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Subject: {ASSM} X Traps Episode IV: The Breast Trap {Distressica} (F nc tort nosex)
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Date: Sun, 27 Jan 2008 17:10:03 -0500
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Title: X Traps Episode IV: The Breast Trap
Author: Distressica
Email: distressica@gmail.com
Keywords: F nc tort nosex
Summary: A young woman wakes up and found herself trapped in a warehouse.
	What will she have to do to escape?


The web version of this story have an index as well as notes and
references for furthur research:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/distressica/www/stories/X_Traps_4--The_Breast_Trap.html

Episode IV is the first.

Copyright (c) 2007-2008 by Distressica. All rights reserved.

This story can be distributed as long as no text is changed, including
this notice and authorship information, and access to the story is free
and unrestricted. It would be nice to let me know where the story is
distributed.

This story may be considered adult material, so act accordingly. This
story is pure fantasy. Do not try anything described in this story.
Nothing is tested in real life and the author does not condone any act
or ideas described in the story.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


X Traps
Episode IV
The Breast Trap

Distressica



She gradually woke up and took stock of her situation. She's on the
floor, which is of rough hard concrete, as are the walls and ceiling.
She pulled herself up. The room is small, with a warehouse feel to it.
There's a single metal door and no windows. She had on a flaring skirt
that came to upper mid-thigh, made of a black tough leathery material
with a metal buckle in front. It's slightly shorter than she would have
liked, even in her most flirtuous modes, but hardly indecent. Underneath
there's nothing. Nothing but her long thin shapely legs. She was
barefoot, and topless.

She tried the door, but it's heavy, and locked. She yelled for help, but
there's no response. Her youthfully firm medium-sized breasts bounced as
she screamed, and she instinctively crossed her arms over her quivering,
fluttering breasts, but there wasn't even anybody watching. How that
could be instinctive when she was never even closed to being exposed,
she did not know. If anybody heard, they're obviously not coming to her
aid. Who would ever want to let their captive out? She gave that up;
obviously, she's on her own.

There was something barely noticeable in her slit, especially around her
clit, gently holding it. Pulling back her lips, she could feel it
filling her opening completely, smooth and shiny. It is a metallic
cylinder, at least at this end. She winced as she squeezed a finger on
each side of the cylinder, stretching herself, desperately trying to get
a grip on the smooth cylinder, and screamed as she tried to pull it out.
There are reverse-hooked spurs deep inside. She smoothed her skirt; it's
not coming out.

Looking again around the empty room, she noticed a metal plate in the
center of a doorless wall, gray like the concrete, with two circular
holes near the top. At floor level, centered between the two holes, was
a rectangular opening, about six inches high and twelve inches wide. She
looked into the depthless darkness of the holes and saw nothing. She put
her hand into the left hole, exploring, finding nothing but hard,
unyielding metal. Finally, with her arm all the way in, she reached the
other side.

It was another wall. Standing on tip-toes and pushing her side into the
wall, she searched the far wall. Dead center between the holes was a
key. But it was tied by ropes coming out of the wall with many knots,
and she cannot untie them with just five fingers. Hence the other hole,
just a shoulder's width away. But facing the wall on tip-toes, she
cannot reach the key. The gentle swell of her bosom took up that extra
distance from the plate. Reaching with her chest pressed as flat as
possible, two larger holes iris-opened, allowing her to thrust her
breasts in. With the remaining flat parts of her front flush against the
plate, and cheek-to-wall, she reached the key.

She spent tens of minutes on her toes, loosening knot after knot. She
even managed to hold on to the key as the last knot came undone, so the
key does not fall to its death. Finally, carefully, she brought out the
key. And yes, it opened the door. And the door opened to another room of
exactly the same construction, except for the extra door she just
opened. But her precious key would not come out. Not until the door is
closed and locked. So that's the game. A new key was needed anyway, but
nothing leaves the room, even if the only thing there is the key.

As the door sprang shut behind her, she noticed that there were no
handles or key holes on this side of the door. There's no going back. If
she were real smart, she could have thought to jam the door open with
the key, or perhaps pieces of her clothing--her skirt--but the key is
locked in, and no part of the skirt comes off, as she shall soon
discover. And holding the door open, against the strength of the springs
and the weight of the door, just traps her between worlds.

