She had to maintain her step on the treadmill. She could not deviate her steps at all – not in speed, or in knee height – or in rhythm. If she deviated in any way shape or form then the whole of her globes of modified mammary flesh would be filled with a pain that she could not bear, or that she could not understand. At the start of this session it had been the worse – when she had been simply finding her rhythm and her speed. That had been the worse – because there was no training period, or practice period in which for her to perfect the technique of walking on the spot on that ever revolving platform. She had been led onto it – secured by chains and straps and then it had been started. Once the treadmill was up to speed, that was it. She had to lift her knees to the required height and she had to maintain speed so that the chains, which came in from various angles, for various reasons, did not tighten, or pull against themselves at all. If they did that, it meant that she was deviating from the speed and so, her whore-tits were filled with an agony that made her wish that she was dead. What she could not work out, no matter how much she tried, was how that pain was being applied. It wasn't a pain that she had felt before. It wasn't a whipping, or a burning, or an electricity that was being fed into her. It wasn't even an ice coldness that was being applied. It was simply an unidentified agony that started in the core of her mammaries and then spread out. What was clear was that with every deviation, the bursts of pain got steadily longer and longer and then longer again. The treadmill and the torture that it produced was unforgiving to the extreme. There was no recovery period allowed – that is, a period where the pain was inflicted, and an allowance for Dorothea to pull herself together. She was expected to suffer the pain, and the horror and at the same time then, pick up and maintain the speed and rhythm of the walking on the treadmill as though nothing was happening to her body. What was expected was an impossible task. One might even come to the conclusion that it was supposed to be impossible – like as though it wasn't designed or implemented in a way that Dorothea could succeed at all, at least not completely succeed. If one were even more cynical one might say that the treadmill had been set up in such a way that the rhythm and the speed etc was not a constant at all. Constantly changing – just minute changes that affected the way the top heavy tit-whore Dorothea took her steps. The stride, the length and the speed. Not changes that would or could be detected by the naked eyes. But ones that were enough to throw her off what she was supposed to be doing.
“Mmmmmmmmooooooooooooo aaaaaaaaaaaaaaooooooooowwwwwwww.”
The wounded cow sound wasn't long – but it was intense and it did signal the fact that the pain was being fed into each of her jugs. That pain that couldn't be worked out. The length of that sound though did not signal the length of the burst of pain. She struggled to maintain the speed. In fairness to her, she did well to do what she did. But in an activity that she was not meant to win – she managed to overcome the system more than some would have. It wasn't just the speed, the rhythm and the length of stride though. If they had been the only three pieces of the jigsaw that she had to fit in the right way round at the right time then maybe, just maybe she could have conquered it all. But it wasn't just those three things. She had the CCTV camera mounted directly in front of her. Just the one camera that was focussed on her every single move and with the tell-tale red light on the front that showed it was recording every single movement that it made – and, or every single sound that she made. That red light seemed like it was a focus all of its own. A focus burning into her psyche. Like that in itself was a torture. Not a physical one but a mental one. In order to at least try to maintain what she had to on the treadmill, she could only face one way – if she turned her head even minutely one way or the other, then one of the pieces would fall out of the jigsaw and she would be filled with that god awful pain again. And the point was that she COULD move her head. For about the only time since she could remember coming into this nightmare, her head was not constricted or controlled in any way and she COULD if she wanted to move it. But that was the catch twenty two. Move her head and she deviated from the speed etc of the treadmill – and she knew what the result of that would be. Keep her head still, looking directly ahead of her and all she had was that fucking red light – burning into her mind – reminding her constantly of what she had to do and the way she had to do it. Her hooters on a constant swing and wave mode – the weight and the mass of those mammaries creating their own momentum – that in itself having its own impact on how Dorothea handled her speed and stride. But that wasn't the only thing – tied with little neat silk bows to each of her thick engorged nipples were the bells that had to keep ringing, also on a constant basis.
Under the CCTV camera right under that light was a sign – the only real instruction that was clear and precise
“IF THE BELLS STOP RINGING, YOU WILL BE PUNISHED.”
Words that were easy to understand, easy to take in and compute even under the worse of distress that could be imagined. Indeed those words were the easiest to understand and the instruction that were the clearest to follow. With the rest of it, the speed of her walk, the height of her knees, the stride etc, she had had to work all of that out herself. There had been no signs to tell her, or Hooter Tutor whispering acidly in her ear that if she didn't do 'this' then 'this' would happen. She had been put on the treadmill and that treadmill started up – she had been tortured time after time after time until she had started to learn – started to realise what was happening and why. At first she thought it was just her knee height, so she got that right. Then she was thrown back a few steps when her speed must have altered, or when the speed of the treadmill was altered and she would be tortured more. Then the stride. It was only through the intense pain and distress that she learnt and made progress. But the progress she could make was limited. It was designed like that. It had to be like that. Head Hooter Girl circling her, watching her every move. And she did that – she watched every move, like her life depended on it. But there was something else in Cheryl's eyes – something else behind that determination to make a good job of what she was doing with Dorothea. It couldn't be pinned down what it was – but it was there. Jugs's honkers, heavy and beyond big, and showing signs of the absolute abuse that they had suffered. The bells ringing – Dorothea making concerted and visible efforts to swing and jiggle her whore-tits in the manner required to keep the bells ringing. Those bells, brass and heavy and designed so that they would only ring if they were swung and jiggled in a specific way. Dorothea having more tortuous bouts of horrendous pain applied in the learning process of how to keep those bells ringing.
