Money Bags

I’m not surprised when Lillian starts to complain. She lies on the blended leather couch in my basement, her Passionate Pink lips pursed with frustration. Of all her problems, she worries most about the bunching of her sweater and the uneasy shifting of what looks to be a monument of a bra.

The way she complains is amusing and annoying, how I’m no different than all the others. She has no idea – I’m nothing like the others. The cuffs she tried on weren’t the fake cuffs I had demonstrated minutes earlier, but I’m not going to tell her this yet.

“What are you talking about – I’m no different than all the others?” I ask, half curious and half bating her for the answer I know will follow. “I mean – I thought you wanted to play around. Handcuffs and all that?”

“It’s not what I meant!” she snaps angrily while her face flushes red with resentment. She manages to sit up, no easy task with her hands locked behind her back. “Now get these off. I mean it!”

Her modest attire does nothing to hide her curves. Her breasts fill her silk-blended turtleneck sweater like melons fill grocery bags. I love that the sweater is eggshell white but the way she thrusts her cuffs at me, insisting that I take them off, aggravates the shit out of me. Like I’m actually going to remove them.

“What would they think now?” I ask, posing the question out of the blue. “Just imagine, their money-making dancer locked in handcuffs on a customer’s couch?”

“Who!?” Lillian shouts, her hair tossing across her face.

“You know who,” I say with a grin. “What’s the club owner’s name? Bruce?”

I’m just toying with her now. I already know his name. His number is on speed dial waiting for me to call. But I’m not in a hurry – not with Lillian sitting there in her tight little sweater, her skirt creeping up her creamy thighs. Her distress grows and I can see her mind spinning from anger and the glass of wine she drank before this all began.

I’m dizzy with aggression and biting my lip while reaching under the pillow for the noose I tied out of shipping rope the night before. At the same time I’m reaching for Lillian’s raven hair because I’ve anticipated her reaction. It comes slower than I expected, which gives me time to slip the noose over her head and toss the free end of the rope up over the rafters in one easy motion. By the time the end flutters down Lillian’s reflexes have kicked into high gear and she’s practically frantic. But it’s too late because I’m pulling the rope so the noose tightens around her neck and she’s forced onto her feet, screeching, toward the center of the room with her hands locked behind her back.

“By the way,” I tell her, giving the rope another tug, ensuring the noose is fully closed and its grip is firm. “Those cuffs you’re wearing are real. These are the fake ones, you dumb bitch. What do you think of that?”

I pull the fake cuffs from my back pocket and toss them at her feet, only to see her reaction. It comes faster this time. There’s a whimper of shock and her expression is caught between confusion and panic and what remains of her pride.

Without a word I tie the rope to a bolt in the wall and dial the number on my phone. As expected, Bruce answers. I tell him it’s done and she’s ready, speaking loudly so Lillian can hear. She doesn’t know who I’m talking to but it’s just as well. The look on her face is priceless and the way she twists at the cuffs and struggles against the rope around her neck is strangely erotic.

By the time the doorbell rings twenty minutes later I’ve already cut holes in Lillian’s $69 Chantelle bra. Her breasts puff though the bra’s makeshift openings and her nipples swell against the sweater. Despite her protests, I’ve filled her mouth with pages of the Cosmo magazine I found in her purse and covered her lips with electrical tape. It muffles her cries and the burlap sack I pull over her head keeps her pleading in the dark.

Lillian has no idea how ridiculous she looks with her tits pushing through the holes in her bra. The way her nipples rub the sweater is laughable and dangerously enticing. She has no idea who’s in the room, either, though I’m certain she can hear the boots click-clack upon the concrete floor and the cat calls that follow. She wants to hide but she has nowhere to turn. I sip my Scotch, wanting badly to tell her it’s Bruce who’s in the room, but it’s more than Bruce. It’s Bruce plus three of the club’s wealthiest clients, which makes five of us, counting me.

“My, my, what do we have here?” Bruce says, grinning from ear to ear. “It looks like our gold-digging, tease-of-a-dancer is less than pleased.”

The sound of his voice sends Lillian into a terror. She twists wildly on the rope, at the cuffs, shrieking into the gag. Her reaction grows when the others chime in, calling her tit queen and cunt and whore. I top it off, calling her a dairy cow while pulling the rope another inch, forcing our screeching prize onto her toes and smacking her ass with my hand.

“There you go, boys,” I say. “The bitch is on full display. What do you think of our shapely little toy?”

I wait until Bruce sets the camera on the tri-pod before removing the sack from Lillian’s head. Her eyes focus with an expression of horror and I wonder what she’s thinking, seeing the five of us standing around her. A tear wets her cheek, but this is expected. What’s not expected is the look on her face when she glances down to see her breasts squeezing through the holes I’ve cut in her expensive bra, causing her sweater to bulge.