She knew the drill. Insert arms, up on tip-toes, press with boobs until
the irises opened, and work on the knots. But this time, it tickled. She
pulled back in surprise, and the irises closed, clearing her breasts,
evidently with pressure sensors of automatic doors. There is no way she
would know what she's thrusting herself in to. There's no way to force
the irises open, or to trick them to open. With some experimentation,
she discovered that evidently arm insertions and breast squishings, both
left and right, are required. She could always pull out, but she'll have
to mash her breasts again to gain admittance.

This one's evidently lined with hair, itchy hair. The corresponding area
behind the wall is cordoned off by the metal she felt back in the first
room, and she could only feel just by the sensations on her bosom,
evidently of countless light hairs brushing against them gently. The
sensations were maddening. Her nipples were already erect due to the
coolness of the rooms, and the hairs aren't helping. Her boobs swayed as
she worked on the knots, furthering the stimulation of her breasts and
especially her nipples. And with it, her breathing quickened, expanding
and contracting her chest against the stimulants, driving her further
off, making it harder and harder to stay on task.

She had to fight hard to keep from pulling out and starting over again,
even as the sensations are interfering with her logical reasonings. And
she can't help pulling out and taking time to desensitize, but it's
almost always when struggling with a knot, making her start the struggle
over again on the next trip in. She tried to cover her breasts with her
skirt, but it was too short, and the belt locked it on at her narrowest.
And the material doesn't tear. So it's her bare tender boobs all the
way.

Finally, she freed the key. And dropped it. Her despair almost
overwhelmed the feelings on her chest. But she remembered the opening at
floor-level. Lying down on the floor, she reached in, and immediately
pulled out. It was electrified. Gathering her nerves for the umpteenth
time, she reached again. Eventually she got the key. Better try not to
drop it again. But at least her boobs are spared, unless she lies on her
front instead of her side as she inched further in.

The next set of holes stung. They are completely lined with sharp pins,
though so small that they hardly cause any damage. Still, it hurts. She
won't play this game. She sat down in the far corner, bringing her knees
up to her chest, hugging them with her arms. She tried not to think,
about whether the torture would go on and on, about whether she would
ever be let out, and what if she wasn't, about whether it's better to
face the holes than just to sit here. She tried not to look at the holes
and the doors and she tried not to think.

She was startled out of her thoughtlessness. The thing in her was
opening up, expanding, stretching her painfully. Spikes were emerging,
pinning her from the inside. The part on her clit pinched, hard. And it
shocked her, all over. After a few minutes, another short burst of
electricity started again. The message was clear. Face the pins in the
holes and keep moving.

She finally got the key and quickly went to the next room and faced the
holes. That's when the object finally closed back up, but a little
bigger than before. But a new pain hit her. Her boobs were thrust into
soft sponges, and they hurt sharply. She immediately pulled out, but
whatever it was soaked into the tiny punctures and nothing she could do
to her breasts helped. As she worked on the knots, the pain renewed with
each contact at first, but slowly faded. It was probably even something
healing, perhaps salt water or hydrogen peroxide. With only a touch of
pain, she wondered whether she should have stayed in one of the first
two rooms, where there was probably no nagging to move on, but with
nothing but the hairs to keep her company.

But all that is moot. She moved on to the next set of holes. It was the
itchy hairs again. She wondered whether the rooms cycled, whether the
rooms' creators, whoever they are, lack the imagination, and whether
that would be a good thing or not, for her. Then again, whoever built
these are certainly very good at it. Perhaps they're just giving her a
breather. From the pain, that is. And these holes felt fluffier. Perhaps
this is soft feathers instead, and all the rooms would be different,
though roughly alternating between arousing and hurting.

Sure enough, the next one pricked. Steeling her will and her boobs
against the stings, she managed to get the keys in one shot, though her
breasts still shifted as she worked despite her efforts, exposing more
areas to the pricks. It wasn't until she finally pulled out that she
unexpected realized what they were: little burrs, some of which are
still hooked on her boobs. Eventually she figured out how to use her
nails as tweezers so as not to prick her fingers as much. Dumping the
burrs on the floor and making a note not to step on them, again, she
moved to the next room.