“You just wait – you just wait you will pay for this you will pay. You just wait and see how much you are going to pay for putting me through all this. You should be taking care of me. You should have been taking care of me all those years when you were using your feminine assets for the most sordid, and selfish of reasons. I'm going to make sure you get hell for this. You'll see.”
That voice again – an absolute constant in her ears – both ears. Dorothea hearing it, taking it in, letting it sink and swim around in her psyche as she tried desperately to maintain the walk on the treadmill and the bell ringing. Her massive, huge humongous mammaries swinging and then colliding – swinging and the rippling – swinging and the waving irregularly and yet at the same time that irregularity the driving force behind the ringing bells. It was like a little trick that had been invoked so that it could not by learnt in a robotic like way by Dorothea. Like in a way that she was forced to maintain her focus – that the effort had to be constantly applied in order for her to achieve what she wanted and needed to achieve. But even that was only successful for her for so long. She had no idea, or even inclination that the treadmill, and what was expected of her was set up for her to fail. She smiled, and the silktex inside her squeezed just a little – then one bell stopped ringing and she was filled with that pain again.
Tit-Tug-Of-War – sounds harmless enough. Might even sound like a some amus
ing fun. Maybe an activity a bored wealthy businessman might get a couple of high class hookers to indulge in, in his hotel room over the course of one night or so. Indeed that could be the case – except it wasn't.
This tit-tug-of-war was another one sided 'game' was designed really so that neither combatants would, or could win. The only thing measurable really was the amount of suffering that any contestant had experienced beforehand. The only way one or the other could win was if the other had been tit-tortured so much beforehand that they were weaker because of it before the game started. This time, hands bound at the wrists which were left loose in the small of the back, just above the tailbone. There was no need to bind the hands to the torso – likewise there was no need to hobble the legs or the feet simply because balance and core strength was of the essence. That didn't mean that the impossible, pencil thin stilettos were removed though. As far as Hooter School was concerned the heels enhanced the whorish femininity of its pupils or 'girls' and so they stayed at all cost. Plus, because the heels were so high and so pencil thin and so 'impossible' they made everything that much harder to do – they made every task simply harder.
“Moooooooooooooooaaaaaaaowwwwwwwww aaaaaaaaoooooowwwwwww.”
It was just a simple fact that nothing, but nothing was a coincidence at Hooter School. The fact that Dorothea was coming off the back of what seemed like endless days and days, even weeks of continuous torture before being put into the tug of war circle with a girl who was as fresh as a daisy in each and every way imaginable. It had seemed that ever since Dorothea had been back a Hooter School, all her days, and nights consisted of was pain and then more pain piled on top. There was no recovery period – or no ways or means by which she could get over any of what was happening to her. No way that she could recharge her batteries. It was simply a relentless attack on every one of her senses. It would be difficult to tell what suffered most, her physical well-being, or lack of it – or, her mental state. It could not be denied that her mental state had suffered a great deal. There was no doubt either that the little bit of her that was left in her diminishing mind had started to be eroded into. But what her hooters had gone through – what they were relentlessly going through was nothing short of a horror story. Even as the 'rigs' for the game were being attached she was sobbing. She was sobbing from somewhere near the pit of her stomach – deep wracking sobs that were pitiful to witness. The sound of those sobs so very wracking on the open nerve endings of whoever might hear them. But there was that contradiction again. The sobbing – yes the sobbing, but that sobbing painted over with a lipstick smile that seemed to belie everything about the scene. And then inside her the silktex squeezing and constricting, squeezing and hurting the core of her femininity. Her cervix like in a constant pain that wouldn't go away. The silktex 'knowing' that something about Dorothea was simply not quite as positive as it should have been and it was sensing that and knowing it. As a result it was hurting her. It was hurting her badly. But as a measure of how she was suffering 'globally' that hurt inside by that stuff that was in control of her femininity inside, didn't seem as great as it had been when she had first felt it. It was like she was absorbing that pain – like as though she was getting used to her insides, not being her insides – and getting used to the level of pain and discomfort that had been applied thus far. But one couldn't help but think – and take into consideration that the silktex and what it was capable of was far greater than had been demonstrated so far.
“Mooooooooahhhhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhh owwwwwwwwwww.”
