“Mmmmm gggghhhh gggghhhhh mmmmmmmm hhhhhhhhhh.”
Those deep sounds of distress again. But what the melted mind, nor that little bit of herself that was deep in the back of her mind hadn't worked out yet was that this was how she would be bedded and rested every single night she was remained at Hooter School. What she hadn't worked out yet was that the sooner she passed those final exams, the sooner she would be out of it. Or possibly another case of out of the frying pan and into the fire.
One might have been forgiven for thinking that some mercy might have been shown. Hooter Tutor knew it all – she knew what agonies and torments each and every girl went through in that place. She made it her business to know – and yet she had put extra special attention into Jugs' syllabus – more especially so for her second term at Hooter School. But there was no room for a thing called mercy in there anywhere. The whole night, ten hours of it in that god awful screaming hell of a position whilst her hooters and whilst Chest lapped up the luxury – and then, the horror and the hell only continuing the next day, every day.
“You didn't think it would be the same uniform as before now surely you didn't Jugs. I mean for gods sakes, you dropped out. You FAILED. The only failure this school has EVER had the misfortune to document. A big uddered whore coming to the school to learn about the error of her ways and then FAILING in that learning. You can't seriously think that your old uniform would be here and waiting for you now surely? It’s a drop-out uniform for a drop-out.”
Head Hooter Girl talked to Jugs as though with an air of incredulity about her voice. Like she was guffawing even the notion that Jugs would slip right back into that old uniform. It made her smile, it made her snigger, it made her sneer even. Dorothea felt strangely comforted by being in HHG 's presence. If asked why or how she wouldn't be able to say. She simply felt a closeness to her – they had spent a lot of time together the first time round. Dorothea had been HHG's little project – she had been her little 'pet' and she had in a strange way become close to her. There had been a closeness that was again hard to explain – or put one's finger on, but it was there. It had stayed with Jugs in her first time at the School and then after she left. Again not an easy thing to put one's finger on. HHG had been cruel in so many ways to Dorothea and yet, she felt something for her – like often a victim falls for their abuser – but it was more even than that. There was a similarity about the uniform – it was a uniform that was breast focussed. Not so much breast focussed as a uniform that allowed full and total access, whether it be visual access, or physical access of the hooters in all their glory. By in all their glory, it is meant that they were enhanced, enhanced and 'dressed' to the maximum – but now they were bigger, They were bigger and more voluminous than ever. The holes that they had to fit through were the same standard size and so getting all of that tit meat through there – getting it through there so that the re-enforced holes would grip and distort the udder bases was a harder and more painful thing. It was also a daily thing. A daily thing after the horror of how Jugs was forced to spend the night. And then in the morning, allowed a brief respite to shower, clean herself up and then be helped to redress, again her aid, her helper the Head Hooter Girl aka Cheryl. The pain, and discomfort even after the most comfortable and sublime night they had had, for the breasts, getting them to the point where the holes were gripped at the base was bad enough – but then there were the drawstrings. They looked just like ribbon enhanced drawstrings – how could they possibly cause those immense pieces of udder meat any pain or discomfort? The holes of the tunic were doing a good enough job of that. But somehow, in some way the drawstrings, or the ribbons as they were, were special. They had to be tied and tightened, and they were. But even the slightest tug of the two ends of one drawstring was enough to tighten and squeeze the base of the breast ten or twenty times more. The flesh indenting and at the same time feeding all of the pressure through the udder tissue and behind the areola and the teats. The effect instant. HHG seemingly enjoying and savouring the drawstring process – giving her little tugs, then one or two more and then tying them off. Making what could be a quick, but intense job, very slow and very intense instead. The jugs distorting, the nipple teats pinging and those ever there throbs intensifying and turning into spasms of pain.
“Soooooo pretty.”
