Mega Tits 1

by DrkFetyshNyghts

  “Moooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaooooooooo.”

  More deep breaths taken and breaths held as that forlorn, pitiful sound of the wounded cow filled the high walled garden. Head Hooter Girl taking her in on the path, just coaxing her with the odd light tug of the leash. Dorothea not looking up – simply allowed to exist in her extreme humiliation and degradation. It wasn't like that little bit of her had been taken away from her. The bit where she still knew what was happening to her. The bit where she knew full well what was happening to and with her. The bit that made it possible to experience the level of humiliation and dehumanisation that would be impossible for anyone to imagine. Jugsalina taken slowly through the crowd, her bulk rubbing up against the expensively nylon sheathed calves of women who were looking at her – with a kind of pity. But not the kind of pity that would mean that they would help her any time soon. Rather the kind of pity that would show anyone who knew, or anyone that had a second sense about these things, that yes they felt sorry for her – but that it was all her own fault. Nothing else but her fault and that she must have deserved to be in this predicament suffering this torment.

  “This ladies and gentlemen is the creature called Jugsalina. Not her best day – she is currently under punishment regime. But then all of my girls, all of my creatures come under some kind of punishment regime at some time or other.”

  There was a pause – just a minute pause in which Hooter Tutor looked directly at Head Hooter Girl. And in that minute pause, Cheryl's eyes dropped to the floor. The comment was meant to penetrate there somewhere, and it did. Something was happening between the two. Or passing between the two. One could not be sure about it – what 'it' was or whether it even existed. But just in that very brief moment – there was 'something'.

  “Please enjoy Jugs – the business can wait till later.”

  Chapter Three

  Hooter School Open Day .. continued;

  Later that day, the sun was setting – it was always a spectacular sunset from that garden. That was why the garden had been built and set there. It didn't face south, or east as seemed to be the trend with people who were property hunting. It faced west – it faced the setting of the sun. And, there were never two sunsets the same – never two days exactly the same. It depended on the weather, the air quality, pollution from the city about twenty miles away. It depended on cloud cover – the type of cloud. On very rare occasions there was no sunset at all. But it was very rare that the cloud cover was so thick that there was no sunset to see. Even less occasionally the rain obliterated the landscape and the skyscape and there was nothing to see. Nothing to see at all. On occasions like this one had to guess where the sun was in the sky – and that was quite easy to achieve because as the sun faded towards the horizon, it just seemed to get darker and darker – then as though all of a sudden, ping – the lights went out. The most spectacular sunsets occurred when there was thin, broken cloud cover – then the disc of the setting sun was broken up into irregular segments and sections. Thin broken cloud and varying density pollution made for also hypnotic sunsets – and this was the kind of sunset that was happening on this night. People milling around – still drinking sparkling, or still wine from expensive crystal flutes. There were little huddles of people involved in deep hushed conversations – the content of which could only be guessed at. One might mill round too, just idly make ones way from group to group to see if there were any interesting tit-bits to pick up – pun intended. The path, 'that' path had taken on something of a strange and 'glowing' air with the setting sun. Everything else seemed to be being thrown into lengthening shadows but the white stones of the path, they seemed to be a brighter white and at the same time they seemed glow a dim orange with the setting sun. In fact the whole effect had a weird, surreal Wizard of Oz feel to it. In that tale the path was the yellow brick road. This path though was not so twisty, or winding – and it was white and at the same time glowing orange. It had the kind of orange hue, as though there were some kind of aura surrounding it, or covering it in some way. And yet, a closer look at that path and the bright whiteness gave way to the millions of shadows that the sharp stones created. And then there was something else as well. There were the plough lines – the plough lines that had occurred as Jugs had crawled painfully slowly up that path and into the garden. Those were the plough lines, or the tram lines caused by her caged, squeezed, tortured tits. At first they were just plough lines – and for anyone in that get together they were easy to work out. But a closer look, where the caged udders had ploughed the stones up, sweeping them into a long pile either side of the plough lines – deep inside the furrow, there were other lines – sharper lines of stones that had been ploughed on a secondary basis. Those narrower, sharper plough lines were where Dorothea's nipple teats had dug down into the stones, into the first plough furrow created by the caged super mounds. Where they had penetrated the stones deeper and were ploughing deeper – making their own lines. If one were to look at that path, and those lines, and the deeper lines, one would be able to see that Dorothea had been led up the centre of that path expertly and perfectly – the lines barely going off kilter. The only imperfection, if it could be called an imperfection was where her knees had dragged behind her. Those knee marks kind of spoilt the symmetry. But at the same time they didn't spoil that symmetry. Where the knees had dragged and broken up the perfect lines of the plough, they kind of added an imperfect perfection. Certainly that evening as the sun set, that path was telling a story. Telling a story of a tortuous journey made by an unfortunate human being. An unfortunate female human being. There could be more to be gleamed from that path – a closer look maybe would reveal the droplets of blood, mixed in with the dusty whiteness of the sharp stones. Those droplets and trails of blood coming from the nipples mostly. But also from the breast flesh, where it bulged and squeezed through the square, criss crossed bars of the cages they were shrink wrapped in. That closer inspection would indeed reveal that that journey, that slow cumbersome, almost barbaric journey was more painful, more tortuous than it looked at first glance and when it was actually happening.

