Breast destruction bra, Saturday 2022-02-19

There often is that moment while I’m waiting that my mind starts wondering what the fuck I’m doing. Sanity tells me that the safe and predictable self-tying should really be enough, while other urges tells me it’s not. Anticipation and thrill struggle with worry and fear. This time was no exception. I actually had at least a vague notion what was coming, but that wasn’t all that much comfort, and I had learned by now that the devil was in the details. Those details were pretty much under control when I arranged things myself, but when someone else was doing it, they were definitely not.

This time, I was a bit extra anxious, because I had decided to literally face my date. I guess I was a bit overly paranoid the first few times I had tried these blind dates, demanding to be masked to protect my anonymity, but my friends who set things up had proven to be seemingly excellent judges of characters regarding my dates so far, so I had decided it would probably be safe to drop that precaution, at least when it didn’t quite fit with the scene.

My pre-arrangements were minimalistic. Nude, save for high-heel sandals, definitely not ideal for the weather conditions, but it had been a request, and my comparatively comfortable boots I had worn on arrival were in the bag on the floor, together with my other clothes and belongings. The only things besides the heels I had brought and was wearing were the hinged steel police handcuffs securing my wrists behind me and the post I was standing leaning against.

I felt almost relieved when the door opened and a chilling wind brought in a large figure that closed the door behind him, circled me once, examining me with intent eyes without a word, while removing his gloves and jacket. After putting his clothes and a bag he brought away, he circled me again, this time letting his hands examine me as well, thoroughly, groping in all the right places. He wasn’t exactly the chatty type, and I felt it wasn’t right to try and start a conversation neither.

He confirmed chatting was definitely not his thing when he opened his bag and brought out a big ball threaded on a piece of chain and a padlock. It was only seconds before the rubber ball was stuffing my mouth, forcing my jaws wide open, and the chain was locked behind my neck, tight enough to dig in uncomfortably in both the corners of my mouth and the nape of my neck. Oh well, at least I didn’t even need to ponder on conversation starters anymore.

Next from the bag was a length of rope, which he tied around the connection between my handcuffs and then hoisted until I was forced standing bent over in an uncomfortable semi-strappado, then tied around the post. It left my breasts dangling freely, which he also noticed, spending a few moments alternating between groping and slapping them, making me moan and groan from both pleasure and pain behind my gag. Glancing up I could see a small grin on his face, convincing me that I wasn’t the only person in the room kind of enjoying it.

It took him a few seconds of digging into his bag, and I thought I heard a vague muttering, before he came up with a roll of black vinyl tape in his hand. I got a strong feeling it wasn’t his first time as he wrapped it tightly around the base of each dangling breast, actually tighter than I think I ever experienced with tape before. Still, it definitely was more arousing than uncomfortable or painful, so I a bit involuntarily rewarded him with low moans from behind my gag. He responded in kind with a good grope on each now bulging orb and a few stinging swats with the palm of his hand on the nipples and areolas, leaving me gasping and groaning rather than moaning.

The next things from the bag were a couple of hose clamps, looking pretty much like my own Steelsoft DIY hose clamp kit. I probably should ask the company for a commission on their sales soon, since it seemed my previous experiences with the devices had raised the interest for them with quite a few people. He fitted the steel bands on top of the vinyl tape and then started tightening them with a screwdriver, and tightened and tightened and then tightened some more. By the time he stopped working the screwdriver, he had worked his way through the spectrum of tingling, arousing, uncomfortable and painful on each breast. I can’t say if it was the tightest I had ever experienced but it definitely was tight enough.

Next was another couple of small padlocks, looking similar to the one securing my gag, which he threaded through the slits of each steel band just next to the fastener and snapped shut. It took me a few seconds of visual inspection before I realized how he did it and the actual function of it. He had cut the material separating a pair of slits to make a big enough opening for the padlock shackle to fit, and the padlock made it impossible to untighten the band, even if you would happen to have a free hand and a screwdriver, of which I of course had neither. So even if the padlocks were a bit overkill, they still made a psychological impact on me, knowing the contraption was actually securely locked in place.

I think the bastard was a bit proud of his next idea, which actually was novel, since he held up the next two items he dug out of his bag under my nose, giving me time to inspect them. It was a roll of thin fishing line and a small jar of what looked like 5-point star sequins. The fishing line I didn’t need much imagination to guess what he was going to do with, even if there were a few options in the details, but the sequins I couldn’t guess. He didn’t keep me guessing for long though, and it turned out the fishing line was more novel than I had imagined as well.

