Chapter 16: The Nipple Contest Begins
The room still hummed with the residue of Diana's victory, the air carrying the salty tang of spilled come and the low murmur of satisfied women. Alfredo sat back on the ottoman, his cock softening, his chest heaving. Diana was wiping herself clean with a towel, smirking like a cat who'd swallowed a dozen canaries.
Then Celine stood.
She'd been quiet through the whole contest, watching with those sharp green eyes, her dyed red hair swept back from her face. She was thirty-eight now, a mother twice over, her body a map of those changes. When she peeled her tank top over her head and let it fall to the floor, the afternoon light caught her chest. The fake tits she'd gotten at twenty-seven were still there, but softer now, more human. The perfectly round, high spheres had settled into something with more gravity — fuller, a bit bigger than her original 38C, the skin carrying a faint sheen of stretch marks at the lower curve. Her nipples were small, flat discs, pale pink against her sun-kissed skin, barely protruding. They looked innocent. Untested.
"My turn," she said, her voice a low, deliberate statement. "But not like that."
She walked to the ottoman and sat on its edge, facing him. She reached behind her and produced a length of soft rope from God knows where, holding it up between them. "I want you to bind me. Wrists to ankles, on my back. And then I want you to tickle my tits." Her green eyes were dark, unblinking. "I don't know if they're ticklish. But the thought of being tied up, helpless, while you find out... it's been making me wet since you announced this game."
Marian whistled low. Samari grinned. Maria merely raised an eyebrow, settling deeper into the couch cushions to watch.
Alfredo took the rope. "You sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything." She lay back on the ottoman, the leather cool against her bare shoulders. She arched her back, presenting her breasts to the warm air, her nipples responding to the exposure by tightening just slightly. She pulled her knees up, opening herself, and let him bind her wrists to her ankles. He worked the rope with a quiet efficiency. She was naked below the waist, too, her pussy completely shaved, the lips protruding just a little, dark and fleshy between her thighs. A visible slickness was already gathering there.
He knelt over her. Her bound form stretched out on the leather, arms pulled down, legs bent, everything exposed. Her tits rested on her chest, soft and heavy, the flesh giving slightly to gravity.
He started gently. His fingertips danced along the undercurve of her left breast, a light, fluttering touch. He dragged his nails upward, feather-soft, across the side of the breast toward the armpit.
She flinched. A tremor ran through her whole torso.
"Oh, fuck," she breathed, a nervous laugh already building.
He did the other side. The same light, skittering touch along the sensitive tissue where the breast met the ribcage. Her stomach muscles contracted. She squirmed, her hips twitching.
"Don't stop," she gasped, and then she was laughing, a genuine, helpless giggle as his fingers found the spot just below her right nipple and probed there with a quick, teasing pressure.
"Please... no wait, don't stop, god, hahaha... oh god!"
He worked both breasts now. The flesh was astonishingly ticklish. He used his whole hand, fingers spread, vibrating over the skin, then switched to a slow, agonizing circle with his index fingertip around the areola. The small flat nipples were hardening, slowly, reluctantly, as her laughter escalated. Goosebumps spread across the pale skin of her chest. The tits began to react to the stimulation — the areolas pinking, the nipples pebbling and lifting from the flat disc into small, erect peaks. She bucked against her bonds, her cunt glistening, a dark, wet patch spreading on the leather beneath her ass.
He paused, his hands hovering just above her left breast. She was panting, a grin plastered across her face, tears of mirth in her eyes.
"Having fun?" he asked.
"Fuck... yes... but if you stop, I'll kill you."
He turned to the side of the ottoman, positioning his hips between her bent legs. His cock, which had been flagging, was now stone hard. He rubbed the head through her wet slit, coating himself in her slick, and pushed inside her in one slow, deep stroke. She gasped, the laugh dying in her throat, replaced by a long, shuddering moan. Her inner walls embraced him, hot and silky.
He stilled. He didn't move. He waited until she looked at him, her eyes glassy with need and mirth.