  “Ohhhhh I just MUST have another go at this – this is just TOO much fun.”

  It was that woman again – the one who had been shocked almost speechless when Dorothea had made her entrance. Or rather when Jugsalina had been taken into the garden on her entrance. Jugs wasn't crawling around anymore with her tits dragging on the ground. One might suspect that she was doing just that because when she had been brought up the path and then into the garden proper, Head Hooter Girl had left the path and taken Jugs onto the softness of the slightly mildewy grass. That had been like a huge comfort to her. Indeed her sounds of distress, at least for a little while, in contrast with the ones as she had been taken up the path, were ones of, if not pleasure, then some relief. Though one might suspect quite rightly that the grass, or her being led onto it was not designed for her comfort in any way shape or form. But Dorothea was not on the path, nor the grass any more. She wasn't even on her hands and knees. That very fact, given the condition and status of her hooters might have been cause for concern in the first instance. She was on a plinth – what looked to be a round column of intricately designed cement. The top of the plinth set at a height that when kneeling on it, Dorothea's hooters were placed at a height and position convenient. Convenient for what one might ask.

  “Just one more go, please just one more go and then someone else can have a turn.”

  The woman's posh voice was loud and pierced the evening air, kind of spoiling the serenity. The voice was annoying for more than one reason. Yes it spoilt that calm sereneness that otherwise existed but it was also that it took on an air of petulance. This was a grown mature woman who was acting and coming across like a spoilt brat. Indeed the vision of the woman would not fit in with the voice on this occasion. Dorothea was on her knees on the hard, flat top of the plinth with her knees placed wide apart. Indeed, all of her weight was on those knees since those wer
e her only point of contact with anything solid. That is, anything that would be supporting her weight. The worry, or disturbing thing about it was that she appeared simply to be 'balancing' solely on her knees and not only that, but that constant need to balance was taking its toll on her. Her arms had been brought up behind her in the reverse prayer position. Brought behind her to her back, bent at the elbows and then hands secured back to back so that her long slender fingers pointed directly up the centre of her spine. Those finger tips actually coming to rest, almost, but not quite, at the base of her neck. Her wrists, and arms secured to her torso, as though she were being flat packed. But the result of this was that her arms were of no use to her balancing at all. Indeed some concerted and tortuous effort had to be put in by her – and this was showing on her face. Her face was a mask of pain. Once one got used to the sight of that positive smile painted on, it was easy to see past that to the pain. It was there – on the face as well as the smile – and mostly it was behind the eyes – coming through from the eyes. It could be seen. But also what could be seen were the little ribbons of drool – bubbly drool that seemed to collect at the corners of her smiling mouth and then just collect there before spilling down the sides of her chin. There was a noise coming from her. Not quite the mooing sounds that she had been making on the tortuous journey up the path – but, they were noises that threatened to get more loud, more acute the longer she was forced to adopt this position.

  The plinth, and Jugs kneeling on it, supporting her was something of an optical illusion. Oh, the weight, the weight of herself on the plinth on her knees was real – that could not be the subject of an illusion at all. But her balance – well her balance was being 'aided'. One has to say it was being aided because that was the truth. But also the truth was the fact that she was not being aided out of concern for her – or out of the fact that she was in dire need of help. Possibly the tiniest of concessions had been made – Dorothea's udders had been taken out of the cages. Well, it would be more accurate to say that those tortuous shrunken squeezed cages had been taken off her mammaries. That could have been a blessing in disguise, or an unholy torture in another guise. Without knowing exactly what the poor woman was feeling, or experiencing, well it was difficult to judge what was what. There will have been the release of all of that pressure. Like releasing the pressure for a crush victim. That spurt and flow of blood would have been like sending a red hot knife through sensitive vulnerable flesh. And it was that because it was during the release of the two cages that Dorothea let out her loudest, most cow like moo sounds. The wounded animal was indeed a wounded animal. In a strange way that she had become used to the constriction of the cages and the way they supported and caged her hooters in their own way. The release was a torture all of its own. But then so was the placing of those udders in the huge glass case. At least it looked like a huge glass case. In effect she was being made a display of. Her honkers fed into the glass display case and then rested on the glass floor of the case. This glass case was suspended, by almost invisible wires – it was these wires, or the lack of sight of these wires, and the apparent floating glass case, and then the hugely mammaried woman kneeling on the points of her knees that added to the illusion that she was unaided. In point of fact the glass case was helping her to remain upright. There would be no way that Jugs would be able to kneel upright with her hands and arms back in reverse prayer, and support herself on that plinth. She would inevitably topple over with her severely top heavy status. Her udders were 'splodged' out in the display case and they seemed to fill this case. Indeed it would be difficult to believe that this case had been designed and made for anything but Dorothea's grotesquely enlarged hooters. The crystal clear glass provided a super enhanced view of those hooters. Super enhanced and some. They were marked and dented from the cages. The square grooves caused by the tightness of the cage bars to the breasts were prominent and made the flesh meat look like it had been shrink wrapped, and then unwrapped. But there was also the transparency of the flesh – except even more so. And the rock hardness of the nipple teats. Dorothea was on 'display' for all to see. Except she wasn't just there to see. She was there to touch and to feel as well. There were circular hand holes cut in the front glass. On a stand, just to the side of the 'display' was a sign – very neatly printed in a scroll type font

  “PLEASE FEEL FREE TO HELP YOURSELF – LITERALLY”.