He cut a length of a few meters of the fishing line and fastened it to the metal band around the base of one of my breast, threading it a bit painfully through a slit and knotting it, then continued by threading a few of the sequins onto it and pulling it across the bulge of the breast and again a bit painfully through a slit on the opposite side. As he tightened it, I whined through my nose as the thin line cut painfully into my bulging flesh and taut skin. The sequins didn’t lie down as mere decorations on the skin, like when sewn on, but the narrow fit of the line through their center holes forced them erect, making the sharp tips of the stars pierce even more painfully into the flesh. The end sensation was a thin line of cold burn across my breast spiked by a few hotspots from the sequins. I was a bit surprised he didn’t pull the line square across my nipple and adjusted one of the sequins to pierce straight into it to maximize the pain, but as was now, the line missed my nipple by a centimeter or so, and the sequins pierced into the top, bottom and areola of my breast.

He threaded a few more sequins onto the line and again pulled it across my bulging, now somewhat less dangling breast, passing my nipple on the opposite side from the first line, before threading the line through another slit and tightening it, adding another line of cold burn spiked by sequin hotspots. He kept repeating the process until he had woven a tight and painful basket around my breast, framing my nipple in an almost circular opening between the crossing lines in the middle. He then knotted off the line before passing it one more time across my tortured breast. This time, the line did pass from top to bottom straight over my nipple, and by some fancy knotting, he managed to both tie its base painfully tight and damn near split it in half with the piece of line passing square across it, leaving the swollen and hard nub burning with pain while he made the final tying off of the tight line through a slit in the steel band at the bottom of my breast.

His touches were surprisingly gentle as he inspected his work, but even if he was more or less fondling my tied and tortured breast rather than groping it, the shifting of the flesh during his handling, causing the slicing lines to chafe and the piercing points to stir in my flesh, made it a very intense experience. By the time he was done with the inspection, I was moaning and whimpering from both pain and arousal, and a few involuntary tears were rolling down my cheeks.

There were really no surprises as he repeated the process with my other breast, soon having reproduced the sliced balloon effect with that one too and with about equal amounts of pain, suffering, moans and whimpering on my part, but perhaps slightly more lustful as my body and mind had been affected by and a bit adapted to the torture as he wove his painful basket around my bulging flesh. By the time he had gotten to the final inspection, I actually blushed a bit when even I could discern a distinct tone of arousal in my moans from his fondling.

When he went and fetched his gloves and returned with them on to again start playing with my swollen, taut and hurting breasts, I realized that his tenderness before probably had nothing to do with being kind or caring, but simply that Mr. Tenderhand wasn’t quite as fond of having the sharp points of the sequins piercing into his roughened palms and fingers as making them pierce into my soft and sensitive breasts. With the gloves on, that was no longer a problem, for him that is. For me, it meant an intense torture session, making me whine and groan into the gag, and soon having tears from pain flowing down my cheeks.

By the time he was done, I was standing shaking and sobbing, shivering and panting, mainly from pain, but not only, which he quickly verified by pulling his gloves off and shoving a hand between the top of my thighs, a finger finding its way between my slick labia and straight onto the swollen nub between them, sending me off like a rocket and into bliss with just a few moments of intense frigging of my clit. I felt my face beet red as I saw his grin and for the first time heard his voice, more to himself than to me “I thought as much.” as I stood there squirming and panting even harder than before.

I was very suspicious of his “kindness” as he untied the rope forcing me into the uncomfortable and by now very strenuous bent-over position, and helped me to straighten again. The first confirmation of my wariness came immediately, when the shifting of my breasts through the cooperation of gravity and their weight made them try to adjust to gravity rather than to the torturous embrace from the thin fishing lines and sharp sequins doing their best to slice and skew them. To understate it grossly, it hurt!

The next confirmation of my wariness took slightly longer, but started with him forcing my legs wide apart, using the rope having kept my hands hoisted to tie my ankles to a couple of supports on either side of me, leaving my thighs and pussy wide open. I wasn’t even fooled when his fingers started to play with my very accessible and vulnerable pussy again, soon having me panting even harder than before. He stopped just short of my orgasm, picking a few more things out of his bag: a toilet brush with an oddly short handle, a couple of chains and a few more padlocks. I didn’t need much imagination to know what his plans were for that combination.

