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?!
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