Head Hooter Girl, much younger than Dorothea using a patronising, humiliating and degrading tone as she tied off the big fluffy bow. Fluffy and silky – pink silky bows that rested, one each on the top of each globe of humongous tit mound. The rest of the uniform doing the job of supporting the overhang of vein and milk duct riddled flesh. Dorothea's smile wide and formed of a perfectly made up red lipstick mouth. The drawstrings and ribbons doing a further supporting role – like as though all that was needed was the scaffolding – except that it wasn't needed. The hooters perfect. Perfectly supported – perfectly uplifted and perfectly spread and with perfect, symmetrical bows on top like they made up Christmas packages for some lucky, breast enthused guy, or woman. Like a package already to be opened up and 'enjoyed'. Like a package that was to be enjoyed but in ways that defied the constraints of the normal world. Those hooters, out and proud and after a good night’s rest which is what they got, ready to take on the world. Chest whispering sweet nothings into a tortured Dorothea's ears on a constant basis – just reminding her of her place in the world from this time on. Reminding her that she was reduced, and then reduced just a little bit more – even lower than she was before. The silktex both inside her and outside playing its part. Inside, the organic life form that was the silktex expanding – hurting her, making her stance more upright. The pain so directed and so intense that she could do nothing but improve her deportment. Outside the silktex cinching the waist tighter, working with and against the silktex inside her. The corsetry expanding and elongating up the line of her spine enforcing the curve and emphasising and enhancing the thrust of her enormous hooters. That silktex creeping up, strengthening the spine, but not to make it more comfortable – rather forcing into the most unnatural arch – the deportment most unnatural, most debilitating and at the same time most humiliating and degrading. The corsetry live, and creeping and seeming to 'know' where and how to rearrange Dorothea in order that she present the best, and most stupendous hooters that she could for all at Hooter School to see. Creeping up and yet invisible to the naked eye, between the shoulder blades, some kind of added pressure applied directly between the shoulder blades so that she was forced to thrust out even more. More creeping of that silktex, up the back of her neck and wrapping around just under her ears so that her neck, the turn of her head and the angle of her head was controlled. The pressure between her shoulder blades making her arms and hands hang limply at her sides – just slightly bent at the elbows and hanging – the hanging of the arms and the clenching and unclenching of her hands and fists making her appear subjugated – making her appear more than subjugated. Giving her an air of being ready for inspection. But not ready for simply a one off inspection but rather, constantly ready and deported for inspection – as though her appearance and how she came across when dressed, made up and ready for School was of the utmost importance. That it wasn't just her 'learning' whilst she was there – or her passing her final exams, but also – also the way she looked – the way she came across and the way she presented herself. The way she presented herself and looked was enforced – it was a training thing – one that would make her stand and present herself in a certain way. Those stupendous bangers out in front of her like huge tidal waves of flesh.
Those bangers being the very, absolute hyper centre of her attraction. Everything, every little piece of attention drawn to those massive, yet obscene udders. Terrible, terrible adapted and modified udders that had still even now, some growing to do. That stance, that deportment further enhance by the impossible high heels that she was laced into. Knee length boots, that might have been described as 'ballet boots' in the normal fetish world. But this wasn't the normal f
etish world and these boots were beyond even ballet in style. In the normal fetish world, the feet so arched that the weight was forced onto the very tip toes. But these boots beyond that – forcing an overarch of the feet and the toes into a concave arch on themselves. The heels of these boots deliberately and cruelly pencil thin to make balance and maintaining balance a constant issue. The boots extending and enhancing the already long shapely legs and yet that enhancing not for vanity purpose – the purpose of the boots to create the biggest hell in an already tortured spine.
And yet stand back – just stand back and there was the Hooter Schoolgirl again, already to start a new term. All ready for inspection and all ready for her lessons to begin. This dressing up, this preparation a daily routine, a daily ritual. The lipstick smile there – yes that was there despite the despair and the agonies that must have been filling every single nerve ending that she possessed. And yet as well there was the conflict and the confusion. At night, her breasts would be molly coddled, bathed and bedded in the utmost of luxury – they would be given every single luxury whilst their transport system, i.e. Dorothea would simply suffer more and more – and then in the day time, during the day those breasts, those hooters, those jugs of feminine mammary flesh would be made to suffer as well. They would be made to suffer in ways that would tell Dorothea that it was all her own fault – she only had herself to blame. Her breasts were suffering because of the lifestyle that she used to lead – because of the teasing and the tormenting that she used to inflict on men and boys and girls and women. She was suffering because of the suffering that she had inflicted on others. She had begged and pleaded, and she had laid bare her soul to get back into Hooter School and now she had been accepted back in for another go at the finals exams that she had failed so miserably. The problem was that she had begged and pleaded and laid her soul bare based on her first stay at the school. Yes that had been bad – it had been worse than bad – but that way she knew what to expect – she was kind of prepared for it – what she would go through and what would be expected of her. She had forgotten the warning that Hooter Tutor had given her all that time ago – that it wouldn't be good if she failed her first final. That the second time round if there was one, would not be an easy thing for her to go through. Hooter Tutor hadn't made much of it – it had been a passing comment – just a few seconds out of the hell that Dorothea was going through at the time. But she had forgotten it – it had gone out of her mind – it had gone out of her head. If she had remembered maybe she wouldn't have begged so sublimely – maybe just maybe she would not have begged at all. Maybe she would have just simply taken what was coming to her. Taken it gratefully and willingly. Maybe she would have taken the failure and then taken whatever fate was ready for her. But that was it, how it had happened, or how it had transpired. She had begged and pleaded, and she had put her soul on the line – and she had been accepted back into Hooter School. But the problem was that she was accepted in on a level that she had no idea existed. Jugs head was exploding – all of that pain, all of that enhanced stance pain, inside, outside, the humiliation the degradation was making her head wanting to explode. The humiliation never died away. One thought that it might – one might be only be able to take so much degradation and humiliation before it became ineffective – before it didn't work anymore. But that wasn't the case. She was feeling it like she had never felt it before.
“Let the lessons begin.”
Head Hooter Girl, smiled sweetly at Jugs.