I was grateful for his playing before having made my pussy sopping wet and very well lubricated, and for his continued playing with my clit as he slowly worked the large brush inside my pussy, deeper and deeper, as the pleasure from my clit somewhat mitigated the pain as the stiff bristles stretched and scratched my sensitive interior walls. Eventually, he was satisfied and I stood panting and moaning as I felt the bristles almost piercing my inner walls, poking hard into my cervix and G-spot. He then wrapped one chain tight around my waist, joining it rear and attaching the other chain with one of the padlocks, then pulled the second chain down between my buttocks and up front, tight through my pussy, before locking it to the waist chain front with another of the padlocks, and then used the last padlock to fasten the handle of the toilet brush to the crotch chain, making sure the brush stayed deep within my vagina.

He put the gloves back on and grabbed the front junction of the chains with one hand, starting to work it up and down, forcing the chain to rub arousingly across my slick folds and clit and the brush to shift slightly but painfully inside my vagina, while his other hand started playing with my tortured breasts again. The experience was intense, mainly painful, but with enough pleasure to keep me hot and mitigating the pain some. He built me up and kept me close to the edge, soon having me so hot and frustrated I thought I was going crazy. I tried to help by bucking my hips, trying to rub on the chain, not caring about the additional pain my motions brought to my breasts and vagina, but it was futile, and his constant grin and low chuckle, seeing me like that, didn’t help one bit in my chaos of sensations and emotions.

Eventually he stopped, and I couldn’t decide if I was grateful or wanted to kill him for it. My hips didn’t stop though, but kept more or less involuntarily bucking and rubbing my pussy on the chain, torturing my vagina and breasts in the process, keeping me hot and frustrated, but nowhere closer to my desperately needed orgasm.

I stood like that, barely aware of how he was arranging a few things, but then his unexpected voice woke me up as he was holding up a couple of keys and asked “Keys to your place?” Who the fuck really cared, but I managed a nod. He held up a padlock and again asked “Keys to this at home?” and I again nodded. “Good girl!” End of conversation. Half aware, I saw him stuff everything but my keys, padlock, phone and coat into my bag, then zipped it up and locked the zipper with my padlock, almost theatrically demonstrated how he put my keys, phone and a disposable face mask from his bag in the pocket of my coat. Finally, he cut another length of fishing line, knotted the key to my handcuffs on it, cut several pieces of the black vinyl tape and wrapped around the key until it looked like a shiny, black cocoon, fastened the fishing line to the post I was handcuffed to so the keys dangled several decimeters above my hands, then untied my ankles, put the rope and all other remains into his bag, and checked around.

He stepped up to me, his gloved hands again helping themselves to my breasts and pussy, playing with me and bringing me so close to my so desired orgasm, making me arch and try to push both my breasts and pussy towards his hands, despite the torment they also induced through the slicing lines, skewing sequins and scratching brush. He was again grinning and chuckled low as he kept playing, edging me but not permitting me my desperately needed orgasm, if by skill or simply by the overly distracting pain I couldn’t tell.

Eventually he stopped, leaving me standing on shaking legs, frustrated, panting hard and shivering, whining from both the arousal, pain and frustration behind the gag. Again his voice almost chocked me, even if it was a bit softer this time. “I think we’re done here. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the challenge of unwrapping your handcuff key and free yourself. Everything you wear is yours to keep or discard. See it as a small token of my appreciation for you being such a good sport and fun toy. Keys to the padlocks and a screwdriver for the clamps are in your bag. It’s the same key to all the padlocks. Your keys home and a face mask if you want to cover that gag before hitting the town are in your coat pocket and so is your phone in case of emergency. From what I know, I’m sure you’ll make it home on your own though, and appreciate the challenge. Have fun and enjoy!” He bent forward and kissed me teasingly on the tip of my nose, put on his jacket, grabbed his bag, grinned and gave me a wave, switched off the light, exited and slammed the door shut behind him, leaving me alone in the dark.

I stood still and tried to calm down for a while before trying to reach for the handcuff key. I soon found the only way to reach it was to bend over in an uncomfortable semi-strappado again, tormenting both my breasts and my pussy as the change in position made the breasts shift in their torture basket and the brush in my pussy shift. Trying to yank the key free from the fishing line was futile, with the amazing strength of the thin fishing line and the no doubt secure knot also covered by the tape. I had to work it free in the awkward position, finding the end and peeling off length after length of the wrapping tape. The darkness didn’t matter much since I couldn’t see what I was doing behind my back anyway but had to do it all by touch.

Eventually the key was freed from the tape, and I struggled some more before I found and could fit it into the keyholes, unlocking the cuffs. Straightening from the awkward strappado was rewarded by another burst of pain in my breasts and pussy. Slowly I stumbled towards where I believed the light switch was, my hands groping blindly before me. It must have taken me several minutes to find the switch, flipping it and then stand blinking in the blinding light before my eyes had adjusted.