The next holes vibrated. Right on the nipples and the surrounding areas.
Steadily her arousal grew with the constant stimulation of her most
sensitive areas. But it wouldn't stop. It just kept going and going and
going. There is only so much a nipple should take. Arousal quickly
turned sore as she worked. Blood rushed to the areas as the endlessly
merciless assault continued. Her nipples stiffened under the assault,
becoming painfully hard.

Then she discovered why. The next holes were not quite deep enough,
forcing her to press her breasts against its shape somewhat. And they
were lined with sandpaper. The fine grains rubbed her breasts raw,
especially her aroused and then sore nipples, as she worked frantically
on the knots. Each twist and turn of the knot-forming ropes induced a
similar motion on her torso, dragging her lightly squashed boobs over
the rough sandpaper.

The next holes ran warm water over her breasts, flowing all over it and
clinging to the bottom before dripping to whatever drainage that lay
below. It felt nice, really nice, soothing her breasts and allowing the
sensitivity to subside. She lingered and could almost forget that this
is probably designed to lead up to something horrible in the next room.

It's cold, what she had pressed her boobs in to, soft, melting, and
sticky. Ice cream! It looked creamy white and smelled of vanilla. Who
could turn down ice cream, even if almost fully melted by the heat of
her bosoms. As she licked her ice-cream-coated finger, she briefly
thought of poison, but then, there must have been a million ways to be
killed, her and especially her unsuspecting boobs. Besides, she's
hungry. She couldn't remember when she had last eaten, especially since
she had little sense of time in these rooms, but it must be lunch time,
if not in real time, then at least in terms of her progress through the
sequence of the rooms. Besides, it's ice cream!

Despite her earlier stance, she kept bringing her boobs out of the
holes, trying to scoop bigger, more solid globs of ice cream out with
them, less it be melted by her heat. In the mean time, she tried to
maintain progress on the knots. Finally, she got the key and had to say
goodbye to the ice cream. Which, innocently, seemed endless. There must
be a pressure-sensitive mechanism pushing more of the stuff on her. As
she left for the next room, she wet her finger with her mouth and wiped
off her breasts back to her mouth. The diluted ice cream doesn't taste
as good, but she hate sticky messes. Eying the ice-cream room one last
time, she let the door close. She didn't want a reminder from the device
deep within her. There might be an extra allotment of time for lunch,
but then she couldn't really tell how much time had passed. In any case,
it's best to move on.

The next one is hot fudge, the temperature contrasting sharply with the
cold ice cream. It's not that cleaver. Again she ate and cleaned her
boobs. She wondered whether the next room will be another sticky one,
making it a waste of time to clean up, but a sticky mess is a sticky
mess. And with the necessity to provide food, how long will this go on?
Or was it for the stickiness factors and the temperature variations.
Then again, the food did anticipate her hunger, even if brought on by
the sight and feel of the foods.

The next room was honey, which seemed to fit the stickiness hypothesis,
but it doesn't have to be that simple, or that complicated. It marched
agonizingly slowly down the slopes of her bosom, dragged down by its
weight but held back by its viscosity. The honey flowed everywhere. Some
gathered at the tip of her nipples, pooling more and more and tugging
ever so gently before a globlet formed and dropped from her tip, which
rebounded slightly as much of its burden is released. Others flowed down
the sides of her breasts and under them, clinging on before forming
droplets at the lowest point.

The next holes felt like ants walking all over her boobs, and so it was,
little tiny brown ones. She brushed them off, not wanting to kill any,
but they definitely don't belong on her chest. Maybe they can find the
honey holes. After she went back in, the relentless walking continued,
perhaps looking for the source of the residue sweets she didn't manage
to finger-lick off. It was maddening. How could the human skin be so
sensitive to the little legs of insects so small that their weight
cannot be felt? It's sensing pressure, but not from the weight. She
forced her boobs to endure the teasing ants until the end, then brushed
them off towards the honey. It's not that she didn't want to help to get
more ants to the honeypot, but she's kind of indifferent to the ants'
plight, especially in the face of her own.

The next holes were longer, thicker pricks, but not like the previous
ones that mostly fit the shape of her breasts. Rather, branches, she
could feel now, with thorns filled much of the holes. She had to squash
her boobs hard against the branches and into the thorns. And then
continually getting new pricks as her body shifted with the knots. After
untying the key, extraction proved tricky, as some thorns hooked into
her breasts and would not give up their hold easily, and trying to
untangle them moved her breasts against other thorns.

