John sits on the edge of the bed looking down at Merida. Her teasing smile has faded. The look on her face says she’s getting angry. Maybe she’s still pouting.

“I don’t like them,” she says, tugging on the cuffs, her wrists locked to the headboard. “They’re cold. I can’t touch you.”

John smiles, watches Merida pull at the cuffs. They were fooling around when he pulled them from his dresser drawer, dared her to try them on, saying it would be fun.

That’s what he’d told her. What a lie. Fifteen minutes later and Merida’s complaints are moving toward anger. John feels his arousal growing. Dumb bitch had fallen for it. The game has already begun.

“Look at you,” John grins, studying Merida, her arms drawn over her head, nipples hard and growing, large breasts wobbling below her white cotton T-shirt. “I bet you’re wishing you’d dressed differently tonight. Maybe worn a bra? You’re such a tease.”

Her jeans lie wadded on the floor, her pink panties hugging her curvy hips. John studies her near naked form. It makes her blush the way he ogles her. She crosses her ankles, nervous, waiting for him to unlock the cuffs, still hopeful he will.

And then the doorbell rings.

“We must have company,” John says, moving to the door. “I better see who it is.”

“What!” Merida complains, nearly screeching. “Wait! John! Unlock the cuffs. Let me get dressed.”

John leaves the room, grinning big. He hears the cuffs clanking, Merida shouting, “Don’t leave me like this! John! Come back!”

***

Merida hears us laughing before we entered the room. We’re talking loud on purpose, wanting her to hear us.

“She’s in there, seriously?” I say, laughing. “You got her?”

“Stupid cunt let me handcuff her to the bed,” John says. “Can you believe it!? And she’s not even wearing a bra!”

There she is, Merida, 26, blonde, beautiful, cuffed to the headboard, dressed in her flimsy white T-shirt, hip-hugging panties, her face the color of a tropical sunset.

Without a word, she turns her head, unable to look us in the eye. We stand there, amused, smirking, ogling the half-naked woman who has lied to us both.

“Doesn’t she look good?” John asks. “She was reluctant about the handcuffs, but I think she’s getting used to them.”

Merida says nothing, her head still craned in the other direction, her heart pulsing with anger. Then, as if shame has finally clutched her brain, she begins pulling madly at the cuffs, ordering us to release her, still thinking she can weasel out of this.

She crosses her legs at the knees, rolls over, attempting to shield herself from our amused stares. Her plight is almost funny, her reaction, her humiliation. She’s been caught in her own web of lies. It’s payback time, but she doesn’t know that yet.

“Twenty minutes ago, she was purring in my ear and tickling my dick with her fingers,” John says. “Look at her now.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on Merida’s shoulder. “Why are you hiding? You weren’t so shy before,” I tell her. “You left John with a hard on and me with blue balls. Do you think that’s funny?”

Merida bucks, twists, tosses my hand off her shoulder with an angry shrug. Her chest rises, falls, composure slowly slipping away. “Don’t touch me,” she hisses, pouting, defeated. “This isn’t funny. Both of you. Let me go, NOW!”

“What’s not funny is you lying and teasing.” John sits down across from me. We have Merida surrounded. “You remember Larry, don’t you?” Merida says nothing. “Well, Larry remembers you. It seems there’s something you haven’t told us.”

“Yeah,” I say, reaching again for Merida’s shoulder. “Now’s your chance at… What’s the world I’m looking for?”

“Amnesty,” John says. “This is her chance at amnesty.”

Merida fumes with anger, resentment heavy in the air. She hates us both right now, but the reality is, it’s John and me who will be doing the hating.

“Surely you’ve got something to say?” My hand traces the roundness of Merida’s upturned hip. She tries to roll away, but this time she can’t because John is on the other side and she has nowhere to hide. My hand slides to her navel, the silver diamond stud that adorns it.

“Get you hand off me!” Merida barks. “I’m telling you for the last time! LET ME GO!”

“That’s not the idea of amnesty,” John says, his fingers tracing the undersides of Merida’s up-stretched arms. “Amnesty means honesty.”

Merida shivers. “Please,” she says in a softer tone, trying to take a different tact, a Hail Mary made in desperation. She’s trying to reason with us, but she still won’t look at us. “There’s been a misunderstanding.” She’s nearly babbling now. “That’s what this is. A misunderstanding.”