Her lip begins to quiver and she’s awash in shame. Perfect. She turns to hide her breasts from our leering eyes. When she does, Bruce tugs at her black pleated skirt and drops it to her ankles. I’m grabbing the band of her lacey thong panties and pulling them up, up, watching as she crosses her legs and screeches into the gag. I tug the panties sharply until the material wedges between the lips of her pussy. The effect is obscene and shameful and Lillian knows it, which is why she fights my efforts to turn her around.

“Go ahead,” I whisper, putting my lips to her ear. “Show the boys you’re pretty new outfit.”

Lillian grunts into the gag. When she doesn’t turn around, I grab her long hair and pull, listening to her squeal, until she’s facing the others. The laughter from the room is instantaneous, as are the tears on Lillian’s cheeks. Her eyes flash rage and shame. When she reaches for her panties and tries to readjust them, I catch her cuffed wrists with a leather strap and slide it up to her elbows. I pull the strap until her elbows touch and the air wheezes from her lungs. The strap is tight but I pull it tighter and lock the buckle, enjoying the way it bows her shoulders back and forces her tits to jut off her chest, like she actually wants to present them, which she doesn’t.

Lillian looks absurd with her panties lodged between her pussy lips. Her tits look double-scooped ice-cream cones pushing through the holes cut in her bra. Maybelline great lash mascara stains her cheeks and her cries turn her face red. She lifts one leg to hide her shame and tries again to turn around, to hide, but I won’t let her. The humiliation and terror nearly overwhelms her.

John has the scissors in hand and he slides them up the front of Lillian’s sweater. Snip snip. She can’t bear to watch as her top bursts open with a snap. Her tits are tightly cupped within her bra, except for the bulging tips working through the twin holes in the lace. Her nipples are pink and wrinkled and though she tries desperately to break free, the noose keeps a firm grip on her neck. It forces her head to tilt at a strange angle. She can barely see the camera on the tripod but she knows it’s there and she’s afraid to look at it, just as she won’t look at the men standing before her, grinning and laughing, each of them pointing to her finest assets.

One of them takes a Nikon digital camera from his pocket and begins snapping pictures of our prize. The bulb flashes and Lillian weeps, then shrieks her protest when he moves in for a shot of her distorted tits. She lurches on the rope, again trying to hide from the lens and our leering eyes. This time I let her go and for a moment, we leave her standing on her toes, alone, crying so hard her shoulders tremble.

I hadn’t noticed that she’d broken one of her red ankle strap heels during her struggle. It puts a strain on her shapely calf, which cannot fail lest she hangs herself on the rope. I pull off her other heel to even the deal and kick it across the room, just as John severs her bra. It opens like a book and the cups swing away. Her heavy breasts spill into view.

“Fuck me,” one of the men says. “She’s got water jugs for tits.”

“More like cantaloupes,” laughs another.

Lillian keeps her back to the room but this doesn’t matter because we’ve surrounded her. Whenever she tries to move, we simply follow along, laughing and taunting her, calling her a fucking whore tease with watermelon tits. Everyone has their camera out, snapping away, noting how Lillian’s tits wobble and spread beyond her ribcage. John has taken the video camera off the tripod to follow along, which I’m glad for since we plan to sell the movie on the black market.

“We’ve got ourselves a real prize to play with,” Bruce grins. He grabs one of Lillian’s nipples and twists until her sobs reach new heights. Music to my ears. An hour ago she was sipping wine and laughing, talking about the photo shoot she landed for the weekend. I’d promised her a photo op as well, though I doubt this is what she had in mind.

“We’re going to play a little game,” I tell her, sending two of the men to a room beyond the cellar. They return with a shipping pallet covered by a sheet of copper and a power generator. Lillian sees it and shakes her head, her cries erupting through the gag. I can’t understand a word she’s saying but I don’t need to. The men place the pallet on the floor and slide it below Lillian’s bare feet. She’s naked except for her panties, which are still wedged between her pussy lips. I give the rope around her neck a thwack and explain the rules.

“The cunt is going to dance for us,” I say, putting an emphasis on dance. “I hope she’s in the mood. But then again, who the fuck cares, she does it for a living, right?”

Bruce sets the camera back on the tripod and plugs the generator into the wall, just as I attach the clamps to the sheet of copper. Bruce applies a sheen of water from a misting bottle and tells Lillian it helps conduct electricity.

This gets Lillian’s attention. She thrashes her head wildly urging no and please. I’d rather hear her say it so I rip the tape from her lips and watch as she spits the crumpled, soggy pages of her magazine onto the floor.

