Sophie
What price inflation?
I stood there. I didn't have much choice, the way I was tied. Legs wide apart,
ankle straps fixed to ring-bolts in the wooden flooring. Arms outstretched, tied
at a bit above shoulder height by my wrists to wooden uprights that formed part
of the roof structure. The wood was rough, unplaned, I was glad none of my body
touched it. Especially as I was naked. Totally naked. Armpits and my sex
included, clean-shaven that morning. My long, straight black hair was tied in a
pony-tail high on the back of my head, cascading down to the middle of my
shoulder-blades. The inflatable gag, the strap locked at the back of my neck,
was blown up sufficiently to keep me quiet, but not enough to be really
uncomfortable.
So I stood there. And waited. My eyes went to the two large, transparent plastic
bags hanging from a beam in front of and above my head. Three-quarters full of a
colourless liquid. They moved to the bottom of the bags, where transparent tubes
curled downwards. I followed the tubes. Down to my breasts. To the tubes linked
to the four IV needles, planted to the hilt around each soft mound. Then to the
fifth needle - a long one - inserted through the exact centre of each nipple.
The needles didn't hurt. They hadn't even hurt that much when they had been
thrust into my flesh. A sharp prick, which made me gasp, and then nothing, as I
watched the long, shiny shafts disappear into me. Except for the ones through my
nipples. They did hurt, I'd yelled into the soft, yielding rubber of the gag.
I wondered what was happening inside my breasts. I tried to visualise the tips
of the hollow needles. The colourless liquid invading the tissues. Was it
staying in one place, around each tip? Was it spreading through my breasts? I
couldn't see any lumps forming, so I guessed it was spreading. It didn't hurt.
In fact, if I hadn't been able to see the needles, I wouldn't really have known
anything was happening. But I could. I did. I had no notion of time, in the hot,
silent space under the roof. I had no idea how long it had taken for a quarter
of the saline solution in each bag to transfer itself into me, maybe 15
minutes, maybe 30?
The bags were big, a bit bigger than my breasts, I thought. That meant that the
two globes on my chest were due to at least double in size. I fought down a
moment of panic. I knew the liquid would be absorbed into my body over the next
few days, that my two treasured possessions would go back to their normal size.
But before then? Would it hurt? What would it feel like? Not that it made any
difference now. I was committed. Nothing would stop the slow, relentless
invasion. Nothing but the complete emptying of the drip-bags. Into me. Into my
breasts. Another wave of panic. I tried to shake my torso, to see if they felt
any different. But my arms were pulled out too tightly to allow any real
movement.
Time passed. How much? The level in the bags had dropped to about half. I began
to feel a sort of tightness. I looked down at them. Difficult to judge how much
they had swollen. The skin did seem to be stretched a little, the blue veins
showing clearly in the white skin. White, but with a sort of orange tinge, from
the filtered light bouncing off tiles and wood. Outside the sun was shining,
beating down on the roof, heating the space under it. Soon I knew I would start
sweating. No sound, just the odd creak as I tried to shift my weight from one
foot to the other.
More time went by. Now, I could see that my breasts were visibly swelling. The
skin was shiny, the veins more prominent. The nipples stood out, rigid, grasping
the invading needles in their fleshy embrace. The areola were bigger, the tiny
dimples flattened by the stretching skin, almost smooth. The tight feeling was
growing. At 32 my breasts were soft, no longer rubbery and self-supporting as
they had been at 18. Not that they sagged at all, just they didn't stand as
proud as before. But now they did, as though they had gone back in time. Full,
luscious, and heavy. I could feel them pulling at the skin on my chest, my
shoulders, my throat.
In the dim light, I could see that the bags were now only a quarter full. My
legs ached. Beads of sweat started to form. On my breasts. I couldn't see beyond
them, the rest of my body, they stuck out, hindering my vision. They started to
ache. Just a bit, a dull, subdued feeling. My whole world seemed focused on
these two mounds of flesh. I was proud of them, always had been. 36C at 16, like
magnets to most men. At first they embarrassed me. But soon I realised they were
assets. Not that I flaunted them, not my style. But I did keep them
well-supported, which held them out. As if for inspection. Look what I've got.