"Here's the deal," he said, his voice low. "I'm not going to thrust. Not once. I'm going to keep tickling your tits until you make me come just by squeezing that pussy around my cock. You need to work for it, Celine. And if you squirm so much that my cock slips out, it's over. You'll be tied here, frustrated and wet, while the other women watch."
Her eyes widened. Then she grinned, a wild, desperate thing. "You're a bastard."
"Beg me not to be."
The look in her eyes said it. But what she did was squeeze her pussy around him, a tight, involuntary clench. And then she laughed as he resumed his tickling.
Her laughter cracked first. It splintered into something thinner, higher, a sound caught between helpless mirth and a keening need. His fingers danced over the swollen tissue of her left breast, tracing the sensitive underside where the implant met her natural flesh, and her hips bucked involuntarily against the rope binding her wrists to her ankles. The motion ground her cunt against his cock, a slick, teasing friction that made him groan.
"There it is," he murmured, his thumb finding the now fully erect nipple and rolling it between his fingertips. "You're not laughing anymore, Celine."
She was whimpering now, a low, desperate sound in the back of her throat. Her chest heaved, the soft, settled twins rising and falling as she struggled to breathe. The goosebumps had spread from her chest down her stomach, a map of her escalating arousal. Her eyes were wet, but not from tears of mirth anymore. They were dark, pupils blown wide, fixed on his face with a hunger that bordered on feral.
"Please," she gasped, the word torn from her. "Please, Alfredo, I need you to move. Fucking move."
"Not yet." He dragged his nails feather-light around her areola, circling without touching the nipple itself. She thrashed, her bound body arching off the leather ottoman. Her pussy clenched around him in a desperate, rhythmic pulse, trying to milk him without his cooperation. "You're not working hard enough. I can feel you holding back."
"I'm not—" Her protest died as he pinched her nipple, hard, twisting it. She cried out, her back bowing, her bound legs straining. The ropes bit into her wrists. She didn't want to escape them. She wanted to be destroyed within them.
"Fuck you," she panted, but her voice had no venom left. "Fuck you, you goddamn sadist. I'll make you come. I'll squeeze you so fucking hard you'll forget every other pussy you've ever been in."
"Prove it."
He went back to tickling, but gentler this time, almost cruel in its lightness. A single fingertip tracing the sweaty valley between her breasts. A feather-like touch along the lower curve of her right breast. Her whimpers grew louder, filling the living room. Marian had leaned forward, her athletic braless tits resting on her knees, watching with wide, hungry eyes. Samari had a thumb pressed to her own nipple, her milk-heavy breast leaking a thin white line that she didn't bother to wipe. Maria was silent, but her hand had slipped inside her own unbuttoned jeans, her eyes fixed on the point where Alfredo's cock disappeared inside Celine's glistening cunt.
"Please," Celine sobbed, tears now leaking from the corners of her eyes. "Please, I'm begging you. I'm fucking begging you. Move your hips. One thrust. Just one—"
Her voice dissolved into a shuddering whimper as he took both her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and squeezed, then twisted gently in opposite directions. Her eyes rolled back. Her pussy clamped down on him with a force that made his vision blur, a desperate, clenching violence that rippled along his shaft.
He didn't move. He just held her nipples, pinched and firm, while she writhed beneath him, her body a taut wire of aching need.
"Tell me what you are," he said, his voice a low, brutal calm.
"I'm your helpless little whore," she choked, and the words came out broken, raw. "Tied up. Tits so fucking sensitive. I can't stand it. I can't stand not having you inside me. Please. I'll do anything. Make it feel good again. Make the tickling stop and just—"
She didn't finish. He released her nipples and slipped his hands under her bound back, gripping the rope and using it as a handle. He pulled her hips up against him as he finally, mercifully, began to thrust.
Her scream was half-relief, half-fury. "Yes! Fucking finally! Oh god—"
But he kept his rhythm shallow, teasing, pulling back until the head of his cock caught at her entrance before sliding back in. The tickling was over, but the desperation wasn't. Her orgasm had been simmering for too long, and now it surged up through her, unstoppable, her cunt milking his shaft with violent, rhythmic contractions. She screamed his name, her bound body jerking, her tits bouncing with each spasm driven by his punishing thrusts.