***

John laughs, reaches under the bed. I move to Merida’s side, lightly tracing her ribs. She thrashes, shifting her torso, ordering me not to touch her, tying to escape my fingers.

She doesn’t see John set the bag of goodies on the bed. She’s drowning in her own shame, her fear getting the best of her. And she doesn’t see John wink, a signal that sends us reaching for her ankles.

Those ankles are slim, fitting neatly in our meaty fists. Merida doesn’t weigh but 120 pounds. Half of that weight is probably in her tits. She bucks wildly, shouting demands, twisting to escape our grip.

It’s too easy slipping the ropes around her ankles. We take our position on opposite sides of the bed, each with a rope in our hand—an ankle under our command. Merida struggles, looks up with wide eyes, a disbelieving glare, still struggling with the cuffs.

“What are you DOING!” she howls, almost shrieking with alarm. “I said LET ME GO!”

Our game of tug-o-war has begun. We pull the ropes past the corners of the bed, watching the tension increase. Merida kicks, tries to shake the ropes from her ankles, fighting to keep her legs crossed. Her feet are drawn down, her legs apart, her lungs burning with yipping cries of desperation.

“C’mon, cock tease, spread those legs,” John says, laughing, pulling harder. “Show me how you do it when I’m not around.”

Merida howls, her legs parting, her body drawn flat, stretched across the bed. Twisting one last time, the tension builds, slowing her struggles. No longer able to twist from side to side, the bitch resorts to bucking, casting desperate glances across her body, across the room, across our fists pulling the ropes.

Ignoring her pleas, we pull until her legs are straight, her arms are straight, her body is stretched. Her long legs are wide apart, a demonstration in flexibility. She is, after all, a Pilates instructor. A fact she would talk about for hours under better circumstances.

We tie our separate ropes, keeping Merida split wide and stretched.

“That’s more like it.” I snap the ropes, demonstrating how taught they really are. “I’ve never seen her quite like this.”

“Just wait,” John says, producing a 10-inch leather strap. “We aren’t done yet.”

Merida wants to hide but has nowhere to turn. She steals frightened, angry glimpses down her torso, noting her spread legs, her ankles so far away, so far apart, her vulnerability. Her nipples are hard and thick, pressing against her T-shirt, which is tangled below her quaking tits.

“Please will you stop now,” she says mournfully, stilling trying to reason. “You’ve had your fun. Now let me go! This is starting to hurt.”

Her hopes for reason are quickly dashed. John grabs her cropped blonde hair, lifts her head. I jump in, circling the strap around Merida’s elbows, feeding the buckle, pulling until her arms come together.

John releases her hair and Merida groans miserably. The synching of her arms, so tight, keeps her head propped up, putting painful pressure on her neck. The first tear begins to wet her baby blue eyes.

“Please,” she wheezes, her voice begging more than demanding. Her confidence has left her. “You’re hurting me. Really! I’m not kidding around. You can’t do this.”

“We CAN do this, and unless you’re stupid, you can clearly see that we ARE doing this,” John says, cutting two more lengths of rope. “We haven’t even started.”

John tossed me one of the ropes. Merida’s legs are already spread impossibly wide, her inner thighs flexing—no, straining. We circle her knees with rope, pull the ropes apart, trying them to the frame of the bed, forcing the bitch into an awkward pose that resembles a frog on a dissection table.

Her pussy’s beginning to peak out at us. I can see the fat lips of her cunt, pink and full, slipping from the cover of her slim panties. I want her to know she’s nearly exposed, that I’m aware of her vulnerability, her unwilling display.

She knows it too, and she howls, nearly crying, struggling to break free from the terrible, lewd pose we’ve forced her into. She cringes, brows furrowing, lip quivering, saying the strain is too much, it hurts, telling us to let her go, she’s embarrassed, this isn’t funny anymore.

John says it is funny and there’s more to come. Tears wet Merida’s cheeks, her chest heaving, fighting back a sob that isn’t far away. When she sees the leather hood, thick and black, its zippers and buckles, she tries shaking her head, pleading. When she realizes she can’t shake her head, courtesy of the leather strap pinning her arms, the tension of her rigid bondage, that sob slips out.

“PLEASE!” she screams, the last bit of hope draining from her eyes. A collision between panic and shame, it’s written all over her face. “Please no! What is that! What are you doing! 

