“Yummy, lovely ripe, hanging, swinging melons – yummy yummy yummy.”
As if the situation wasn't bizarre enough. Dorothea was still trapped in the window and her arms were still pulled behind her and up, bound by invisible bondage at the wrists and the elbows. The twins had given a final, tug and pull down of the widow to give that little added compression and then they had giggled. Giggled like the little girls that they weren't. Then they had disappeared. Just went and left her like that, prose – her tits hanging out of the window like some kind of pair of hanging baskets or something. There was another fleeting thought, that maybe, just maybe, someone would see her. Maybe, just maybe someone would see this pair of tits spilled over the window sill – just hanging there, gently swinging and excruciatingly being dragged by gravity and weight towards the ground beneath the window. It wasn't such a far flung thought after all. It could happen. When she thought that, the silktex gave another squirt – but it was just a small one, like a warning squirt. But something else – like as though it was taking the piss out of her – laughing at her for having such thoughts. And that was true, that thought was a laugh. Someone, somewhere in any of the neighbouring properties might see 'something' in the distance – someone at a window – and something hanging out of the window. But it would not even enter their psyche that what they were seeing was a woman trapped – trapped in another existence and with her tits hanging out of a window. That was even in the unlikely situation that she was spotted within that extensive house in those extensive grounds. The nearest house being her own, next door and unbeknown to her, that house now belonging to Wendy and the twins.
Time had passed by – Dorothea had vanished inexplicably and she had never turned up. It had been accepted that she had just 'run' away. It had been accepted that she would never return. Sightings of her hadn't seemed to add up and it seemed that anyone who came across her was in on the lie. Was in on the deception. Wendy had simply snapped up the house when it came onto the open market. Only the good lord himself could possible guess why she had obtained the house. The one she had was big enough, more than big enough to house them all. That thing was like an optical illusion. A huge house from the outside and yet inside it was like a different and a whole new gigantic world. And now she had bought Dorothea's house and that world, that freaky cruel world could just be extended even more – that world, the surreal world extended to create an even more expansive nightmare.
“Yummy Yummy Yummy.”
The twins had re-appeared under the window on the outside of the house. Each had a step ladder which they placed in perfect unison and in perfect sync to the house wall either side of the hanging udders. Then they had climbed up the ladders quickly, like little insects on a march, one rung at a time and again in perfect sync – and then there they were on the other side of the glass – peering in to a distraught Dorothea. Peering in and giggling. It seemed that the point of their abject amusement was that one cheek of Jugs's face was compressed and pressed up against the glass and this was causing much amusement for them. For a few minutes opting to do nothing but stand on the upper rungs of those ladders and making faces – pulling faces and then giggling at Dorothea. Only eventually returning their attentions to the hanging basket melons of tits that were trapped in the window. Each twin dipping under their respective hooter and sucking in the huge nipple teats. The nipple teats so thick and so long, and the twins having to open their mouths so wide and so invitingly that it could be forgiven, for anyone to think that they were suckling on a couple of cocks hanging there. They weren't like nipples at all. They were so engorged, so permanently erect and sensitive and so modified, that they were not like any nipples, or even teats that existed in the normal or real world. The thing about the suckling was that it was feeding Jugs's sexuality. She was being suckled by the twins, wetly and completely and as a result the silktex that had taken the place of her clitoris was suckling where the clitoris would be and it was feeding her that way too. This was one of the few times when her mind could wander and could wallow in that provided pleasure. The twins were being cruel in their own way, but at the same time this was one of the very few forms of 'pleasure' that Dorothea would ever, ever experience for the rest of her life. Quite ironic that she was being provided pleasure through the organs, her hooters, her udders that she had used so obscenely in years gone by. And the organs being the reason that she was in the position that she was in.
“Oh now I DO like that one – I have to say that that HAS to be one of my best works to date. I love it – and it is so YOU. Not the you you used to be but the you you are now.”