He watched her come apart, tied and trembling, and he followed her over the edge, his own release ripped from him by the sheer force of her cunt. He buried himself deep and flooded her, a hot, thick torrent that made her cry out again, her muscles locking around him.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the gentle creak of the ottoman.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the gentle creak of the ottoman.
Alfredo pulled out slowly, his cock slick with their combined release, and Celine shuddered at the loss. He reached for a towel from the low table and cleaned her up with surprising tenderness, wiping the sweat from her chest, the come from her thighs. But when he was done, he set the towel aside and did not reach for the ropes.
"Thank you," she breathed, still floating. "Now untie me, you bastard."
He smiled. A slow, dangerous smile that made something in her stomach flip. "No."
"What?"
He knelt over her again, his hands hovering just above her bound form. Her breath caught. The laughter started before he even touched her, a nervous, anticipatory giggle that died in her throat as his fingers landed on the undercurve of her left breast.
"No, no, no, wait—I just came, I can't—"
His fingertips danced across the sweat-slicked skin, light as spiders, and she was gone. The laughter tore out of her, helpless, wild, her whole body convulsing against the ropes. He worked her tits with ruthless precision, tracing the sensitive tissue where the implants met her flesh, circling the areolas without touching the nipples, dragging his nails down the sides of her ribs toward her armpits.
"Please!" she shrieked, bucking so hard the ottoman scraped across the floor. "Alfredo, please, I'm too sensitive—"
He didn't stop. His left hand kept working her breasts while his right slid down her stomach, through her soaked pubic hair, and found the lips of her cunt. She was still swollen from his cock, flushed and wet, and when he spread her open, her clit was already there, protruding from its hood like a tiny, desperate pearl.
"Holy shit," he murmured. "Look at that. It's bigger than I've ever seen it."
"Don't—please don't touch it—I'll die—"
He touched it. One fingertip, feather-light, tracing a circle around the exposed head. Her scream was half-laughter, half-sob. She thrashed like a fish on a line, her bound limbs straining, the ropes creaking. Her tits bounced and jiggled with each convulsive spasm, the nipples standing out like two little rocks, hard and dark and swollen beyond anything he'd seen on her before. Goosebumps covered every inch of her chest, a tight, textured map of her torment.
He looked up at the other women. Maria was watching with a predator's stillness. Samari was openly stroking herself. Marian's eyes were wide, her athletic tits rising and falling with her quickened breath.
"Someone's going to make me come with her tits," he announced, his voice casual, conversational, as if he weren't driving Celine slowly insane beneath his hands. "Anyone but Diana. She's already had her turn. But you'd better make it good. And you'd better make it slow. Because every minute you take is another orgasm Celine has to survive."
Celine's eyes flew open. "Four. You said four—"
"No," he corrected, reaching for the vibrator on the side table. "I said you'd have four before I came. That's the goal. But if these women are slow, if they're cruel, if they take their sweet time savoring my cock between their tits... you might have five. Six." He pressed the vibrator against her protruding clit and switched it to high. "Let's find out how many you can take before you break."
Her whole body seized. The vibrator buzzed against that swollen, exposed nub with merciless intensity, and Celine's laugh became a scream became a wail became nothing at all, just a silent, open-mouthed convulsion. Her cunt clamped down on nothing, her hips grinding up against the plastic head, her bound legs shaking violently.
Marian moved first. She slid off the couch, her firm 34B fake tits swaying as she knelt in front of Alfredo. She took his half-hard cock in her hands, stroking it back to full rigidity, then pressed her small, firm breasts around it. The fake tits were tight, smooth, unyielding, a perfect channel of warm, slick flesh.
"Like this?" she asked, and began to slide them up and down his shaft, slow, almost languorous. The sensation was good, deep and enveloping, but there was no urgency to it. No greed. Just a patient, almost teasing rhythm.