PLEASE STOP she screams, but now it’s too late because the first angry current is flowing from the generator. Lillian hops wildly on her feet and shrieks like a wild animal. We hardly notice her cries because we’re all watching her tits fly across her chest. Another jolt and she jumps again, her tits flopping to her shoulders before crashing down so hard they flatten out and rebound like rockets at liftoff. Her breathing is heavy and she tries to bend forward, to cup her shifting breasts, but the rope around her neck doesn’t allow it and her arms are locked cruelly behind her back. She tries again to plead, to catch her breath, but the current punches the air from her lungs and she screeches bloody murder instead.

Wobbling dangerously on the rope, Lillian wheezes in terror. The current is unpredictable and when it hits the reaction is immediate. She leaps without grace, one foot over the other. She’s doing all she can to avoid the current, which sends her tits flying and crashing. I know by now they’re beginning to ach, their weight and size serving as her worst enemy.

I pour each of the men a round of Scotch and we circle Lillian, wolf-like, watching her jump, listening to her babble and sob. OH GOD STOP she howls, twisting on the rope. She’s searching for something, anything to escape the pulsing current, anything to reduce the jarring, painful impact every leap takes on her swinging tits.

“Now she’s dancing,” one of the men laughs. “That’s it, cunt. You’re putting on a real show!”

Bored with the tempo, John turns the dial on the generator to reduce the time between pulses. From the corner of my eye I see him adjust the power another two notches. Lillian’s feet skip off the copper sheet, one at a time and sometimes both. She looks like she’s being stung by a hive of bees and her cries are nearly continuous, making it hard to tell where one begins and the other ends.

The current finds the balls of her feet every time they touch the copper sheet, the arrows of electricity shooting up her legs, dissipating somewhere in her hips. I notice her toenails, painted with Red Romance polish. She screams NOOOOO while rocking on the rope, her tits flying circles across her chest. They slap together and crash against her stomach with audible smacks every time she leaps and twists and thrashes. Her tits look heavy and full, almost swollen, and there’s nothing she can do to support them.

“Look at this,” one of the men says, holding Lillian’s tattered bra in his hands. “Shit. She’s a 34F.”

“C’mon bitch, dance!” another says, clapping his hands. “Fucking tit-sloshing cunt, shake those water bags!”

“That’s it, tease!” shouts another. He picks up the tempo with his stomping feet, as if he’s at a hoedown. “Moo like the cow you are!”

We’re all clapping our hands and stomping our feet to the tempo of Lillian’s screams. We’re cheering like it’s the Fourth of July every time her hefty tits slap together. The look in her eyes is pure terror and the expression on her face is one of misery, as if she’s going to be sick. Her tits are milky white but now the undersides have grown pink from the constant smacking and sloshing. It must hurt like hell, as if they’re being battered by invisible hands. Blue veins cross below the white skin and her nipples have swelled to the size of gumballs.

John shuts off the current and grins while Lillian cries PLEASE STOP THIS. She wobbles under the rope, hardly able to keep her balance. She knows what will happen if she falls. Her chest heaves with every breath and her body trembles with her sobs.

“It looks like you could use a little support,” I grin, knowing the words don’t make any sense without context. “I mean, a chesty girl like you can’t go around without a bra. That can’t feel good.”

Lillian snivels wonderfully and her reaction gives me an erection when she sees the spool of wire in my hand. She’s terrified of the electricity and she should be at this point, though it’s not what I have in mind.

PLEEEASE, she whimpers, unable to watch as I unspool the wire. John smacks her tits back and forth, back and forth, as if swatting a beach ball. Another man rips at Lillian’s already stretched panties. She’s naked and trying to spin away, completely surrounded by a pack of wild men who would rather toss her to a room filled with prison inmates than cut her down and let her run, screaming, from this nightmare.

Sneering like a dog, John grabs Lillian’s her hair and jerks her head back so she can’t watch as I grip her fat right breast and loop the wire around its base. I pull the wire tight with each pass, then tighter still until her heavy tit balloons against the constriction. I shift to the other breast, marveling at how it dangles free before doing the same, wrapping it tightly with wire, stopping only when her heavy tits resemble perfectly round grapefruits resting on her chest.

The wire is tight and she coughs against its squeeze, still unable to see what I’m doing. But I’m sure she can feel the pinch of the wire, its compression, the painful tightening in her breasts.

“It’s just a little support for our tit queen,” I grin. “I’ve heard the lack of support can be painful for big-breasted women. We don’t want that.”

I pass the wire around the base of both breasts, pulling it as tight as possible. I’m impressed at how the tension draws her already bound tits together, squeezing them side by side, punching the air from her lungs. It reduces her breasts to balloons, each overinflated and ready to explode. Her nipples are hard and as big as cherries. Her pink areoles spread widely across the tips of her breasts, appearing as crossed eyes staring off into the room.