The next holes were wet sponges again. Water squished out by the
pressure of her boobs pressing into the sponges. The tiny pricks from
the thorns felt the liquid though, so it wasn't water, or not just
water. What do you expect? It only hurt a little though, and after a
while, even that dissipated. On pulling out with the key, her breast
quickly got cold. Fast evaporation. Probably rubbing alcohol or
something.

The next holes had her boobs pressed into hot metal plates. She pulled
out immediately and examined her breasts. No, no burns. It just felt
like her breasts would sizzle and cook. The panic is only instinctual
reflex. She nerved herself against her wavering resolve and reentered,
but not all the way, holding just out of range, trying to acclimatize to
the heat radiating from the hot plates. But no, it's not going to work.
She pressed her breasts into the plates. It's unbearably hot, but she
cannot but bear it.

The next holes had her red-and-hot boobs pressed into blocks of ice.
After the initial shock, the ice felt soothing on her almost-toasted
breasts. Then it got cold. Painfully cold. Freezingly numbingly cold.
Two indentations formed in the ice from the warm pressure of her boobs
and the sensations changed. The ice started melting and cold water
trickled down the lower curves of her breasts. Pressing against intact
ice had an almost burning sensation, but the melt water felt freezing
cold as heat is carried away.

The next holes did not press against her breasts, but dropped a blob of
hot pain. Pulling out in surprise, she saw it's red-colored wax. She
scraped off the solidifying wax, then figured she should have kept it to
shield against additional drops. Oh well. She went back in, trying to
keep still so only a small part of her breasts would be touched. It
didn't quite work. There must be multiple candles, or rather, sources of
wax droplets, and they covered most of her upper breasts, but only with
a thin layer of wax. And her nipples are specifically not spared. At the
end, she peeled off the wax, and moved on.

The next holes were narrow, making her force her boobs into long
cylinders. The holes pressed on her breasts from the sides, making them
longer, constricting them except at the base and tip. It almost felt
like someone had gripped her boobs and squeezed real hard. Actually,
it's worse: the contact pressure is everywhere. As she moved to untwine
the knots, the iron grips seemed to be pulling her breasts this way and
that, even though the holes are stationary and it is her chest that is
moving.

The next holes were shallow, making her almost flatten her chest,
spreading her breasts outward. Again, it kind of felt like someone
grabbing her boobs, but this time from behind, and pressing hard into
her chest. And as she moved to untwine the knots, her breasts again
stayed in place, but only because they were pressed so hard into the
opposite surface. It was the lower, non-flattened parts of her breasts
that stretched this way and that as her chest moved with her arms.

The next holes had little whips that slash at her breasts from all
directions, leaving thin faint red lines of pain. It occurred to her
that if she had left the wax on, it could have protected her breasts
somewhat. But then the wax layer was thin and would be whipped off
immediately. Besides, most of the dried wax would have cracked and
flaked off with her breast contortions in the last two sets of holes.
And the wax was too thin to take off and put back on her breasts intact,
even if she could have anticipated keeping them off for at least three
rooms.

The next holes didn't feel like much of anything. Her breasts brushed
lightly against something, but it wasn't even rough or anything. Is it
too good to be true? Is it over? It can't be, from what her entire
experience had been telling her. But what could it be? ``What horrors
await for me, in this the phantom's opera?'' she hummed absent-mindedly.
Then thought of the torture chamber from the book, and quickly put it
out of her mind. All she could do is take the reprieve and move on.

The next holes were very rough and slightly sharp, leaving short, random
impressions. Steel pot scrubbers. Then her breasts started to itch all
over. She hugged the wall hard, stilling herself, and considered. The
previous holes must have left something on her. And it probably won't
stop until she hit the next wet sponge. What she really wants is to
scratch with her hands, but that might spread the itch, and the sponge
would be useless there. _If_ there is a sponge. But by the way things
are planned, there must be. Scratching with the scrubbers would be the
worst. The walls might be better, though still rough, or the doors, but
that's too smooth. And she still have to scratch with the scrubbers.
Maybe the itch would die down eventually, but the device in her must
have been timed to go off before that. So it had to be the scrubbers,
trying to ignore the itch, though that has to be impossible.

