She was dressed typically for the Scottish light-industrial workplace: comfortableloafers, wool slacks, a large, baggy sweater over a thin, translucent whitesilk blouse, which her boyfriend had brought her from Canada, and her shoulder-lengthlight-brown hair was brushed gently away from the sides of her face.Her five-ft. two-in. frame, still buxom and curvy despite two boys,turned slightly to the right as she slowed and eased her little "blackbox on wheels" onto the right shoulder of the highway to dealwith the bra problem."Bloody bra," she said to herself in her Scottish lilt. "It'slike some kind of bondage gear. Well, I'll soon set this aright." Braking,she put the car in park, pulled off her sweater and undid her blouse, reachedaround behind to unclasp the accursed garment and freed her pendulous, C-cupbreasts for the first time that day."Ah-h-h, that's better," she said, as she massaged the redlines left underneath her breasts by the offending garment and ran her smallhands over. Her arousal. The pain slut, the pain whore, waiting to be hurt. I knew he was right. The desire was making me crazy, I hadn't got off all night, my mouth and belly were full of the cum of a dozen different men, and I hadn't cum. I felt the anger rising inside me, then I gasped as I heard the CLICK when he turned on the machine.There is no way to describe the feelings I was going through. The machine alternately sucked my left and right titty. They were hard tugs but I was aroused. I wanted more, wanted to ask him to take them off and bite me, whip me, but I knew better. And I knew what I was in for. It would get worse and worse. The machine wouldn't suck harder but my nipples would become more sensitive as time dragged on. And as my titties were slowly sucked into the cups, more and more of the flesh would be pulled into that narrow opening. As the minutes went by, the pain became more intense. I tried to breath slow and deep but with the hood on it was impossible. I had to breath.
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