“I do believe that at some point you will have been taught, will have been told, that what you have hanging under you are not 'breasts' or 'boobies' or even 'tits'. I believe that you will have been taught that what you have are disgusting appendages – hooters, bangers, udders and at the very least 'mammaries' – and that the last only applies because of the fact that mammaries apply to animals of the bitch variety. The thought that you have such cute things as 'breasts' and 'boobies' is quite frankly, deeply disturbing and sickening. I believe also, that you have been told and taught at some point that for you to refer to your disgusting and obscene appendages as breasts, or boobs, or boobies is something of an offence as far as we are concerned. And that further to that – that if you were ever heard referring to those 'things' and anything remotely 'decent' which they are not, that you would be punished, fully and completely and to the limits of endurance, and beyond. Can you not remember being taught that much Jugsalina, hmm?”
Dorothea could hear every word spoken by Hooter Tutor – every single word of it was sinking into and tumbling round her psyche. She lifted her head, and then dropped it again – as she did that, it sent her hanging udders into a swing and she cried out and groaned. She tried to compute the words – she did compute the words. But it was all confusing for her. In fairness it was not her own fault that it was confusing for her – that was the thing about those dreams – they threw everything into the mix. The past, the present and the future – and they simply mixed them up. So for her to work out, in those dreams, what she had been taught, was she was being taught and what she would be taught in the future was simply something too far to comprehend for her. If she hadn't been taught that about her disgusting tits, she had now. And then, with that realisation came a slither of something more than fear that seemed to crawl up and down her spine. She had begged and pleaded that her breasts, her boobs and boobies were hurting so much – and that would they please stop hurting her tits like that. She had used all of the words that she was supposed not to use. That slither of something that felt like fear crawled up and down her spine but it was as though her spine was simply being used by that fear so that it could spread itself, maximising its impact through her body. And as she hung there, already with her fun bangs hanging abused to the maximum, she began to tremble. Limply she tried to scrape her stiletto'd feet to gain some kind of foothold in her prose semi hanging state – but that did nothing except torture the tit meat more, and then some more.
“I'm ssssssssorry, pppppppplease, please I'm sorry.”
A ribbon of drool stretched from her attractive smooth red lips to the floor just beneath her – and that ribbon didn't seem to break, or stress at all – simply following her every quiver and tremble, and her every slight swinging move. That ribbon of drool seemed to be fed by more and more of the stuff that over spilled Dorothea's lips adding to its volume.
“Uhm, no dear, at the moment you are simply feeling sorry for yourself because of what the twins have done to you today. You are simply sorry that you are even attached to the things that can be causing you so much distress and pain and anxiety. What we have to do right now, is actually make you sorry for going against all you have been taught, and all you have been shown so far. To even refer to your disgusting obscenities as normal female, normal feminine organs is simply several steps to far and this has to be addressed. I mean I am sure that you understand that, right?”
It was Wendy who had spoken this time. If one were to close ones eyes, it would be like a normal woman speaking. One might not attribute that voice, superior, almost school matronly like, to that of Wendy. It was bizarre in the extreme. It was eerie, it was scary – but the scariest thing was the 'normal' manner in which she spoke – as though she were discussing a trip to the shops or something.
“Y-yes, I understand.... I understand, b-but please please don't hurt my boobies any more please.”
She had done it again. Used a banned word when referring to her udders. But it told of her state of mind in that dream. It told of her state of desperation. The voice, apart from drooling and wet drenched, was almost childlike in the sincerity with which it asked not to be hurt any more. She drooled and begged into the ground because it seemed the strength for her to lift her head in order to beg her tormentors directly had failed her. As soon as she had got her sentence out, in broken, stuttered words she realised and wept within herself again. It was one of the times when she had been taken to the brink. It really didn't, or wouldn't matter how much she tried not to fuck up any more – the chances are she would fuck up. The more desperate she became not to fuck up, the more she fucked up. In reality, even if it was in a dream like reality, she was in a no-win situation. The trouble was that she was actually genuinely, sincerely not wanting to suffer any more – and that inner desperation was driving her. There was no accounting for that, even in this crazy dream she was in.
“Tsk tsk tsk. But anyway – I see no reason why you cannot be made sorry for your latest misdemeanour’s right now. I mean there is no time like the present – and you are here – all weeping and crying and begging, and making mistake after mistake after mistake. I mean we might just as well tag your latest punishment session onto the one that you have just had to endure. I am pretty sure that you won't be forgetting this day in a hurry, hmmmm Jugsalina?”