Lucy the Tailor was doing a slow hand clap. She was sitting cross-legged on a hard, high backed chair at the end, but just to the side of the long red velvet catwalk. The catwalk was a private one, set up in the huge basement room of Lucy's shop. There was something quite surreal about that basement room, and even the length of the catwalk in that the room, the length and breadth of it, and the length of the catwalk itself didn't let itself to the relatively small size of the shop premises that was over it. It was another case of Wendy's house, appearing on the outside like a normal, if substantial suburban house, but once inside became this different world – both in size and content. So it was the case with the basement room and the catwalk that had been set up for the special private show that Jugs had agreed to do. In through the tiny shop front and then to the back fitting rooms and workshop and to the narrow twisting stairs down into the basement – like something out of the old curiosity shop. Down the barely lit stairs which then open out into this huge, high definition wide space. It being a basement one might have expected it to be gloomy and with dim, single bulb lighting. But that was another surreal thing. It was a white room. Brightly lit. No visible means of lighting. No spotlights, or strip lights anywhere. No single bulbs and most definitely not a dim light. Bright white even light, lighting up a white high-key room.
The stark white room slashed diagonally with the red velvet, slightly raised catwalk. The red of the catwalk a dark, deep red – in the brightness of the room it might as well have been black, such was the contrast. The vastness of the room otherwise unfurnished except for the high backed chair on which Lucy the Tailor sat, cross legged. The room had been filed with the sound of nylon rasping on nylon as she had crossed her legs. Somehow and for some reason that rasping seemed enhanced, amplified in both volume and quality. High definition in every sense of the word. That rasping of nylon on nylon had kind of faded out as the slow hand clap had faded in. And as that slow hand clap faded in and the nylon on nylon rasp faded out, so the irregular clicking of metal tipped high heels came to the fore, adding to the surreal and semi dream world in which this place seemed to exist at this time. The thing was that the metal tipped stiletto steps signalled the arrival of Jugsalina – but it wasn't just that the steps were irregular – they were also laboured. One just had to close ones eyes, and listen to the clicking of the heels, interspersed with the occasional scraping sound of metal tipped heels on the catwalk surface, and one would be able to conjure up the vision of a woman in turmoil and even something approaching terrible distress. This would not be the wrong conclusion to draw. Open one’s eyes wide to look at the sight, the vision that was Jugsalina as she came down the cat walk. The catwalk was long, but the progress was not quick. It was a long traumatic walk for her to make. Each step laboured, and almost laborious – and yet essentially so, given what she had to endure for that trip. She was wearing what used to be the sexy fitted pants – and what they had been made into was a parody of themselves. The pants still pants and yet which morphed into braces which appeared to hold them up. Like a City Girl in all her finery. They had been the pants she had often worn with silk blouses, and spiked stilettos, on her excursions into the City in her younger days – hunting for whatever she wanted. A rich guy, even a rich woman that she could woo – that she could attract the attention of and then get what she wanted. She hadn't ever been adverse in giving sexual favours
on a one night stand, in order for her to get a single pay-out. That had been the days before she had met her elderly husband. The days when she had been truly wild and when she had been truly on the hunt. These trousers, together with silk shirts and the highest of heels had always shown her in her most accentuated light. The outfit had always enhanced her breasts – not just the size of them, but the way they moved and swayed under the finest of silk tops. Indeed the outfit had always enhanced everything about her. She had never had a failure in that particular outfit. It had been for that reason that she had always hung onto it. She had never thrown it out when she had had one of her many clear outs. Some things she just held onto and that outfit had been one of them. Over the years she had even slipped into those trousers and had been amazed at how she had been able to fit into them still. Remnants of her early life – memories, good ones – memories of a good, greedy life.
“Oh yessssssssss, yesssssss yessssssssss. I do so love that look.”