Chapter Four - Dreamland
Jugsalina was on a huge leather seat that looked as though it had been specially adapted for her. Her hooters had been modified, and fine-tuned to quadruple M in size and they seemed to dwarf her otherwise Amazonian stature. She seemed to be surrounded and submerged in tit flesh. She was sitting, but her stupendous udders, which were impossible to hide, or disguise were just there – just there right on her lap. And with every single little movement that she made there was a ripple of flesh that seemed to emanate from where each breast was attached to the chest of Jugsalina, and then out over the huge, waving, rippling pool of flesh. Like mini tidal waves – or not so mini, of the soft succulent and yet almost translucent flesh toward the things that on the tip of each breast used to resemble nipples. But right at this particular time they did not look so much like nipples as hard and erect weapons of mass destruction – ready to launch from their fleshy, raised speckled areola and into the mind of some poor, poor unsuspecting man who had been worshipping those breasts, for years, from afar – and was now simply a 'capture' of the woman, or the thing that used to be Dorothea.
There it was – the shard of light again. Slightly different angle this time which lent to the theory that it was sunlight squeezed through a tiny gap in a window – or a wall, or something. It seemed to come from higher angle, shearing down and then that tiny shaft of light 'splashing' over the floor before fading out.
The fact was that, in this dream, Jugsalina's breasts had been enlarged and engorged to impossible, and probably life threatening proportions. She had been through the modification process and then way beyond that. It seemed that her old forty double D breasts were from another life, another world. Even in this dream she thought that perhaps she had dreamt those old days. The days when she was a different vibrant woman. Before the days when she had been plunged into despair by Wendy and the twins. It was funny really, weird even because in this dream, the one of her sitting in this specially adapted chair sitting in the 'pool' of her own rippling waving tit flesh – she had been through all of that horror. She had experienced it, and she must have experienced it pretty recently because it was still there all lucid and clear and with crystal clear clarity in her mind. But this was different – she wasn't in that world of despair, she was still in control, kind of. She was still queen of her own udders. And that was how she felt, sitting in that chair, her hooters just pooled and spread around her. She felt like a queen, or something. But that could have been due to the smile that had been painted on to her perfectly made up face. Carrying hooters like that can only have been a burden, and a lot of very hard and painful work. But the expression on Dorothea's face was one of contentment – like somewhere inside that mind of hers, she thought that all of the pain and discomfort was worth it and would be worth it forever and more. Her attractive face, perfectly made up. It would be difficult even for a makeup artist to pick any kind of fault with the makeup. The eye makeup perfectly applied, heavy yes, but perfect. The foundation pale but which served to accentuate the high cheek bones which had been brushed with blusher – and then the lips. The glorious lips, to which all of that positivity bowed and cowed. They were perfect too, mainly coloured with a base deep, deep blood red, but to make them appear even more fuller, had been outlined and pencilled with an even darker, almost black red – if that makes sense. Those lips were not just perfectly made up, but they were 'posed' to perfection as well. Spread into a wide, slightly curled up smile and then those lips, just parted a little – just peeled apart, gloss from gloss and held just like that with the tiniest peeks of bright white teeth inside the warm wet confined of her mouth. But then those tiniest peeks of bright white teeth couldn't be compared to the very slight, very occasional peeks of the tip of her thick, fleshy tongue. That was in there as well and sometimes just showed itself with the tip to the corner of her red mouth. Or a slash across the width of her bottom lip. Or even, more rare again was when the tongue slid out, curled up and slipped across the semi-inside of her top lip. And always but always accompanied by that smile. It was weird again, funny even that although that smile, that wide lipstick smile barely changed or altered, when it was accompanied by that little show of wet shiny tongue – when it was accompanied by the rarest of sights of curled, slippery tongue against the top lip, it seemed to emanate more than that 'normality' of contentment. It seemed to drip a latent pure, undiluted sexuality which added an almost scary, threatening air to the tit swamped Dorothea.
“Ahhhhh my babies, m
y kittens.”
Jugsalina was all on her own – she was talking to herself. But that wasn't right at all. No she wasn't talking to herself at all – she was talking to, and with her breasts. And the same time that she was talking, in a tone that might have told anyone listening in, but not seeing, that she was talking to a small child or a couple of small children. Or indeed to a couple of kittens. But one look at the surreal scene would send anyone from the normal world's mind into some kind of whirl and meltdown. Her head was slightly nodded forward and she was using the full radius of both arms to stroke the huge tide of flesh that was her hooters. Using broad sweeping arcs she was stroking the tops of the breasts and as she did that she was making a strange 'cooing' noise from between her lips. It was like the smile stayed painted on, almost but not quite rigid. And from that smile came that sex drenched tone of voice – husky and dirty, almost cigarette stained but not quite. She was stroking the tops of her breasts and it was as though in doing that she was feeling the need through her nipples. It was as though each and every broad sweeping arc of a stroke over all that flesh fed the sensation right back up and through her areola and nipples. There was a point during that sweeping arc, first of one hand and fingers then the other, that the sensation reached the nipples because although the smile and that positivity stayed painted on – there was a subtle movement of the lips, almost a ripple and a quiver in themselves that told of the absolute pleasure she was giving herself. She was stroking her own breasts as though they were her pets – but also she was stroking them deliberately to gain that sexual throb that seemed to tug on the monstrous nipples that were a part of those jugs.
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