Celine's first orgasm hit her before Marian had even settled into the pace. A violent, shuddering explosion that tore through her bound body, her throat raw with a sound that was neither laugh nor scream but something in between. Her pussy squirted a thin spray onto her own stomach. Her clit remained trapped beneath the buzzing vibrator, swollen, desperate, unrelenting.
"One," Alfredo counted, his hips moving in tandem with Marian's slow, torturous strokes. "Two to go."
"No," Celine sobbed, tears streaming down her temples. "I can't, I can't, I've never had two, I can't—"
But Marian's slow, perfect titjob wasn't stopping. And the vibrator wasn't stopping. And Alfredo's hands were back on Celine's armpits, his fingers digging into the hypersensitive hollows, making her laugh and scream and squirm all at once, a writhing, helpless thing on the leather.
Her second orgasm came on a wail. Her tits were so hard they looked like they hurt, the nipples dark as bruises, the goosebumps nearly permanent on her skin. She sobbed through the climax, her body jerking in violent, uncontrollable spasms.
"Two," Alfredo said. He looked at Samari. "You want to try?"
Samari grinned, sliding off the couch, milk beading on her nipples. She nudged Marian aside and took over, pressing her huge, milk-heavy tits around his cock. The sensation was completely different—soft, warm, yielding, the natural flesh molding around his shaft like a cloud. She began to move, even slower than Marian, a deep, rolling compression that dragged the full weight of her breasts against him.
"She's crying," Samari observed, glancing at Celine. "Should I go faster?"
"No," Alfredo said, his voice dark and satisfied. "You're perfect. Keep going exactly like that."
Celine's third orgasm tore through her like a seizure. She screamed his name, hers, no name at all, just sound, just agony and ecstasy hopelessly tangled. Her body arched off the ottoman, only the ropes holding her down, her cunt convulsing helplessly as the vibrator buzzed on.
After it subsided, she hung limp, panting, glassy-eyed. "I've never... I've never had more than one," she whispered, a broken, wondering edge to her voice. "You're going to kill me."
"Not yet," Alfredo said, and his hands found her nipples, pinching and rolling the rock-hard peaks as Samari kept up her slow, delicious torment. "You've got one more in you, Celine. I know you do. Squeeze it out for me."
She didn't want to. Her body rebelled against the prospect, every nerve shrieking in protest. But the vibrator was relentless, and his fingers were merciless on her nipples and armpits, and Samari's tits were gliding along his cock, so slow, so perfect, so endlessly tormenting.
He could feel it building, his own release coiling at the base of his spine. He watched Celine's face, watched her slip over the edge she'd been fighting, and his control broke. His cock pulsed between Samari's breasts, and his orgasm crashed through him in hot, thick ropes that arced over Samari's cleavage and spilled down onto Celine's heaving stomach.
As soon as he came, Samari pulled away, leaving the vibrator buzzing.
Celine convulsed.
Her fourth orgasm hit her with the force of a train derailing. Her body bowed so hard the ottoman lifted on two legs. She came with a sound that was pure, animal, a raw, strangled howl of release that went on and on, her cunt clenching and spasming around the vibrator, her tits bouncing wildly, her nipples so engorged they looked like marbles. Her face was a mess of tears and laughter, a woman broken open and remade.
When it finally ended, she collapsed, a limp, trembling heap of rope and flesh and glistening skin. Her chest heaved. Her clit was still protruding, swollen and angry and sensitive to the point of madness.
"Holy shit," Marian breathed.
Diana, still lounging on the couch with her own dried come on her small tits, let out a low whistle. "I count four. She broke her record."
Alfredo switched off the vibrator and finally, gently, began to untie her. The ropes fell away, revealing red marks on her wrists and ankles. He gathered her into his arms as she sobbed quietly, trembling, her face pressed into his neck.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice wrecked. "Okay. I'm never letting you near me again."
But her arms tightened around his neck as she said it. And when she pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes were raw but smiling.