Lillian’s sobs have grown to screeches of despair. John releases her hair and her eyes dart down to see what has happened. The sight of her bound tits must be devastating. They are no longer milky white but have turned a darker shade of blue, almost purple. The veins rise just below the skin and appear to pulse under the pressure of the wire bra.

“Isn’t that better?” I ask, giving her tits a smack. “See, no more bounce.”

Lillian shrieks NOOOOO and grimaces something painful. She cries TAKE IT OFF with a disparaging howl, which makes me laugh, along with the others. She’s frantic, PLEASE TAKE IT OFFFF, but she doesn’t realize this is the reaction we expected, even wanted, and it only serves to fuel our cruelty.

“I don’t think she likes her new bra,” Bruce says, removing the noose from Lillian’s neck. She drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes screaming IT HURTS and OH MY GOD while still trying to pull her arms out from behind her, which is impossible. On the floor we’re holding her down so Bruce can feed the rope through the center of the wire bra. Lillian can do nothing but shriek as he begins to pull the rope over the rafters. The sniveling bitch is forced to her knees, then to a half standing position, exhausted and broken with her raven hair spilling over her shoulders. She cries PLEASE DON’T DO THIS with a tone of defeat as she’s forced to stand, once again, on the sheet of copper, which she must see as the devil.

“A word to the wise,” Bruce says, trying the rope to the hook in the wall. He approaches Lillian with an evil grin and pauses to brush her turgid nipples. “Don’t lose your balance.”

Lillian sobs, rocking on her toes. She isn’t as much standing as she is balancing. Her predicament is delightfully wicked. She can either stand and brave the current or hang by her tits and avoid it. I’m eager to find out which it will be, though Lillian is not. Her cries are downright frantic, reaching impossible levels of terror.

“It’s time for a go-go!” I laugh.

The current stabs Lillian’s feet. The arrow of electricity sends her leaping from the pallet. She nearly falls backwards but the tope grabs her tits. It keeps her standing, stretching her swollen breasts away from her chest. I can’t tell if she’s screaming from the electricity or the fearsome tug on her bound tits, though it doesn’t matter. She’s being assaulted from both ends and her reaction, her confusion, is priceless.

So pretty and strong, Lillian shrieks and dances against the current, doing a toe dance she can’t win. Her ballooning, darkening tits bob upon her chest, squeezed impossibly tight by the wire bra. Her feet dance and skip. Her eyes spill fresh tears down her cheeks and still she’s howling miserably, pleading – screaming – for us to stop.

Lillian’s feet leave the ground when the current hits again. Her tits stretch away from her body. I imagine them tearing from her chest, her pride and joy, the assets she uses at the club to extract money from men like me. She wheezes, puts her feet down to relieve the pressure, only to find the current. It stabs at her toes, her calves trembling to carry her weight, her knees growing week. Again she lifts them, her tits lifting and falling on the rope like a fishing bob on the water.

“Now we’re talking,” one of the men says.

“Yeah! How does it fell, bitch!” snaps another. “Your tits throbbing yet?”

Lillian drops a foot, jerks it up and sets the other down. PLEEEEEEEESE! The cycle continues and her cries are delightful. She’s locked in an endless dance screaming NNNNOOOOGHH with garbled, drowning cries over and over again. The effects of the electricity are invisible, but the pressure in her breasts is clear. Her bountiful tits are deep blue, the skin almost white, her nipples so hard and thick they might pop. The veins have doubled in number, their crisscrossing pattern rising angrily to the surface of her once-white breasts.

“You want them off?” I ask, flicking her swollen nipples with my fingers. She screeches at this subtle touch and leaps above the current. “Is that what you want?”

STOPPPPITTTT she howls, her eyes flashing wide and her mouth parted in a perpetual scream. She shrieks again just as Bruce shuts off the current.

I produce my phone but I can’t get Lillian’s attention. She’s a wreck on the verge of madness with nowhere to run. She wobbles from the rope, her tits stretching toward the ceiling, supporting her weight every time she leans. She can hardly keep her balance.

“One call,” I say, taking a good look at her straining, swollen orbs. I admire their color, their hardness. I’d tighten the wire bra with hose clamps if I didn’t want to move on. “You’re little friend,” I continue. “What’s her name?”

Lillian says nothing. She’s too busy sobbing, her shoulders bobbing, her tits ready to burst from the pressure. She’s lost in a nightmare she can’t escape.

“Michelle,” John offers. “The brunette.”

“Yes, Sylvie, your partner in crime,” I say, flicking Lillian’s turgid nipples to get her attention. “Call her over. If you pull it off and she shows up, we’ll let you down. If you don’t, I swear to God we’ll turn the juice on high and leave you here overnight, or until your tits explode, whichever happens first.”