Wouldn't you like to touch them? But I kept them to myself. Mine. Private
possessions, but on limited show. Look, but don't touch. Sensitive. Very
sensitive. I only had to touch the nipples and they would pop out, erect, rigid,
straining for my touch. And when I did touch, caress them, play with them, my
whole body caught fire.
At first it frightened me, so I kept my hands away from them. Depriving them.
Until one day. Alone, in my room, with the photo on the wall. Young, bronzed,
handsome, in swim trunks. I wanted him. But was afraid to have him. Afraid of
what he would do to me. Playing with my nipples, looking at the photo,
wondering, longing, afraid. A finger touched my cleft. Found my clitoris. Rubbed
it. A finger and thumb held a nipple. Squeezed. And the world spun. Squeezed
harder, and the universe exploded in and around me!
I'll never forget that first time. That first orgasm. Memory plays tricks, it
probably wasn't really all that earth-shattering, but that's how I remembered
it. Shattering. It shattered my innocence, if ever a women is innocent.
The bags were nearly empty and the ache in my breasts shifted gear. I tugged at
the fastenings round my wrists. No good, too tight. The weights on my chest
grew. I closed my eyes and the focus of my attention moved. Drifted down. Down
to the apex of the triangle formed by my wide-open thighs. I quivered, trying to
rotate my hips, to feel something. But there was only a diffused feeling. I
strain, thrusting my pelvis forwards. Dying for something to touch me. Down
there. In that secret place. Not so secret now, I thought, in a moment of
lucidity. Wide open lips, shaven, pink tissues on offer. I wished I could see
them. See if they were moist, wetted by my arousal. Sexual secretions,
lubrication, but nothing to lubricate. I wriggled, in frustration. Cursed my
body for taunting me like this.
The bags were empty, my breasts full. And beginning to hurt a bit. I looked at
them. God, they were big! And the skin was so taut, shinning, wet with sweat. I
could feel trickles of it running from my armpits, down my sides. And still that
hot, sticky silence under the eaves. How long had I been there now? Ages. And
for how much longer? And was this all?
A board creaked, but I hadn't moved. Another creak, and another. Boards
complaining under the weight of feet. Coming towards me across the length of the
dim loft. A hand touched my sweat-wet back and I screamed into the gag in
surprise. And fright. I felt the hand slide over my skin. Then withdraw. I
looked down and saw it come into view. Grasp the needle deep in the base of my
now-turgid breast. Pull. The silver shaft appeared, sliding out of the flesh,
accompanied by a tiny, tiny spot of blood. The tip of the needle left its
nesting place reluctantly, the tight skin almost seeming to try to follow it as
it bulged out monetarily, only to merge back into the soft, taut curve. Its
departure left a droplet of crimson liquid on the surface, the only sign that it
had ever been buried deep inside me. Mixed feelings, as though I regretted its
leaving.
One by one the hand removed the other three needles. Then moved to the other
breast and pulled out the four intruders. Only the ones in my nipples remained.
A second hand appeared and the finger and thumb closed over the erect nipple.
Lightly. The other one took hold of the plastic sheath. Slowly, very slowly, the
steel appeared, dragging at the flesh as it was withdrawn. The feeling was
intense. Not painful, but intense. As though it was trying to turn my nipple
inside-out. I cried out against the gag as the tip left me. I wanted it back, it
belonged in there! I felt bereft, abandoned. Again that dragging, sucking
feeling as the second one left me and I was alone. They had been there so long,
it was as though a part of me had been taken away. All that was left were the
two swollen mounds and the pain. Diffuse, but pain even so.
