[Fill] Suck it up, Cheerleader (2/?)
anonymous
October 12 2015, 19:40:44 UTC
Miranda slumped back onto her cot, forgetting for a moment that sudden moves led to waves of throbbing pain that coursed out from her oversized breasts, to knot up her stomach and make her head spin. She took a few deep breaths to counteract the nausea, then began the mental accounting that allowed her to lock down the pain, compartmentalise it, and at least pretend to function.
Start with the best. Her toes. Her toes felt absolutely fine. Nothing wrong there. From her toes to her knees, in fact, there was no problem. Moving up, she acknowledged the fire in her groin, but refused to let it derail her thoughts. She soaked herself every night, now, whether her dreams involved Jack or not. But she could deal with that. Her stomach was tender and given to spasming uncontrollably, but right now it was stable. She could manage. Starting just above her belly, an itch grew rapidly to an insistent burning, centered around her tender, sensitive breasts, stiff, swollen and painfully lumpy.
The clothing she wore provided nothing in the way of support, and one breast or the other was always at the mercy of gravity, it being impossible to balance two melons that size on a woman of her dimensions. Her shoulders, cramped, her neck, stretched with the effort of accommodating the unnatural positions her new breasts demanded. Surprisingly, her head was clear, the headache that had drained her will for the last several days having receded. Maybe dreaming about Jack had helped with that.
Miranda levered herself up from the cot slowly to a sitting position, letting her body rearrange itself slowly enough to avoid the worst of the pain. Her back ached, but less than yesterday. She closed her eyes and listened to her heart beat for a moment, let herself feel the worst of the throbbing ache that pulsed through her tits and squirming pressure beneath their surface.
Right. If that was as bad as it got, she could handle this level of discomfort indefinitely. It was no worse that yesterday, as far as she could tell. Maybe even a little improved.
She started performing her stretches. Vigorous exercise was out of the question, but she could do a little limited muscle work. She tensed various muscle groups, rolled and stretched her neck, did resistance moves against the wall of her cell. A fine sweat covered her by the end. She ran a hand through her hair. It had been cropped close to her head. She smiled to herself. Jack had once threatened to do that to her while she slept.
But she was no Samson. Miranda's strength came from within. These sick bastards would never break her.
On cue, they came for her.
The two burly batarians slammed open the door to her cell and pushed the wheelchair in.
“Sit,” one of them commanded. Miranda didn't know his name, but had mentally christened him Junior. He was big and dumb and she'd only seen him doing menial tasks.
“Are you going to be any trouble today, human?” asked the other, wielding his stun baton. Miranda had tried to take that away from him early on in their relationship, and had nearly managed to before Junior punched her in the nose.
She had watched from the floor, dazed, as he had driven his baton into Junior's side and given him a jolt. “Don't damage the merchandise, idiot! She's worth a lot of money!” She called him Happy, for trigger happy. The weapon and his ego were intimately involved, in her opinion.
Back then she had thought they were just slavers. That was before... she didn't want to think about it. If she took it a minute at a time, she could cope with anything, she knew. But anticipation led to dread, which led to despair. She wasn't ready to give up.
She sat down in the chair gingerly. They flipped the manacles shut over her wrists and ankles. Even though she was feeling better, she was in no condition for sudden moves, her free-swinging breasts aching with pressure. She'd long ago ceased to be embarrassed by the continuous free flow of clear fluid from her constantly swollen lips as well, something her crotchless trousers meant she couldn't hide. It did mean the seat was rather sticky, however. Wet, in fact, today. They must have already taken Kelly in for her morning session.
Start with the best. Her toes. Her toes felt absolutely fine. Nothing wrong there. From her toes to her knees, in fact, there was no problem. Moving up, she acknowledged the fire in her groin, but refused to let it derail her thoughts. She soaked herself every night, now, whether her dreams involved Jack or not. But she could deal with that. Her stomach was tender and given to spasming uncontrollably, but right now it was stable. She could manage. Starting just above her belly, an itch grew rapidly to an insistent burning, centered around her tender, sensitive breasts, stiff, swollen and painfully lumpy.
The clothing she wore provided nothing in the way of support, and one breast or the other was always at the mercy of gravity, it being impossible to balance two melons that size on a woman of her dimensions. Her shoulders, cramped, her neck, stretched with the effort of accommodating the unnatural positions her new breasts demanded. Surprisingly, her head was clear, the headache that had drained her will for the last several days having receded. Maybe dreaming about Jack had helped with that.
Miranda levered herself up from the cot slowly to a sitting position, letting her body rearrange itself slowly enough to avoid the worst of the pain. Her back ached, but less than yesterday. She closed her eyes and listened to her heart beat for a moment, let herself feel the worst of the throbbing ache that pulsed through her tits and squirming pressure beneath their surface.
Right. If that was as bad as it got, she could handle this level of discomfort indefinitely. It was no worse that yesterday, as far as she could tell. Maybe even a little improved.
She started performing her stretches. Vigorous exercise was out of the question, but she could do a little limited muscle work. She tensed various muscle groups, rolled and stretched her neck, did resistance moves against the wall of her cell. A fine sweat covered her by the end. She ran a hand through her hair. It had been cropped close to her head. She smiled to herself. Jack had once threatened to do that to her while she slept.
But she was no Samson. Miranda's strength came from within. These sick bastards would never break her.
On cue, they came for her.
The two burly batarians slammed open the door to her cell and pushed the wheelchair in.
“Sit,” one of them commanded. Miranda didn't know his name, but had mentally christened him Junior. He was big and dumb and she'd only seen him doing menial tasks.
“Are you going to be any trouble today, human?” asked the other, wielding his stun baton. Miranda had tried to take that away from him early on in their relationship, and had nearly managed to before Junior punched her in the nose.
She had watched from the floor, dazed, as he had driven his baton into Junior's side and given him a jolt. “Don't damage the merchandise, idiot! She's worth a lot of money!” She called him Happy, for trigger happy. The weapon and his ego were intimately involved, in her opinion.
Back then she had thought they were just slavers. That was before... she didn't want to think about it. If she took it a minute at a time, she could cope with anything, she knew. But anticipation led to dread, which led to despair. She wasn't ready to give up.
She sat down in the chair gingerly. They flipped the manacles shut over her wrists and ankles. Even though she was feeling better, she was in no condition for sudden moves, her free-swinging breasts aching with pressure. She'd long ago ceased to be embarrassed by the continuous free flow of clear fluid from her constantly swollen lips as well, something her crotchless trousers meant she couldn't hide. It did mean the seat was rather sticky, however. Wet, in fact, today. They must have already taken Kelly in for her morning session.
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