, dark nipples responding the way they always do, despite what I want.
She tightens the ropes, making me gasp, then groan as She tightens them. Tightens again. And again, until She knows that I can’t think of anything else but the swollen purple meat with the blood pounding in their stiffening tips.
I try to plead as She slips the ballgag into my mouth. Almost like giving a baby a bottle. Tightens the strap until I feel the familiar bruising cuts in my cheeks. Moan pitifully. Just the way She likes, I suppose.
It feels like She has tied, not just two big pieces of flesh, but my very sexuality itself.
I wonder how a guy would feel if his cock were bound this way. Would he like it? Would he feel like his manhood had been taken away?
Here’s the thing: my breasts have always been my weapons, my pride, the things I can flaunt at guys and use to get over on other girls. Walking down the street with them, I feel arrogantly powerful. Like I can take anybody. Perhaps the way a man feels with a gun on his hip.
But having my breasts bound makes me helpless - at once more aware of my udders and unable to make use of them. Knowing that the pain is going to get slowly, slowly worse, especially if I am driven to shake my tits in an effort to get rid of the feeling. And I always do, sooner or later. She just waits and watches. Judges when I just can’t take it anymore. Then adds something.
Perhaps just simple clothespins, their hard little mouths gnawing at my nipples as the sensitive nubs swell obscenely inside them.
Perhaps a thin cord or wire wound around and around my chest, just above and below the nipples, tightened until it drives the trapped boobs back against my chest, the cord cutting agonizingly into the bulging, tautly swollen breast flesh. And leaving the nipples protruding nakedly. Terrifying me.
Perhaps the nasty little electrical clips, their steel teeth cutting into my weeping nipples like the jaws of hell. And forcing me to wait, terrified, for the fire to come.
I cry into the gag, howling and screaming, tears sliding down my cheeks, dripping on the hugely prominent fleshballs, adding tickling to the agony.
I’d give ANYTHING to be a flat-chested, tiny-titted, boyishly-figured girl, one they’d call “mosquito tits”. Anything to end this torture.
But I can’t. And the helpless, terrified scream begins rising in my bound chest.
Sitting here, tightly bound, I shut my eyes as She nooses my breasts, arrogantly winds the rope around and around, tightening, digging into the udders, driving them out, pushing them up, squashing them until I jerk against the restraints miserably. The rope squeezes back against my chest, wrenching the skin into its rough grasp, the big, dark nipples responding the way they always do, despite what I want.
She tightens the ropes, making me gasp, then groan as She tightens them. Tightens again. And again, until She knows that I can’t think of anything else but the swollen purple meat with the blood pounding in their stiffening tips.
I try to plead as She slips the ballgag into my mouth. Almost like giving a baby a bottle. Tightens the strap until I feel the familiar bruising cuts in my cheeks. Moan pitifully. Just the way She likes, I suppose.
It feels like She has tied, not just two big pieces of flesh, but my very sexuality itself.
I wonder how a guy would feel if his cock were bound this way. Would he like it? Would he feel like his manhood had been taken away?
Here’s the thing: my breasts have always been my weapons, my pride, the things I can flaunt at guys and use to get over on other girls. Walking down the street with them, I feel arrogantly powerful. Like I can take anybody. Perhaps the way a man feels with a gun on his hip.
But having my breasts bound makes me helpless - at once more aware of my udders and unable to make use of them. Knowing that the pain is going to get slowly, slowly worse, especially if I am driven to shake my tits in an effort to get rid of the feeling. And I always do, sooner or later. She just waits and watches. Judges when I just can’t take it anymore. Then adds something.
Perhaps just simple clothespins, their hard little mouths gnawing at my nipples as the sensitive nubs swell obscenely inside them.
Perhaps a thin cord or wire wound around and around my chest, just above and below the nipples, tightened until it drives the trapped boobs back against my chest, the cord cutting agonizingly into the bulging, tautly swollen breast flesh. And leaving the nipples protruding nakedly. Terrifying me.
Perhaps the nasty little electrical clips, their steel teeth cutting into my weeping nipples like the jaws of hell. And forcing me to wait, terrified, for the fire to come.
I cry into the gag, howling and screaming, tears sliding down my cheeks, dripping on the hugely prominent fleshballs, adding tickling to the agony.
I’d give ANYTHING to be a flat-chested, tiny-titted, boyishly-figured girl, one they’d call “mosquito tits”. Anything to end this torture.
But I can’t. And the helpless, terrified scream begins rising in my bound chest.
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