  The sign inviting curious hands to enter and explore the flesh that was those hooters. The breast flesh just lying there in that case, the flesh of the two honkers mingling and merging and because of that, it being difficult to tell where one breast ended and the other began. The woman being the first to slide her hand in. Kind of softly, just smoothing her palms over the tops of the piles of flesh. Smoothing one way and then the other. Then stroking the nipple teats – over the tip of them, and then using her finger tips to push and prod the very tips, the most sensitive parts of the nipples. Right in. Just poking a little and kind of giggling when the flesh seemed to come alive and twitch. Her biggest giggle and the cause of her biggest gleeful shouts came when seemingly out of nowhere in the case, two metallic hands lowered from the top edge of the inside of the case. They hadn't been there before. It had just been a glass case – a display case. But this was another sign of the weirdness and the surreality of the world that Dorothea had been brought into and was now part of. The metallic hands seeming to come down and mirror the movements of the woman's hands. Claw like fingers – five fingers to each hand and yet as human in form that these robotic hands were – no two fingers the same. Each finger having its own 'trick' to divulge. The woman pointed her right index finger – just simply flicked it out and straight and there was like a mini lightning storm in that case. The lightening though only having one target, that being the very tips of the nipples. Both nipples almost lighting up with that one flick of the finger. The lightening emerging from that one mirrored robotic finger. The flesh of the hooters coming to life with the continuous feed of electricity. One would be sure, that if the hooters could have screamed out then they would have. The woman flicked her other index finger and both robotic hands moved down as though to stroke the breast flash but inside whipped across them leaving angry red lines. The tit flesh twitched again and Dorothea's eyes sprang open as the pain messages got through to her mind – and to the little part of her that was left. She smiled that lipstick smile but she was being wrecked on an increasing basis. The pain of that position she was in and what her hooters were enduring in that display case can only be guessed at. It was only after a little short while of the woman having her fun that Dorothea let out another of those extended, pitiful mooing sounds. The crowd was growing – or should that be the queue was growing around the woman. Those mammaries were in a glass, magic box of tricks and there were plenty but plenty of willing perverts ready to take up the opportunity of working on the legend and having some fun with that legend.

  Next Day;

  There was no 'class time' the next day. That could have been a good thing in that at least Jugs's hooters would not have to be pressed and squeezed into that desk vice thing that was a normal part of her 're-schooling'. Indeed, no class time would be a welcome respite from the monotonous, continuous and relentless abuse that Dorothea's hooters were being put through at that place. Except that if there was no class that day then something had to take its place. Usually a no class day meant that there would be an 'activity day' instead. That didn't give the impression that there would be any kind of let up of focus on those impressively grotesque hooters of Jugs.

  “This is all your fault. All your fault – making Me, Chest suffer like this. I will make sure you rue the day we met. I've done nothing but try to help you and this is what I get in response – more grief. Oh fuck you are going to be so, so sorry. I am going to make sure, when you come home to Me and the twins that you suffer to the end of your natural days – and beyond. If you think you'll be allowed to just slip away then you are sadly mistaken. Slip away won'
t even come into it for you. God I am going to make you suffer. I could end it for you any time I wanted – and can do that any time I want. But that just is not going to happen. You just wait cunt you just wait... oh goddddd this is all yourrrrrrr fault you freak of a bitch.”

  It was a little ironic that a voice, an electrified voice that belonged to Wendy, who in turn had taken on the persona of a thing called Chest – that was in fact, at least in her own mind, now the sole operator and controller of Dorothea's massive hooters – that she in fact WAS the persona of those hooters and was feeding her voice into tiny little speakers in Dorothea's ears – well it was a little ironic that this woman was the one labelling Dorothea a freak. Surely that should have been the other way around? The voice simply droned on and on inside Dorothea's head. She heard it – she heard it all but she was in too much distress to do anything about. In too much distress and pain even to think about it. Chest's voice filling her mind, filling her head had just become like a part of her life. It wasn't as though Chest herself could further any torture – the torture by Chest was that voice. Constantly blaming Jugs – constantly pointing the figurative finger at her. Piling on the guilt, piling on the blame. It had come to the point where yes, Dorothea did blame herself. She did know it was all her fault. She did know that she had no-one else to blame. But what she couldn't quite work out was what was all her fault? What was she all to blame for? What didn't she have anyone else to blame for? Those were the things that she couldn't quite work out. She knew that she was responsible – for all of it. But not what all of it was? Maybe a sign that that little bit of herself that was left inside her melted mind was being eroded away.