A rough feeling on the taut skin, as though tiny needles were scratching it. I
looked down and saw the two hands. They were placing a loop of coarse, sisal
string around the very base of one breast. As I looked, the loop was drawn
tight, snuggling itself into the skin. Tiny prickles of pain flashed through the
flesh as the rough ends of the sisal dug into me. I sucked in my breath, waiting
for the inevitable. It came. The loop tightened, slowly but inexorably, digging
its way into my body. Tighter. And even tighter, until the string almost
disappeared into the channel it was digging in me. Beyond it, my breast bulged
out, the skin so tight now that even the nipple was flattened by the tension. It
hurt. I moaned. Still tighter, and the flesh turned rosy, then red, then a light
shade of purple. The hands knotted the string. Moved to the other breast.
Another loop. More tightening, and another knot. Then they disappeared.
The silence came back. And with it the pain. Sharper now. My breasts had gone
from light to dark purple. They ached fiercely. I shook my head, trying to
subdue the pain. No good, it persisted, increased. I stared down, cursing
myself. For being a women and having breasts, these objects of gathering pain.
For having got myself into this. Why? Because I was a masochist? Because I liked
pain? Because I wanted to experience something new? Whatever.
A hand came back into view. I wanted to scream. It held a small wooden stick. On
the end of it was a short length of leather. The end of the leather was dragged
lightly over one breast, from the base to the nipple. Then it lifted. The stick
flashed downwards and the leather thong bit into my already-hurting flesh. I
screamed, as the pain ripped into me. I was aware that the thong hardly dented
the surface of the swollen, stretched skin. It didn't need to, its kiss was
enough, triggering every nerve-ending in that over-sensitised mass. Sending pain
signals to my brain. Which received them loud and clear. I tried frantically to
turn myself so that my breast was no longer under the now-hovering leather. I
couldn't, and it flicked down to give me another pain-loaded kiss. I had to
heave breath into my lungs before I could scream. I felt like a knife was
removing the skin, as though some ancient Chinese torture. Maybe it was. I shook
my head violently, in negation. No more!
No use, the thong moved to linger over the other swollen, purple-hued and
pain-racked globe before anointing it with its deadly caress. And again. I felt
tears running down my cheeks as I screamed into the sift, rippling rubber pouch
in my mouth. I couldn't even grit my teeth. All I could do was stand there and
suffer.
And suffer I did as the leather thong systematically beat every inch of my
breasts. It fell regularly, like a metronome, each impact sending waves of pain
through my once, proud and beautiful adornments. And as they were beaten they
swelled even more, until I could no longer see the string, so deeply had it
bitten into them. Worse was to come. So far the thong had not touched my
nipples. Now it changed its aim and thrashed into them. The pain was blinding
and I screamed and screamed, without making a sound. Ten, twenty times that
leather thong bit into each pain-wracked nipple. Between screams I prayed that I
would pass out, faint away into some soothing limbo. But I couldn't. The pain
was terrible but my body was strong.
Suddenly, I realised that the impacts had stopped. As the red haze that clogged
my vision cleared I looked down, half fearing what I would see. My swollen and
purple, almost black, breasts were intact, no visible sign on them of their
encounters with that torturing piece of leather. They hurt, as they had never
hurt before in my 32 years, but they were intact. Swollen, discoloured,
throbbing with pain, but intact.
As I looked, the two hands came into sight again. One of them held a surgical
scalpel. I screamed and screamed and tried to throw myself around - to no avail.
One hand grasped the string hanging from the loop deep in one breast and pulled
it. The knot emerged slightly from the flesh. The blade moved in. I held my
breath, waiting for the inevitable mutilation I knew was coming. It slid under
the knot, and then, with a sudden movement, flicked outwards. Severing the knot.
The string reappeared on the surface of my breast. And as it did so my heart
started pumping fresh blood through the arteries and veins. Supplying the
innumerable oxygen-starved nerve endings with energy. They, in their turn,
informed my brain of the tortured state of the flesh around them. Vigorously.
The pain signals hit me. It was as if the flame from a blow-torch was being
played across that over-sensitised organ. I screamed and screamed and screamed!
The pain was unbearable, overwhelming, practically unsupportable. And it went on
and on. And I screamed on. Heaven knows for long, it felt like eternity.