Wendy again – almost revelling in Dorothea's anxiety and distress. Dorothea not managing an answer, not a legible one anyway – just a grunt. A grunt that sent another ripple of drool into the existing ribbon. One might get the impression that she wanted to plead her case again – just maybe one more time and she could find the right words and then this time it would work. Wendy and Hooter Tutor would glance at each and nod, as though they 'got it' at least and as though they then would simply agree that enough was enough. That poor Dorothea had suffered enough and now she should be allowed to wake into the real world. It was like, inside Dorothea's mind she might be given a concession in that dream but in the back of her mind, both Wendy and the other freak would share secret smiles, secret nods because that concession would just be taken right back when she got back into the real world. The dream world was one thing, the real world was something else altogether. Another sign of the state of her mind – her melting mind. She still had some way to go before the penny actually dropped that there would be no concessions not in any world. Not in the dream world, nor in the real world. The penny would drop eventually – she would learn that she was simply in for a whole new world of hurt and anxiety on a daily basis. But obviously her mind had not yet been melted quite enough. It was like Wendy was reading her mind.
“Give it up Jugsalina – don't waste your breath or your efforts. There is no way out. You have made yet another mistake, another 'faux par' and, well you simply have to pay for it. It's not like you were not told or taught the right way. So... with that in mind, I am going to hand you right back to the twins again. Myself and Hooter Tutor here will simply enjoy a chilled glass of white wine and watch the lesson being applied. I can understand that you are going to be distraught, scared, and even desperate not to suffer anymore – at least not for today. But, well just one little piece of advice. Just close your eyes, and smile – simply take it – learn your lesson and then we can move on. I do feel obliged to tell you, if you make the same mistake twice – I mean for instance, if you ever refer to your appendages in the decent non-obscene way again, well then the punishment becomes several fold worse than what you are about to get. No need to answer. I know you can hear me and I know you can understand me.”
Dorothea was breathing slowly – deeply but slowly – and she was looking at the floor. Or more accurately she was watching the ribbon of drool from her mouth collect into a pool under her. The pool getting bigger and bigger. It hadn't broken. All that time and with all that she had gone through that drool ribbon hadn't broken. Even when she shifted her downward gaze slightly and altered the angle of her head painfully to look at her poor, poor hooters, hanging and semi swing
ing, that drool ribbon hadn't broken. But now it did. Now it broke – and when it did it was like everything happened in slow motion. Super slow motion. The very end of the leather braided bullwhip came into her field of view and it was curled back. It had been launched from some way back and just the very end of it could be seen. Curled back, and as though like some kind of coiled snake, like a cobra ready to strike. It seemed to come in from the side and then 'hover' just out from the extended downward thrusting nipple of one of the breasts. It was like the whip had been launched with micro accurate precision and that coil was there, just poised and posed ready for the crack back. When the crack back happened, again it was like slow motion in that the end of the whip, weighted with a flail of tiny ball bearings, seemed to uncoil and then wrap itself around the very base of the nipple. This seeming to happen in slow motion but in reality it happening in less than the blink of an eye. The wrap around and then the crack back and then what could not be called an explosion of pain – more like an eruption as the whip wrapped itself tight, and in the micro split second before the crack back, those tiny ball bearings slashing into the already tortured, speckled areola of the breast tip. The pain was instant even if the actual action seemed like a silent, harmless slow motion. Then the crack back, the twin timing the pull back with the slash of the ball bearings ensuring maximum pain. Dorothea sucking in air, then opening her mouth wide in readiness to expel the most nerve shattering scream. In the event all that happened with the momentum of the whip lash and the resulting ripple of the breast and the utter shock of her head, was that the drool broke.
No sound came out. No sound came out because before it could another whip was hovering ready to curl around the other nipples. As the pain from the first was shooting through her nerves, so the crack back and the pull back of the other nipples was wracking her. Even through her mortified horror, as she looked down, the violence of the whip lashes was evident in the amount of distortion applied as the whip wrapped itself around the nipple's base and then the ball bearings slashing into the delicate tortured flesh. But even more than that, the pull back and the extra distortion of the nipple as it was pulled and almost detached from the areola. Dorothea, in her new found desperation managed to lift her head and through tears, and some blubbering could see the twins. They were not even standing – they were sitting on the floor, casually leaning back on one elbow whilst their free arms worked a heavy bull whip each. It might seem that the heavy snake like bullwhip were a bit of overkill for what seemed to be a bit of nipple torture. But no – it was the accuracy and the deadly ease with which the tiny twins handled and applied the whips that told of the absolute right choice of implement for this kind of application. There was a casualness with which they simply recoiled the whips back in and then flung their arms, almost with no effort and yet all of that energy obviously travelling through the wrists and transferring through the braided leather – all the way down the full length of it, sending the coils on their outward journey again and then to that hovering, spiteful like stance before the final slashing. Dorothea had thought that no more pain could have been applied to her breasts than that had been applied with the slingshots. She had been wrong. So wrong. All of that micro accurate energy sent down those coil of heavy leather and to the very ends of the whips. And it was JUST the very end, like the last few inches of leather that actually came into contact with the nipples and areola flesh, but that energy having travelled the full length and then concentrated into that few inches and into those ball bearings – that energy being maximised and then doubled on the pull back, distorting the nipples and tugging them. For two hours, the twins would work solely on those nipples and the raised speckled area around them. Such was the manner and method of application that there was no letting off, or easing of the pain. There was no easy part of it – when the nipples became so sore and pain filled that they simply became numb – that did not happen, would not happen. The twins simply took their time – and casually tortured Dorothea – and as they did that, they smiled to each other. They loved this – they loved to cause big titted women hurt and then more hurt. It was only very, very eventually that Dorothea slipped into something like sleep before the waking process began again. Waking into the real world. No shard of light to signify the dream. That was a relief. No shard of light and yet... the hurt there, still there in her head and in her mind.