That noise interspersed with the sobbing was the stuff of nightmares. The 'rigs' being slipped over Jugs's hooters one at a time. The design of them such that with them slipped over, the back band right around the bases. Any pulling or tugging from the nipple end of them would result in the base bands tightening – effectively squeezing the bases smaller and smaller thus expanding the actual udders in the sacks. The rigs could be called 'sacks' because that is what they resembled. They were slid over the hooters like a hood would be slipped over the head of a condemned man or woman about to be hung. But there, as they say the similarity ended. The rigs were fitted and then adjusted, then finely adjusted so that finally, a single strap could be yanked and pulled so that the whole of the transparent latex bag was pulled tight – skin tight around the massive over ripe melons.
If one had time to think, whilst taking in such a sight, one might have wondered how it all worked. How could those loose latex sacks, or those rigs, be slipped loosely over the udders one second and then the next they be pulled tight – perfect creaseless latex making the orbs shiny, and looking like 'new'. Actually, the fact that they did seem shrink wrapped in latex after that final yank of the chain, the breasts, udders, honkers did take on that air of newness. One would have to look beyond the shiny second skin to the tortured fleshy under it. The tight band of slightly less transparent latex around the base of the udders and then further ones around the middle of the hooter mass of flesh. Then further bands, around the areola and that were designed to constrict around the base of the nipple teats. The nipple teats themselves then protruded quite obscenely and grotesquely into the open air. Again though, it didn't matter how long one looked that the rigs, one could not work out how they actually worked, or did what they did. What they did do, when tugged in the tug-of-war game, they pulled the tit meat equally. The pressure wasn't simply applied to just the base band – but also the middle band and the areola tit band. It seemed that the rigs were thus designed that the pressure and the discomfort and the out and out pain was applied equally to all of the mammary meat. It didn't seem conceivable that such an equal pressure could be applied, but it was just the way it was. Little latex eyes were situated either of the protruding nipple teats and to this, the rubber bungee like cords were attached – the other end of this cord obviously were attached to the other 'contestant'. It wasn't a good sign, at least for those taking part in the game that the cord was of the elasticated bungee variety. It meant that there were the two opposing forces of the big juddered contestants at bay, together with the cord that would fight and fight to get back to its original size or length no matter how the two females either end pulled and pulled.
“Moooooooooo hoooooooooooo aaaaooooowwwwwwwwwww.”
Dorothea had sobbed throughout the fitting. There was no doubt that she had suffered a lot since her capture – and that was having telling effect on her mentally as well as physically. What was harder to decipher was why she was sobbing so pitifully at this time. She had suffered already immeasurably but the fact was that, in a strange kind of way she was getting through that. The rules were simple and she had known that. Positivity, simple as. Nothing more or nothing less. Keep the smile painted on that gorgeous lipstick mouth of hers and take what was given to her. But this sobbing, and those sounds of utter distress were something else. Like there had been a game changer in their somewhere. Like as though, maybe, just maybe she was being broken down just that little bit more – like maybe she was approaching the time when there was nothing of her left – that she was on the last home run – after this run, maybe even before the end of Hooter School this second time round she would be broken once and for all. It was as though this game of tit-tug-of-war was the final straw for her – like it was all too much for her. It was like this was the last chance saloon. It could have been even that she was thinking, deep down inside, using that ever decreasing piece of her mind that had stayed with her, to work out, there was no point in going on – none at all. Why should she go on there was no point. She couldn't win and she couldn't even make Chest happy. Everything was against her – and even inside herself, her cervix and womb, and the rest of her, all of that had lost the battle before it had even begun. It was like it was all coming in on top of her – like, after all the time that had gone by, after all that had happened to her, not only was her body giving up, but so was her mind. It was like, more than like, it was the end of the road for her. This was it.
“You, you fucking
bitch. I'm gonna pull those tits off. I'm gonna show you, you fucking bitch. I'm gonna show you who is top bitch here.”
Dorothea had been so engulfed in despair, and in the total breaking of herself – she hadn't even spared a thought for who was going to be her opposite number in the game. As far as she had been concerned, she was having the rigs fitted and then she was just simply going to suffer some other intolerable pain and discomfort leading up to her ultimate demise. She hadn't fought the rigging of her jugs and she had even sucked in from the pain as the final tightening had been applied. Then her opposite number had been brought in. It was Head Hooter Girl. Dorothea had looked through tear squirting eyes at first – not in the slightest bit interested in who it was because as far as she was concerned she could not win – would never be able to win. But she did look – and when she looked her eyes opened wide, then wider. There was a kind of renewed hope in her eyes, and that little spark, that little piece of herself that had been left in the back of her mind had been reignited and once again she felt that hope – something deep inside her felt that hope – the smile came back to her face and the silktex loosened up a bit. That little voice that only she could hear in her mind telling her to dig deep – she was going to get her own back – she would escape this horror and she would make amends to the freaks who had done all of this to her. She had an overwhelming feeling that she could win the tit tug of war – but she only had that feeling because it was Cheryl. There was another feeling in the pit of her stomach when she saw Head Hooter Girl – like a pang of something but she didn't know what. Cheryl looked sheepish – scared even. Things had changed. Something had changed but she didn't know what. She smiled wide – she just had to dig deep and get through this.
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