“Take a good look, sweetheart,” John says, drawing the hood over the crown of Merida’s head. “You’ll want to remember what we look like when we start our little game.”

Merida is a train wreck of tears. Her cries are now screams, ferocious, terrified bursts from her heaving lungs. She tries struggling, but this is impossible, stretched and spread and splayed as she is. Her fingers twist at the cuffs, her legs trembling under the stress of the bondage.

No more words. John pulls the hood over her head, casting her into a world of darkness. Placing one hand on Merida’s forehead, he pulls the first strap, drawing it brain-crushing tight across Merida’s eyes. A second strap circles her neck, creating an equally tight seal.

She is encased in blackness, lost to her own imagination. The hood is so tight that it reveals the contours of her twisted face. Her full lips swell through the hood’s only opening, lips painted midnight red for what she though was going to be another playful night.

To breath she must open her mouth. She cannot not see me position the dental gag over hear mouth, but she feels the cold steel upon her tongue, the pressure in her jaw as I turn the wheel, opening the bars to their widest setting.

Testing my new access, her open mouth, I stick a finger to the back of her throat, forcing her to gag. I slide my finger over her toungue, under it, exploring her mouth, back down her throat, delighting at how easy it is to fuck with her like this.

While I do this, John snaps rubber bands over her two thumbs, drawing them together, doubling the rubber bands back around, twice, three times, until her thumbs are purple. My hands are now at her T-shirt, tearing, ripping the material away, revealing her heavy tits. They are too big for her slender body, the size of cantaloupes, sloppy and full, topped with nipples as thick as gumballs.

As much as I’d like to assault her breasts, twisting them in my fingers, I do not. Instead, I start tickling her nipples, tracing them with my fingertips, watching them swell and harden. Merida’s body lurches, her cries rising, long and tortured from her throat, her open mouth.

“You’re time for amnesty is over,” John says, leaning down to Merida’s ear, whispering to her through the hood. “Now it’s time to play.”

***

An hour later, I’m still tickling Merida’s nipples, enjoying her tortured response. She has never let me tickle her nipples, saying they are too sensitive, she doesn’t like it. More bullshit from a tease.

I can do as I please, and my fingers dance over the swollen buds as Merida cringes, whining, screaming, unable to say a word with her mouth pried agape by the dental gag. Unable to move an inch, she must lie there and take it. Her suffering, I sneer, hasn’t even begun.

John is between her legs, cutting off her panties. He says, loudly for Merida to hear, that her pussy is wet. This is a lie, of course, but it works is sending shivers of fear through Merida’s body, her mind imagining what she cannot see.

Her pussy is neatly trimmed, not shaved. Her pussy lips are thick and full. John strokes her muff gently, up and down, like he’s petting a cat. I’m stroking her nipples, hardly touching them, tickling. The effects are immediate, and Merida is soon howling, garbled cries of anguish. Her body stiffens, tenses, and she cums. It was too easy. We haven’t even started yet.

Under normal circumstances, she would push our hands away, curl up, protect herself. She is hyper sensitive, and we both know it. She gasps for breath, but we continue are tickling assault, lightly stroking her cunt, her nipples, touching her nowhere else.

Five minutes later and she cums again, screaming for us to stop. But that’s the last thing our mind. I stop with the nipple games and join John between Merida’s splayed legs. My fingers pinch the fat folds of her cunt, pull them apart, exposing the pink below. I pull them apart, exposing the folds until her clit is revealed, a hard pink nub, as big as a pencil eraser.

Her reaction is desperate, immediate. There is no delay to her screams. John has greased a single finger and is using it to ply around Merida’s thick clit, tapping it, rubbing it, stroking it. He touches her nowhere else, just her clit, just his target, enjoying Merida’s pained cries, her frantic reactions. She cannot twist her hips. She cannot buck or arch or slap away our hands. She can only lay there, spread, and suffer this simple torture, growing more desperate by the minute.

When she cums, she tries to fight, to resist the inevitable. This also has been taken from her. There is no break, no stopping, no pity for her misery. John continues his assault, his finger stroking Merida’s clit as if it were the fragile petal of a flower.

“RGGHHHH!” Merida screams. The pain of being touched so precisely, so softly, is growing worse. “UUGHHH! EEESE OPPPP!” Her screams are screeches of despair. “EEEASE! OOOOPPP! OOOOP! EEEASE!”

