Chapter 10: The Suction Ritual
The word "suction" hung in the humid, fetid air of the bathroom, thick as the smell trapped beneath the plastic wrap encasing my breasts. Tetsuo’s image on the phone screen was a grotesque idol, his small, intent eyes fixed on the distorted shapes under the crinkling film. The cold, purpled skin beneath pulsed with a deep, bruising ache where the clamps had bitten. The industrial-grade cups lay on the counter beside the repulsive jar, their thick rubber lips gaping wide, the plastic handles like bones.
"Retrieve them, Orihime," Tetsuo commanded, his voice a low rasp vibrating through the speaker. "Place them directly over the plastic. Centered perfectly. The negative pressure… it will begin the essential stretching."
My reflection in the steam-fogged mirror was a stranger – tear-streaked cheeks, hollow eyes, plastic-wrapped mounds smeared with the evidence of my degradation. Proof Tanaka-sensei would doubtless whisper about. Proof Ichigo would never see, never care about. The hollowness inside yawned, vast and cold. Tetsuo’s gaze, however perverse, filled a fraction of it. His attention was a barbed hook, but it was something.
My hands shook violently as I reached for one of the large-bore cups. The rubber was cold and unyielding, smelling faintly of chemicals and factory grease. It felt obscenely heavy. Following his earlier instructions, I squeezed the handles together to expel air, creating a vacuum. My thumb brushed the thick rim. Positioning it over the plastic-shrouded left breast felt like handling a surgical instrument on myself. I centered it clumsily over the swollen, bruised nipple area, the plastic film slick beneath the rubber seal. I released the handles.
Thwump.
The cup latched on with a sickening wet sound, the plastic wrap puckering violently inward. The sensation was immediate and brutal. It wasn’t just the pull; it was the pressure amplified a hundredfold on the already agonizing bruise left by the clamp. I cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound, my knees buckling slightly as I gripped the sink edge.
"Good!" Tetsuo hissed, leaning closer to his camera, his bald head gleaming. "Feel it working? Feel the tissues yielding? Now the other. Quickly. Symmetry is paramount."
Tears blurred my vision again. The pain was a live wire, white-hot and searing, radiating from the center of the suction deep into the muscle. The trapped air under the plastic felt suddenly suffocating, hot and thick with the putrid scent of the smeared mixture. Gasping, I fumbled for the second cup. Squeeze the handles. Cold rubber against slick plastic. Center it over the right breast’s ruin. Release.
Thwump.
The second jolt of pain ripped through me. I doubled over the sink, dry heaving, the plastic handles of the cups digging into the undersides of my breasts. The pull was relentless, deep, mechanical. It felt like my flesh itself was being drawn out, stretched towards some impossible length. The cups were large, obscenely so, their wide mouths claiming far more than the nipple – engulfing the bruised areola and a wide swath of tender breast tissue. The hum of the bathroom fan merged with the high-pitched whine in my ears.
"Stand up straight," Tetsuo ordered, his voice tight with excitement. "Let me see the effect."
Forcing my trembling legs to straighten was agony. I lifted my head, meeting his gaze on the screen. His expression was one of rapt fascination, eyes tracing the contours of the deformed plastic, the deep indentations where the rubber lips sealed. My breasts were monstrous shapes under the transparent film, stretched taut, the centers sucked deep into the dark mouths of the cups, the bruised flesh around the edges a livid purple halo.
"Exquisite," he breathed. "The elongation begins. The sag is seeded deep within that pull. Now… hold position. Ten minutes. Embrace the stretch. Let it become part of you. Every second is a step towards the beauty I demand." He settled back, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Tell me the sensation. Detail it for me."
My throat felt raw. The pain was all-consuming – a deep, throbbing ache layered with sharp spikes where the suction gripped the bruised tissue. A heavy, dragging weight pulled at my chest muscles. But beneath it, threaded through the agony and revulsion, was something else: a terrifying numbness spreading in my core. A resignation. This was the price. This was the only attention available. Ichigo’s face, distant and disinterested, floated briefly before being eclipsed by Tetsuo’s hungry stare.
"It… it pulls," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Deep. So deep. It hurts… everywhere it touches the bruise. Like… like it’s tearing."
