Second Door To The Left (Author: Psydonis)

It felt as if her body dissolved into a mist of nothingness. It was eerie, hovering in mid-air, mind perfectly clear and all-knowing. She was still trying to make sense of her surroundings when she spotted the exact scene pictured in the image just a few feet away and excitedly levitated over there.

Hovering right above the scene, she realized that she knew the names of the women and how they got into this awkward situation.

With bated breath, she watched the story unfold right beneath her.

Mia and Tia were out giggling and gallivanting through the roads of Cuba. Just their latest carefree, trust-fund fueled summer escapade. When they happened upon one particular town whose residents caught their eyes.

All of the older women had absolutely mammoth, jiggling chests, heaving out of any and every available opening that their tops permitted. Forget the familiar bra-cup letters back in the states. Every woman here jutted out well into the mid-range of the English alphabet. And yet…that wasn’t the case at all for a single younger girl there, matching to their own barely-19 age or below. The difference was blatant. They saw maybe a few large B-cup owners, and the rest were barren washboards. They’d have sworn every child here must have been adopted by these massive matrons.

Not that Mia and Tia were in any place to actually point fingers on this topic. Some assistive surgery had also been long on the discussion table for their cash-stash, but they were quite timid about getting “cut up”.

But then…as they’d been idly sightseeing through the fields, they overheard the excited communal screeching of a small gaggle of local ladies. Excited chattering about…the time for their “blooming ritual” to begin.

Quickly picking up on the implied clue, these two basking tourists wasted no time in shoving themselves right into the middle of the pack and unabashedly prodding the girls with questions about what this tradition was, and what it involved. And, of course…what it would take to be allowed to join.

Naturally, taken a bit aback both by the oh-so-typical Yankee rudeness of these visitors, not to mention the clearly coddled lifestyle it was obvious these girls had grown up in, the group went silent for a solid minute or so. But then, one of them suddenly cracked into a tiny smile, which she flashed at all of her gathered friends in silent signaling. The same one that had smiled spoke up to the intruding girls, telling them that they’d be overjoyed to share their ritual with such enthusiastic, beautiful ladies…if they could prove they could handle it.

That night, Mia and Tia cried out in dumbfounded horror, as their meager boob-balls were cinched excruciatingly at the base by rough twine, and then pulled backward to be tied to their friend’s chest. In a sort of reverse tug-of-war position, facing away from each other, with each boob tied to its mirrored companion on the other girl. Their hands had been brought up and over their heads, then tied to their back, so that they had no way to escape.

A whole hoard of the younger girls in the village formed an encapsulating ring around the two outsiders, shouting and jeering at the pair, and a couple “ringmasters” approached the center of the scene with leather switches. Like the kind used to command beasts of burden. Mia and Tia both cringed and whimpered, overwhelmed by the implications of what this test was about to turn into.

For hours, the tied girls were **** by whipping lashes and forceful mob arms to pull away from each other with powerful ****, centering all of the strain of these struggles on their meager, piddling chest mounds. The little meat balls turned deep red, and quickly developed mild stretch marks across the skin as they were ruthlessly yanked…over, and over, and over, and over…out to the side, and well into each matching armpit. At times one or another of the circle girls would run up, and give one of the **** tits a little extra play. A nipple twist. A few stick jabs. Some up-and-down backhand paddling, or plucking the taught twine like a guitar string.

When the two stars of the show finally collapsed onto the ground, and couldn’t be **** back onto their feet through any means, the surrounding mob decided to bring things to an end and dragged the two into a nearby field shed. There, Mia and Tia passed out, their aching little squeeze-sacks finally freed, but not their hands.

Little did the silly, naïve girls know, they had been explicitly granted their wish. Albeit perhaps a bit more socially abusive version of it. They would wake to find themselves being taken back out, day after day, re-performing this and several similar “stretching exercises”, while their chests were constantly and vigorously massaged with some sort of moisturizing oil. More tug-of-war bouts, with the loser having her still-bulging pain-bulbs **** down onto an ant hill for an hour afterward. Pulling light plows through the fields, or long cords of heavy cans and bells behind them through the square. And sometimes just being bound to a tree, with a connected container slung over one of the branches, as passers-by tossed whatever random rock or other debris into it that they felt like, steadily increasing the punishing yank as the girls mewled out.

After a couple months, the two girls were stood in front of a mirror, and shown their new “tit lassos” that had been slowly induced over all these long days. The girls gaped in horror, not able to utter a sound. They’d wanted to have huge, FULL bonkhanagahoogs, not these long, thin, deflated cylinders…

Then their captors, letting out sinister cackling, brought out more oil-filled bottles, like they’d done every morning, noon, and night before. But the oil in these looked starkly different. It had a blackish-purple color to it, rather than being mostly translucent, and gave off some strong “spicy” fumes that made their eyes burn a little.

Now that the skin of their chests had been adequately re-worked to provide ample space, this new oil would be applied 3 times a day. It contained a mild mixture of peppers and toxins, which wouldn’t make the two sick, but it would make the flesh of their distorted flip-flappers swell angrily, with a deep and maddening itch to top it off. And, this wasn’t normally part of the ritual, but the town ladies would all be making sure that these two pairs of intrusive jutters got lots of regular paddling, twisting, and mashing, just to make sure that they swelled up enough to satisfy their carriers’ wildest, spoiled dreams.

However…it would take another 2 months for their future watermelon sacks to permanently adopt their new, mountainously overflowing forms.

Suddenly, a gust of wind grabbed Becca and pulled her back through the door.