Her chest heaves, lurches, her tendons twitch, her muscles continue to spasm in knots and fits. A pool of sweat has gathered in the depression of her neck. Goosebumps cover her tits, her nipples as thick as my thumbs.

Tearing off two strips of duct tape, I paste Merida’s pussy lips to her thighs, not caring how the tape will feel coming off, if ever we decide to remove it. I tape her cunt open, wide, the lips stretch obscenely, leaving John to continue his attack on the thick pink nub of Merida’s hypersensitive clit.

***

At some point before midnight, I straddle Merida’s waist, sitting on her, laughing as the air is pressed from her lungs. I dump the bag of rubber bands on her chest, take one, stretching it, sliding it over the fat globe of her fat right tit, releasing it with a snap.

The rubber contracts, pulling the base of her tit, forcing her breast into a ball that shakes and trembles sloppily on her chest. Another rubber band over the first, then another, the rubber grows tighter, contracting more, squeezing more, her breast ballooning, rounder.

The next rubber band, stretched open in my fingers, the rubber hard and heavy. I place it just above the others, take another, place it over this one, working may way up along the length of her distending breast with another, then another, doubling them over. I place them one over the last, crossing them, working up, then down, watching as her tit grows dark, purple, looking like a tube of sausage. It stands straight up, pointing slightly off to the side, another rubber band, then another, wondering how far I can get her breast to distend, how sharply it might point, how swollen the fat nipple at its pointed end will become.

Merida below me, moaning, screeching, crying, howling. John is still between her legs, tickling her clit, poking it, stroking it. He counts her orgasms, seven, says there’s more, takes a toothbrush, begins to trace it across the nub of nerves. Merida is hysterical, a wreck of a woman, struggling with the pain of her prolonged clit tickling.

Then there’s me, starting on her other tit, working the rubber bands one over the other, snapping them as I release them, ten, twenty, thirty, until her once jiggling tit is compressed into a tight cone of sausage, blue veins crossing beneath the skin, her nipples looking like they’ll explode off her chest.

Surprised at how many rubber bands come in a bag, I begin placing them over both breasts, watching them come together, the veins dark, the skin creased and purple. She wheezes deeply, tears undoubtedly streaming from her eyes, her lungs burning, her body trembling in spasms she can no longer control. Her pussy burns from John’s continued touching, her tits are squeezed terribly, both individually and together. They stand straight up like the pillar of a bridge, dark distorted mounds of purple flesh.

***

By 1 a.m., my fingers are back at her nipples, long and hard, twice as sensitive as before. My fingers dance and trace the distorted tit ends, the pink areolas as wide as coasters, nearly translucent, fading into the darkening tit flesh around them. My fingers continue to tickle and trace until my hard on becomes impossible to stand.

I drop my shorts, straddle Merida’s face, send my cock between her forced-open lips, thrusting to the back of her mouth. Merida gags obscenely. I’m growing longer by the second, pressing my balls to her mouth, cutting off her air, pulling back to let her breath, driving back in, fucking her mouth, her throat, until I blow a cup of cum, pulling out, letting it splash across her mouth, dribble between her lips, forcing her to gag, to try and resist it with her tongue.

When she screams bloody murder I think it’s me, my cock explosion into her mouth. But it’s not me. John has grown tired of tickling her clit with his finger, so he’s rigged a vibrator between her legs, positioning it so it will not move, the tip working Merida’s exposed clit, humming. She tries to pull away from it, to raise her hips and escape it, but she cannot. It buzzes on target, softly, delivering a million tiny caresses to her engorged clit, painful and powerful, driving her to tears and beyond, to orgasms she cannot stop or control.

She’s plugged into the wall, her tits compressed to the point of being disgusting, her body stretch and spread and splayed, the vibrations rocking away, Merida huffing and puffing and screaming, unable to make it stop. We stand up and step back, looking down at the stupid bitch.

Before we leave the room, I apply cloths pin to Merida’s huge nipples, listening to her scream as the springs close, her nipples crushed.

“Do you want them off?” I asked, removing them, rotating them 90 degrees, releasing them again. “Just tell me?” I pull them off again, turn them, reapply them, noting how cruelly they crush her giant tit ends, her engorged and pained nipples, her blue tits.

We turn out the light, say goodnight. We’d check on her in the morning. See if Merida is ready to accept amnesty for fucking us over.