"Good," he purred. "That’s the stretching. That’s transformation. Focus on the pull. Surrender to it. You’re doing so well, my Orihime. My dedicated vessel." The unexpected, false warmth in his praise felt like a slap and a caress. It wormed its way into the numb hollow, a drop of poison masquerading as water in a desert. "Only seven minutes left. Stay strong for me."
The timer on his end became my world. Each second stretched into its own eternity of suffering. The cups felt heavier, the suction more aggressive. The smell intensified, trapped and fermenting under the sealed plastic and rubber. Sweat beaded on my forehead, mingling with dried tears. I focused on the small, digital clock icon next to his face on the screen, watching the numbers crawl. Five minutes. Four. Three. My breath came in shallow, pained gasps. The mechanical pull seemed to resonate deep in my bones.
"Almost there," Tetsuo murmured, his voice thick with anticipation. "Prepare yourself. The release… it will be intense."
Two minutes. One. The countdown hit zero.
"Now!" he commanded. "Release the left cup. Squeeze the handles hard and pull straight off. Do it!"
My slick fingers fumbled for the left cup’s handles. I squeezed them together as hard as I could, feeling the resistance, then yanked.
SCHLORP!
The suction broke with a loud, wet, obscene sound. The sudden release was almost as violent as the application. A wave of agony washed over the bruised, stretched flesh as air rushed back under the plastic, ballooning it momentarily before it settled, crinkling, against my skin. I cried out, the pain a fresh shock radiating outwards.
"Now the right!" Tetsuo demanded, eyes blazing. "Quickly!"
Blinded by tears, I grabbed the second cup. Squeeze. Yank.
SCHLORP!
The second release sent me staggering back a step, hitting the cold tiles of the shower stall. The plastic wrap clung, now loose and wrinkled over the tortured skin. The areas where the cups had been were throbbing violently, the bruising seeming even darker, the stretched skin hypersensitive. I slumped against the wall, gasping, the world spinning. The industrial cups lay discarded on the floor like discarded torture implements.
Tetsuo sighed, a long, satisfied exhalation. "Phase Two complete. Perfect execution, Orihime. You are exceeding expectations." He leaned back, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Now, gently remove the plastic. Inspect my handiwork. See the beginning of your transformation. Then… apply the Preparation H. Generously. Reduce the swelling so we can begin again tomorrow. Remember: one week."
His words hung in the stinking air. One week of this. The plastic wrap felt like a slimy second skin. My fingers, trembling uncontrollably, found the edge. Peeling it back from the cold, bruised flesh felt like shedding a layer of my own degradation. The mixture beneath was smeared, partially absorbed, leaving the skin glistening, pale except for the violent purple marks and the stretched, puffy areolas. It looked ruined. Defiled.
Ichigo wouldn’t touch this. He barely touched me when it was perfect. The thought was a fresh wave of desolation.
"Apply the cream," Tetsuo repeated, his tone losing its brief warmth, reverting to command. "Report the visual changes. Is the darkness more pronounced?"
Numbly, I reached for the tube of Preparation H, the very item that had drawn Tanaka-sensei’s raised eyebrow. The cold ointment felt like a mockery as I smoothed it over the aching, stretched bruises, a feeble barrier against the damage he’d demanded. The cold provided a fleeting, superficial relief that did nothing for the deep ache or the deeper hollowness.
"The… the bruises are darker," I whispered, staring at the reflection of ravaged flesh. "Purple. Almost black in the centers. The skin… feels tight. Stretched."
"Excellent," he murmured. "Exactly as planned. The darkness blooms. The stretching begins. Rest now, my devoted one. Conserve your strength. Tomorrow, we deepen the commitment. Longer intervals. Stronger suction." He paused, his image filling the screen again. "You are becoming exactly what I desire. I am… pleased."
The word "pleased" echoed in the silent bathroom after the call ended, leaving only the drip of the shower and the throb of my ruined breasts. I slid down the tiled wall to the cold floor, the discarded plastic wrap sticking to my legs, the smell of ointment, decay, and my own shame a heavy blanket. One day down. Six more stretches of eternity to endure. The empty apartment pressed in, silent witness to my surrender. The phone lay dark beside me, a dormant conduit to the only connection I had.