The next holes weren't anti-itch sponges. In fact, she felt nothing.
Nothing but the ongoing itch. Especially as the pain of the scrubbers
faded. All she could do was try not to think about her itching breasts,
and of course, that only led to thinking about her itching breasts,
twitching in the open space. And think about if it were a cruel joke to
leave her itching forever. But then, this whole thing is cruel. _Can_
it be that cruel?

The next holes were sticky. It didn't feel like a medicated ointment. As
her disappointment swelled, the itching subsided. So the antidote was in
it after all. She finally saw the stuff as she retrieved the key, and
her breasts reminded her of all the blackened animals trapped by oil
spills. Which is what it is. Petroleum. Crude oil. Disgustingly sticky
and messy. Wasn't medicinal substances generally made from petroleum, as
in petrochemicals? She decided against using her finger and tongue to
clean up the oil spill.

Her anticipation was right, for once. The next holes were
detergent-laden sponges that dissolved the oil and washed it away. And
no unpleasant sensations. The room, unlike the others, was not bare.
There was a drinking fountain. Which reminded her: she had wanted to pee
for some time now, the pressure steadily growing as she became aware of
it. She could still hold it uncomfortably; she will not pee on the floor
if possible, even in a corner of a warehouse-like room. But there
_is_ a drain in a corner of _this_ room, and she relieved herself.
Maybe there were drains in some of the rooms she breezed through, but
then again, it wouldn't be beneath the rooms to make her squirm. She
made use of the drink fountain, debating whether to hold back. The nays
had it, figuring she could always excrete the excess, while not having
enough, well, that would be more difficult.

The next room had no drains, now that she's paying attention, and the
holes smeared some kind of cream on her. At first it felt nice and cool,
then cold, icy, then warm and quickly rose to burning hot. It must be
one of those anti-aching creams that were not supposed to be applied to
sensitive areas. And it's already absorbed into her skin; wiping them
only gave mild warmth to her hands without diminishing the heat on her
breasts. There's just nothing she could do to stop her burning boobs.

The next room again had no drains, but there was a basin mounted on the
opposite wall (opposite from the holes; that is, to her, _the_ wall).
In it was gruel, cold and sloppy. And she'll have to use her hands. She
briefly considered rubbing some of that on her boobs, but it probably
wouldn't help, and she probably need it more in her stomach. The holes
were empty, but the heat in her breasts kept her occupied. And the
thought that it should have been ice cream instead.

The next room was large. There was a wooden platform: a bed without
pillows or blankets. The room was warm and the lighting dim. And there
was a drain. The holes were surprisingly empty. She'll have to go to bed
hot. She decided to get the key after that. She lay down, face up, of
course, tired, but have trouble falling asleep. She hoped the room had
some sort of wake-up call other than the device in her slit, which,
innocently, had not gone off again. Thinking that, she jumped out of bed
and worked the key out, placing it carefully on the floor. She really
need to get plenty of sleep, but given that, how long would she have to
be here? Until imagination ran out? Or--

The next hole shot her. Boom! But it was salt bullets, one in each
breast. And it hurt! She grabbed her breasts and woke up. It was a
nightmare. The holes would not _really_ do that to her, right? It's
too much, but then, that's no excuse. It would take too long to heal, if
not causing permanent damage (``Kill Bill'' is jut a movie, plus she's
superhuman). Maybe the last holes... or would that be worse. Do the
rooms really care about her well being, or are they just keeping in the
right conditions for the upcoming holes? She tried to go back to sleep.

The brightening lights woke her. The heat in her breasts had dissipated
with time. She took care of her morning needs over the drain and moved
to the next room. The holes pressed hard objects against the top of her
breasts. Then they broke under pressure. And coated her breasts with
something sticky. Eggs. When she went back in, other eggs had taken
their place. Hum. Eggs for breakfast, eh? She decided it's for the messy
rather than the nutritional values. She fought down the urge to try to
clean up the disgusting mess, figuring the next holes would clean her
breasts but not her hands.