Chapter Five
Going back to Lucy the Tailor should have been a good thing for Jugs. The chance to get out again, into the normal world – but it was all different now. Everything was different because she wasn't being held at Hooter School any more. She was less than a stone’s throw away from her house – and her old life but she couldn't get there. It was a worse torture than being taken out of the real world in the first place. Still being out of the real world – like still being held in a 'non-place' but within sight, within that stone’s throw of her old life, but still unable to get back there. As close as its possible to get to existing in a parallel universe but without actually being in one. A worse torture it would be hard to imagine – like being 'locked in'. Like have that 'locked in' syndrome, where someone is in a living coma but everyone thinks you're dead. You can see people, hear people, you can even feel the world go by, but you cannot communicate with the outside world. And much worse the outside world thinks you're dead so they are discussing the turning off of the life support system. Right by your bed, those people are discussing turning off your life support system – and inside your head you are screaming and screaming and screaming 'no no I'm alive, just take a closer look at my eyes, look there's life in my eyes please just look'. But they don't. The doctor is just explaining that you can be kept alive on a machine forever, but really there is no life there – nor will there be any quality of life. But you are screaming, inside your mind you are screaming for them to take a closer look. But it’s no good – they can't hear you and they are not looking, not seeing that little spark of life that is in your eyes. This is the same for Jugs – living like that within just the smallest grasp of her old life. The difference being that she could scream and shout – yes she could do that if she had wanted. She would have been able to scream and shout from that window that her udders had been trapped in. I mean, she had been trapped there long enough as the twins had had some fun with her. Her hooters squeezed and compressed by the window - her on her knees, face pressed up against the glass – her lips sliding along the glass like she was seducing it, kissing it. Always her eyes flicking over, drawn to the roof top of her house that she could see. If she flicked her eyes in the other direction she could see roof tops there too.
Through the tiny thin gap in the window that her udders were trapped and pressed in she could hear sounds of someone going round on one of those motorised lawn mowers. The lawns in that street were big lawns – way too big for manual machines – every house in that street, millionaire's row had a sit on mower and a gardener that used it. It was just the way it was. Just the way it had to be with grounds and landscaped grounds that existed there. Hearing that sound, that sound from the normal world made the torture worse for Jugsalina. Made the temptation to shout out loud so strong. Scream and shout even, just scream and scream until the person on the sit on mower heard and then investigated. Yes it would be so easy. At least it would have been if the silktex was not one step ahead of her – that silktex then giving her more than a 'loving' squeeze inside before squirting something, a fluid, inside her womb, and her bowels. Something that at first felt wet and comforting but then seemed to expand as it heated up, and then burn as it filled her. It made her feel, overwhelmingly like she needed to evacuate whatever it was inside her. Like the overwhelming need to evacuate an enema. Except that there was no such option in this case. The silktex reading the signs, reading her mind and then eliciting its own kind of instant punishment. A cruel punishment that seemed to last an age and a half. But nothing so cruel, nothing so mind numbingly cruel as that sound of that lawn mower getting louder and louder �
�� as though it was getting closer and closer – and then the sight of it, in Wendy's own grounds, coming round and over a sweeping brow of grass, Wendy on it, driving it and as she got closer waving, with like a huge smile on her face. Like she 'knew' what she had been thinking. Like she 'knew' where she was in her head space. It was as though that particular thing, just hearing that outside noise would make escape, or obtaining help seem all so possible for her and all she had to do was scream at the top of her voice. And then, that little bit of hope being snatched away from her. The using of those sounds, and the outside world as a torture in itself. Using Dorothea's desperation to get back to the real world as a torture within this nightmare she had been taken too and trapped in. Yes trapped in, like her tits trapped in that window. The weight of the overhang, and the gravity dragging them over and down towards the ground some twenty or so feet below. Consequently there was no scream, or bellow for help. There was no gut wrenching scream for the life support system not to be switched off. Inside her mind she wished the life support system COULD be switched off. But that wasn't an option any more than evacuating the enema was. She simply had to stay on her trembling knees as Wendy smiled and waved up, all 'normal'. Her knees being forced wide and the twins taking it in turns to 'play' with her between the legs. Basically taking it in turns to sexually assault her. Even though, her rear hole and her sexuality were filled and controlled by the silktex, it was still a fact that she was being played with by these two little twin, creatures. Dorothea dared to think of them as creatures even through the hell that she was going through.
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