Finally the pain started to die down a little. My throat was sore from the
screaming. The freed breast was slowly turning a rosy pink, from the kiss of the
leather. Then, to my horror, a hand started to pull out the loop circling the
other breast. I knew what was coming. I nearly dislocated my shoulders trying to
escape. But of course I couldn't. I watched, like a hypnotised rabbit, as the
blade did its evil work. Then went back to screaming as the other breast caught
fire. Time stood still as I writhed and twisted and screamed. It just didn't
seem possible that two lovely, innocent organs, meant to suckle babies and
delight men, could provide such pain.
Silence returned to the steamy-hot atmosphere under the roof as the pain ebbed
all too slowly away. Then the two hands were placed on my waist. They slid up my
damp skin until they reached my aching breasts. Cupped them. Motionless, holding
them. Almost comfortable. Until, slowly, calculatingly, they started to squeeze.
Harder, and harder. The pain returned, as though on command. Just as I was about
to start screaming again, they relaxed their grip a little.
One of them released its hold and slid downwards. Across my ribs, onto my slick,
curved belly. Lower. And lower still. Until I felt the fingers reach the
beginning of the slit. I tensed, every muscle straining. The fingers stopped
moving. Then moved sideways, sliding on down, outside the lip. I cursed and
writhed, wanting them to touch me THERE, give my over-loaded body relief. I felt
a pressure on my back as a body came into contact with mine. The fingers moved,
towards the centre. They opened me, penetrating slightly, forcing the lips
apart. Then something else came into contact with me. I knew what it was! Hard,
and yet soft. Touching me. Penetrating me, moving up inside me, filling me.
Thick, expanding me. Long, reaching deeper and deeper inside me. I clenched my
muscles, gripping it, afraid it might escape. I wanted it.
The hand moved back up to my breast. I felt fingers and thumbs seize my poor,
abused nipples. Start to squeeze them. The pain started again. And at the same
time the organ inside me started be withdrawn. I tried to shout. No, no, NO!
Leave it there! I WANT IT!! My nipples were now doing their own screaming, pain
screaming, as the pressure increased. And then, suddenly, taking my breath away,
the organ which had almost left me was thrust violently up inside me. My whole
body shuddered with the impact. It almost immediately started to withdraw, only
to thrust again, even harder, just as the pain in my nipples increased.
I was caught. Caught between the pleasure of that thrusting organ impaling me
and the pain in my tortured breasts. Which was worse? Or better? Pain, or
pleasure? Or both? Or neither? My overloaded brain didn't know. It wasn't even
capable of distinguishing between them, as the piston-like thrusting continued
and the pain grew.
Slowly, but surely, the fire grew in my belly and my breasts as the torment? -
pleasure? - continued. Soon I was riding a wave of feelings too complex to
analyse as my body reacted of its own accord to the conflicting stimuli. The
wave grew and grew, until it took me over completely and I felt I was drowning
in it. The area under the roof had disappeared, I was in some sort of no-space,
God alone knew where. Feeling my body, and at the same time outside it, hovering
over it, looking at it as it writhed and contorted under the influence of the
sensations that engulfed it.
Bit by bit those feelings took me over, until I was aware of nothing but
feeling. I wanted to laugh, cry, scream, sob, talk, all at once. And then,
suddenly, without warning, my body exploded. Whatever light I was conscious of
was red as the pain-and-pleasure induced orgasm ripped into me. Indescribable.
So I won't.
When I came down from the heights, I realised I was hanging from my wrists,
knees bent, gasping for breath, my whole body quivering. My big, rosy-hued
breasts still hurt and I knew I was going to pay for this, those over-abused
organs wouldn't tolerate the touch of a brassiere, however soft, for days, maybe
a week to come. Not that they would have fitted into the ones I had, swollen as
they were with their load of saline solution.
I hung there, waiting to be released, the sweat rolling in streams down my naked
body. And as I did so, I reflected on what had happened. I wondered if it had
all been worth it. I was forced to the conclusion that it had. The only question
left was; what would I do for an encore?!