The next holes brushed her breasts, like electric toothbrushes, but over
all parts of the breasts. At first, they just sloshed the eggs around,
but as the eggs were brushed off, the stiff plastic bristles scraped her
skin, which soon became sensitive, and the over-stimulation hurts,
especially the nipples as they're being rubbed raw. On and on they
brushed, but _really_ not where the brushing's needed.

The next holes tickled then bit her. Ants again, but big, biting ones,
perhaps after the residual scent of the eggs. She brushed them off and
went back in. Half way through the knots, she had to pull out again. The
ants she had brushed off earlier had found her bare legs. She suffered
an extra second as she skipped to the incoming door and brushed off the
ants there, hoping they would go to the other room instead. Then she
went back to pick up the ants still near where she would be standing and
transferred them also. She still didn't want to squash them; it's not
their fault.

The next holes sucked. Each nipple was sucked in, pinched, and released.
The pinching mechanism rotated, squashing different parts of the nipple.
As one nipple is released, the other is sucked in, back and forth
continually. It's like those cow-milking machines, except those probably
don't rotate. Under the sucking stimulation, the nipples hardened, and
the pinches hurt more. When she extricated the key and her nipples, she
unfortunately gave the one being sucked an extra tug against the suction
and the pinching, and then she's free.

As she reached into the next holes, perfectly positioned rods pressed
into her still-sensitive nipples, pushing them into her breasts. It's
like the front half of her breasts is been inverted, forming the
_outside_ of a cone down to the nipples, now almost chest deep in her
breasts. The pressure on her nipples felt awful, especially as the rest
of her breasts tried to pop themselves back into shape, putting more
pressure on the nipples against the nipple-sized ends of the rods.

The next holes had two metal surfaces that squashed her breasts into a
space less than two inches wide, from near the base to where the breast
tapered off. The two sides alternated, one closing as the other opening,
each side alternating between crushing horizontally and vertically. The
edge of the surfaces were rounded and left no marks, but the surfaces
have indentations that hurt and left their impressions. They're like
vices, textured to hold onto large pieces of wood.

The next holes had alligator-teeth clips biting into her nipples, with
the two sides alternating between opening and closing. Each cycle took
about one minute, first a sharp pain as the teeth closed, then the pain
spreading as the pressure on the teeth persisted, finally another sharp
pain when the teeth opened and blood rushed back into the tortured
nipples. Then the other clip closed and the cycle continued. Extracting
her breasts again proved to be eventful. She mistimed the time when both
clips would be open and pulled on a just-clipped nipple. Ouch. But at
least she could get one breast out while waiting for the other to be
released.

The next holes shocked her. Static electricity jumped onto her tortured
nipples. The word ``van der Graaff generators'' came to her mind. Then a
pause and another discharge. The interval between shocks seemed random,
with some shocks coming in quick successions. And so is the duration of
the shocks. And the two nipples don't seem to be synchronized,
unpredictably hitting one or the other. Or both together. That must be
synchronized. She wasn't really in position to collect data properly,
but it seemed that there are more simultaneous shocks than could be
accounted for by random distribution. And they were always perfectly
matched, starting and ending at the exact same time.

The next holes had rotating sanders that rubbed sandpaper on her
breasts, and they moved around, scraping all parts of the breasts
including right on the nipples. Her breasts quickly became
over-sensitized, then scrubbed raw. It felt like her skin is being
sanded off, but it wasn't the case. On removal, her skin is indeed red
and very painful, but intact. It's different from the sandpaper holes,
she thought. These sanders moved much faster. And the other holes she
can try to control, which kind of made it worse in the sense that she
herself worsened the torture.

The next holes had pins, longer and thicker ones that she had to force
into her breasts. And an electric current ran through them. It wasn't
like the electric plate where static electricity jumped onto the surface
of her breasts and dissipated. Rather, there was an electric current
flowing in one pin, directly into her flesh, through her sensitive
layer, and out another pin. It's worse, as there is a direct flow over
and through her breasts. And the entry and exit points varies, sometimes
shocking only a short distance, sometimes longer, even across the
nipple, or from one breast to the other.

The next holes stuck long needles directly through her nipples and into
her breasts. Having to force the needles deep into her breasts is just
awful, not just the pain, but that she's doing it to herself, even if
there is no other way. As she tried to untie the knots, her twisting
body pulled on her breasts fixed dead center by the needles. It's like
her breasts been mauled again, but not quite. The grip is actually on
the inside, and tore directly at her delicate tissues rather than
pushing and pulling globs of flesh from the outside.