Lucy the Tailor was truly in awe of her own creation. The trousers modified and extended and somehow, inexplicable the waistband morphing into some kind of braces that instead of looping up over Jugs's shoulders, wrapped around and clung to the otherwise naked hooters of Jugs. Those jugs, as massive and as heavy and cumbersome as they were, being utilised and used to hold up her own trousers. The trousers had always been tight around the hips and the ass and it was no different now – except more so. And where the legs used to flare away from that tightness to provide the long flowing elegant look, they had now been taken in, tighter to the upper thighs – defining the upper thighs and the stress that they were under. Likewise where the length of those trouser legs used to flow and swirl – now they didn't. In a strange way, a way that remains inexplicable the trouser legs had been made stiffer. More defined. They had lost that swirly, floaty elegance to be replaced by a rigidity. But not a rigid rigidity. The extraordinary legs of Jugs defined through the stiffened fabric, right to the knees and over the knees. That leg definition only fading out gradually below the knees. The shape of the legs beneath the knees of the trouser being lost, but the attention down there brought to the height of the heels. The trousers still long and covering the main and most part of the boots that she wore under them – and yet enough of a peep available under the hems of the trouser legs to show the cruel height of the heels and the stature that they enforced. Heels so high that the toes were forced back on themselves – the immediate explanation of the irregular steps and the odd scraping of the heels on the catwalk surface that had been painted the identical deep red to the felt that draped around the sides of the whole length of the catwalk. But even that didn't tell the whole story. In fact the high heel boots and the walk, or the semi-walk that they produced were the smallest part of the story. The immense and grotesque size of her hooters was the overall overbearing vision. Just even the slightest look at those 'things' and the weight of them was obvious. The way they remained full and 'pert' despite the fact that they were being dragged floor ward. The way the nipple teats all but dragged across the front of her trousered knees. The sway in the volume and mass of those breasts that was produced as she took each step. Each of those steps a laboured process that defied description. The stance, a stooped stance enforced by the sheer size and weight of the mammaries. The spine slightly bent and arched in the wrong way and yet one which was not correctable. The invisible silktex providing the critical support needed and yet at the same time not hindering the agony that Dorothea must have been in. She had promised Lucy, the schoolgirl she used to bully terribly all through her school years, that she would give her a private fashion show and she had truly felt that was the least that Lucy deserved for all she had suffered in years gone by. And she was doing it. She had had had the trauma of having her old clothes brought into this nightmare – like a link to her old world and this new one that she couldn't escape from – that trauma, and then the clothes being cut, altered and fitted to the new her. Kind of a finality of her position in the new world. Like the final nail in the coffin. Or the final confirmation that she would never again go back to her old world.
“Mmmmm sssssssssssshhhhhhhh.”
She was sucking in air through gritted teeth and wide smiling stretched lips as she took one cumbersome step after the other. Her hooters were holding up the trousers that was wearing – at least that was the vision that was being presented. If it was an optical illusion then it was a hard one to define. If it was an optical illusion then it was the perfect optical illusion – one that defied an explanation. Her hooters the actual mechanism used to hold them up – even though her mammaries were themselves colliding and wrapping themselves around her knees. The weight and the bulk of each of the tits making them sway, one second seemingly in complete and utter unison, like synchronised hooter dancing – the next moving completely and utterly independent of each other, colliding with each other and their flesh wrapping around each other before sliding away when another foot was swung and moved.
“Good girl.... make like a proper model now. Swing those hips, give me a twirl, show me what you've got. Good girl. I do like this new you and I DO like that outfit... it’s so you – the new you.”