I was already aware of that my only real option was to cover myself, my gag and my novel “bra” and “pants”, get home, get the bag unlocked and free the rest of me. Of course, I could always send a distress text to my “spare key”, an informed friend who actually helped to set it up, but I knew that if I capitulated from the challenge like that, I would hear of it until my dying day. So, I put my coat on, finding it much too small to fit over my obscenely swollen and bulging tied breasts as usual, but far more painful than usual as it pushed the skewering sequins harder into my flesh and made the thin fishing line shift, chafe my skin and slice my flesh even more painfully with every move I made. The handcuffs and keys went into the coat pocket, as I grabbed the face mask and as suggested used it to hide at least most of the gag locked in my mouth, whimpered from pain from just the simple action to bend down and pick up my bag, checked the room before I opened the door, turned off the light, exited, shut the door again and was on my way.

I found that by walking with slow, mincing steps and keeping my upper body as rigid as possible, I was able to keep the pain in my breasts and pussy bearable, but instead the slight rubbing of the hard but slick chain across my folds and clit and the slight shifting of the big brush in my stretched vagina created a very intense sensation which soon was driving me almost crazy. The streets were far from empty and I guess the people who saw me staggering on thought I was just another semi-drunk party girl out for a wild Saturday night, with much too exposed legs and insensible footwear in my short coat and high-heel sandals.

When the first orgasm hit me, I almost stumbled into a middle-aged couple, looking far more sane and appropriate than I probably did, but they actually caught and supported me, keeping me up until I had caught my breath and regained my focus and balance. I tried to thank them, but the only thing that made it past the gag and face mask was a low mumble which at best could be interpreted as some drunk slur. When I had managed to straighten somewhat and they asked me if I was OK, I just nodded and continued my minced walk. I heard them chuckling and commenting some about “some people” before they were out of hearing range.

The orgasm didn’t really bring very much relief, and neither did any of the dozen or so more I suffered before finally reaching my destination, by then almost half unconscious and crazy from the continuous sensory overload. I think it took me more than a minute just to fit the key and unlock the door with my shaking hands. It was even worse with the miniature padlocks to my bag, gag, “panties” and “bra”, and their ridiculously under-sized keys, but eventually I had everything unlocked and had pried the large ball out from my aching jaws and very slowly worked the large brush out of my agonized vagina.

The “bra” was an entirely different thing though. After the first few turns with the screwdriver to loosen it, the pain from lines and sequins shifting and scratching across my very taut and sensitive skin convinced me that approach would be impossible. I stumbled to the bathroom and got a pair of nail scissors, carefully getting the blade under line after line cutting into my breast and snipping it, the thin lines demanding a surprising amount of force to cut through, being rewarded by bursts of pain as the lines and sequins sliced and clawed every which way into my flesh as the strained lines were severed. Finally, the slicing breast baskets were reduced to pendants dangling from the framing hose clamps and I could resume loosening the metal bands.

Finally done and my breasts free from both metal and tape, I inspected them. The imprints from the slicing lines looked really horrific, and there were some blood from the piercing sequins, but I had a feeling most of it was from my rather careless freeing of the breasts, later confirmed by the lack of blood stains on the inside of my coat. The breasts were hurting quite a bit and were very sore and sensitive to touch, but considering the torment they had been through, the injuries were amazingly minute, and I guessed most of the marks would have faded within a few days.

My pussy was pretty sore as well, from the large toilet brush stretching and scratching it, and a little bit from the chain pressing and rubbing, the latter proved from the burning pain in my urethra and folds when I had a much needed leak after freeing myself. My feet weren’t very happy neither, as sense returned to them when they thawed after the long walk in the freezing cold with just the skimpy sandals on, and my jaws were aching a bit after the long gaping over the large ball gag. Besides that and being totally drained and exhausted from the experience and intense sensations, I felt really good and content. The orgasms during my walk home had felt more frustrating than relieving at the time, but now that I had landed, I felt no sexual urge whatsoever but quite satisfied. Well, perhaps not quite true, because when my mind wandered back to how my blind date had arranged and played with me, I still felt a slight and pleasant tingle in my lower tummy.

I sacrificed the idea of a long, warm relaxing bath, that I would most probably have dozed off in, and instead took a much shorter warm shower, to have time for cleaning up some, a proper dinner, writing this and then some spare time before bed. Now with everything done, I have a feeling I’ll sleep like a baby tonight, and probably not disturbed by any wild and raunchy dreams.

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