The next holes sponged her breasts with something burning hot. It looked
like hot sauce. She felt it's not worth the risk to identify it by
taste: she's not fond of spicy-hot foods. There were cutouts for her
nipples, so the stuff wasn't applied directly to her nipple wounds from
the last holes. Still, somehow, the rest of her breasts absorbed the
stuff and fired off her sensory neurons. The sensations felt different
from the icy-hot from last night. She can't quite put her finger on it,
but it's unpleasant nonetheless.

The next holes sprayed her breasts with ice-cold water, washing away the
red sauce. Then her breasts pressed lightly into cold metal and
eventually numbed. Could it really be freezing? She tried to pull out
slowly, and stretched her breasts, frozen to the cold metal. She resumed
working on the knots, exaggerating her breast movements to try to warm
them up. But by the time she untied the key, her breasts are even more
frozen in, and she despaired. Was this the end, stuck here forever? Does
she have to pull out hard, tearing out whatever it needed? Could she
have repeatedly pulling out her breasts and warm them before they froze
on? But the holes were already warming up and soon enough her breasts
were defrosted, hurting but still intact.

In the next holes, something slimy crawled all over her boobs.
Earthworms. Despite her dislike for soft-bodied worms, she kept them on
her breasts when going back in. They probably have better chance to
survive in there. Some of the worms fell off but more fell onto her
breasts. They dragged their slimy bodies all over her chest. Stupid
worms, why can't they just stay still? Actually, why do there have to be
worms? And she really shouldn't call them stupid. Just before coming out
with the key, she shook her breasts rapidly to dislodge the worms.

The next holes hummed and stung her. Each sting injected venom into her
breast tissue and each site swelled up red and filled with pain. Here,
there, everywhere. They especially hurt, the ones that bull-eyed her
nipples. As she went in, she felt some kind of film, which stretched
inward to the shape of her breasts. Then the humming and stinging begun.
There are great many things that stings, but few that hummed. Bees, or
wasps. What's the difference, she wondered in passing, having
practically no entomological knowledge. Something about bees die after
they stung but wasps don't. She hoped they were the latter.

On entering the next room, her belt clicked. So did the device in her
slit and she was able to pull it out. It probably shrunk, but it's been
a while she's been conscious of its presence. The door was unlocked! and
opened to a deserted street. She backed in, remembering she's still
topless. And the pain of the stings had not died down. There's a table
with clothing on it, but she focused on the holes. There is no need for
keys anymore: the door is unlocked and the skirt buckle now worked
normally. Perhaps it would help with the stings. Then again, it could
trap her, or worse. Inches from the open door. This _is_ the last
room after all.

She went back to reexamine the table. On it was a box with a cylindrical
indentation. She put the corresponding device in it. There was her
purse, a white bra, a white blouse, white panties, and a pair of boots.
There are nothing unusual in her purse. The bra cups have tiny pins on
the inside and the straps are not adjustable. She's certain it would be
tight. The bra cups are dry and the pins cannot possibly be medicated.
The blouse is almost transparent. The boots have two-inch heels and
matched the skirt. And there's nothing else in the room.

She looked at the holes and then at the door. Back and forth, she
wavered. Making an executive decision, she entered the holes. Relief
washed through her body as the holes put some ointment on her breasts
and the swellings subsided. She got the key out just for the hell of it
and threw it in her purse. She put on the panties, hoping they weren't
tampered with. But then, everything's focused on her boobs anyways. Then
the boots, which came up to just below her knees. And no pins inside.
Then she hesitated, but _this_ decision seemed easier. She put on the
bra, then the blouse, tugging it in. Taking her purse, she made her way
home.



THE END


------------------------------------------------------------------------


I have an idea for Episode V. I don't know if there will even be Episode
VI or beyond, or Episode I to III, or an episode that ends it all.

My non-commercial website have the latest public versions of all my
stories. If you like certain stuff posted to certain places, let me
know. And of course, feedback is always very much welcomed.

Distressica
distressica@gmail.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/distressica/www/


-- 
Distressica Stories
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/distressica/www/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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