Lucy the Tailor was clapping again – this time more a proper round of applause as opposed to a slow hand clap. Dorothea sucking in air again, as she forced her shoulders back – forced them back against the support of the silktex and beyond, enhancing her stance to give her that supermodel look. But the mammaries, those hooters, the overriding overbearing organs that impeded and complicated every single movement or thought she had. Her journey, her trip down that long catwalk a torture in itself. The longest hissing of air between gritted teeth coming when she twirled on her heels. That twirl being done in one, but her tits swinging heavily causing mayhem inside her mind and body but her retaining that wide lipstick smile. Her makeup perfect and almost theatrical to suit the mood and ambience inside that catwalk room. The high key, high definition light seeming to enhance everything – seeming to be keyed into the supermodel that was Dorothea. Dorothea doing that first twirl and then carrying on, the agony obvious but also the enhancement of her femininity. Tortured femininity yes. That journey slow and tortuous – an absolute torture. A delicate balancing act on the ultra high heels was hard enough and painful enough without the weight of her huge jugs that seemed to counterbalance her against herself. The enforced arch of her back, held almost rigid by the more finely tuned outer silktex and then the gentle squeeze and release, squeeze and release of the inner silktex. All the time that gorgeous smile that held a pain that was beyond words to even describe.
At the end of the catwalk, and to the slow handclap again, a twirl on those heels. One would be able to imagine that that should be the kind of twirl a supermodel would have to do as part of her set on the catwalk. But this was a hindered, laboured one. A painful one. A turn more than a twirl and then a stand, as though there was the flash of hundreds and hundreds of fashion paparazzi cameras. It seemed that Jugs was going through the motions – ones that were expected and ones that she had to do her very best, through gritted teeth and smiling lips to complete, but it was almost like watching a fat bird thinking that she was indeed thin. It looked like she believed in the supermodel movements that she was making and doing – but what she was feeling and believing and what was happening was two different things. And because of that she looked almost pathetic in her movements. Dorothea, Jugs, supermodel – not. But trying – trying her very best. And then holding that pose – first the twirl and then the holding of the couture pose. Holding it for a number of seconds, her whole being trembling as though she were waiting for a secret nod from somewhere else in the room so that she could move again. In reality, just hearing Chest's voice in her inbuilt invisible ear speakers.
“You hold that pose, you better hold that pose good and proper – you better hold it you bitch or me and you are really gonna fall out.”
It wouldn't be a wrong assessment to say that Wendy, or Chest s
ounded like some kind of demented witch. But she was controlling Dorothea. She was making her hold that pose and then she was making her turn again – this time, the journey back up the catwalk – the long, long red velvet draped catwalk. Back to the curtain, that curtain seeming to lift and slip back for her to go behind so that she could change into the next of the adapted clothing.
If the trousers had brought her back into her old life with some trauma attached – then the second one was the one that tugged her heart strings, and the one that enforced her mind into a greater degree of melt than the trousers. The dress, as it had been, was the one that she had bought and worn for her husband's funeral. When she had taken it out of the packaging that day at Lucy the Tailors, her heart had almost jumped into her mouth. She had been sure that her heart had missed several beats and then stopped – if only for a split second or two. Whatever, her hand had gone up to her not inconsiderable chest when she had seen that dress. A long black, tight fitting, almost maxi dress from one of the upcoming, yet still expensive designers. On her figure, the way it had been all that time ago the dress had been stunning – more than stunning. In that dress she had stopped people in their tracks. She hadn't just stopped men in their track – although there were lots and lots of those. But she had also stopped other women in their tracks. She had never forgotten the looks on those other women's faces – even at the funeral – those other women in their dowdy funeral wear, their mouths slashed with red lipstick and those lips just peeling apart as she had walked into the church in awe of what she looked like in that dress. Had she been blonde she would have looked like a Marilyn Munro – or one of those top heavy starlets from days gone by. And that day, the day of the funeral she had grieved for her elderly husband – oh yes she had grieved for him, but she had done it in style. Yes she had grieved for him publicly and she had done it in style even though it had been her who had killed him with those ever massing hooters of hers. She had grieved for him publicly and she had wept publicly as her husband had been laid to rest. She had always been good at that had Dorothea – good at turning on the waterworks when she had to – or when she needed to. And she could do it so realistically, so believably that people simply 'felt' for her. Real tears and real mascara streaks down her cheeks – complete with the quivering, scarlet lips and the sniffing. Oh yes never forget the sniffing.
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