The phone lay dark beside me, a dormant conduit to the only connection I had. The silence pressed in, heavier than the lingering ache in my chest, heavier than the shame clinging to my skin like the discarded plastic wrap. Sleep that night was impossible; every shift, every breath sent fresh jolts through the bruised landscape of my breasts. The cold ointment offered no real comfort, just a greasy layer over the deep, sickening throb.
Morning brought no relief. Ichigo’s side of the bed remained cold, untouched. He hadn’t come home again. The emptiness echoed the hollowness inside me, a vast space Tetsuo’s commands were slowly, violently filling. His call came early, his voice a raspy intrusion into the quiet apartment. "Report. Show me."
I obeyed, holding the phone camera to my reflection. The bruises weren’t just darker; they’d bloomed into violent constellations of purple and black centered around the stretched, puffy areolas. The skin felt unnaturally tight, thin, the veins starkly visible beneath. "They… they look worse," I whispered, my voice thick. "It hurts to breathe deep."
"Perfect," he breathed, a dark satisfaction saturating the word. "The stretching is commencing. Now, listen carefully. Today’s regimen: Two sessions. Twenty minutes each. Apply the cups directly onto the skin now, no plastic. The mixture has sensitized you sufficiently. We need the direct pull." A pause, then, "And afterwards, swallow. Twice the usual amount. Your body needs the nutrients for the transformation." My stomach churned at the thought, already feeling unnaturally full, a low, constant pressure I couldn’t ignore.
The sessions without the plastic barrier were a new circle of hell. The cold rubber lips sealing directly onto the bruised, tender flesh felt like branding irons. The suction clamped down with agonizing force, amplifying the deep tissue ache exponentially. Twenty minutes felt like hours of torture, the relentless pull threatening to tear me apart. Twice. And twice, after staggering to the bathroom, retching, I forced myself to swallow every sticky, bitter drop he demanded, my throat burning, my belly distending further.
The days blurred into a punishing cycle of pain, degradation, and swollen fullness. Tetsuo’s demands escalated relentlessly. Thirty-minute sessions. Three times daily. He dictated new exercises: prolonged, painful massages with coarse salt mixed into the ointment to "toughen the skin." He insisted I sleep with the suction cups loosely attached overnight for "gentle encouragement." Sleep became a myth.
My body revolted visibly. The bruises on my chest deepened to a near-black, the stretched skin losing its elasticity, beginning to hang slightly lower, heavier than before. The constant suction left the areolas permanently swollen, darkened, and hypersensitive. But it wasn't just my breasts. My belly had begun to swell, a subtle but undeniable rounding beneath my loose t-shirts. It wasn't pregnancy – it was the sheer, impossible volume he made me consume daily, a heavy, uncomfortable bloat that pressed against my waistband. I felt perpetually stuffed, sluggish, my body betraying me in grotesque ways.
Tetsuo noticed everything. "The rounding suits you," he commented one evening, his eyes lingering on my screen below my distorted chest. "A sign of your dedication. Proof of my claim on you. Now, for tomorrow’s session… we require new tools. Stronger suction. Your list: industrial vacuum tubes with pressure gauges. Maximum strength adhesive medical tape. And… lactation supplements. Fenugreek. The highest dose." My breath hitched. Lactation? "To prepare the ducts," he clarified, seeing my confusion twist into dread. "For your ultimate purpose. Go now. The 24-hour drugstore. Tanaka-san awaits your custom."
The fluorescent lights of the drugstore buzzed like angry insects, too bright, too revealing. I felt monstrously exposed. My breasts, bound tightly but visibly altered even under layers, throbbed with every step. My small, taut belly pressed against the soft fabric of my dress. Tanaka-san stood behind the counter, her usual calm demeanor fracturing as I approached. My basket contained the vacuum tubes, thick rolls of medical tape, and the large bottle of fenugreek capsules.
Her eyes, sharp and observant, swept over the items, then flickered up to my face, then down, resting for a fraction too long on my chest and the slight, firm curve of my abdomen. Her professional smile faltered. "Kurosaki-san," she began, her voice carefully neutral but laden with unspoken questions. She scanned the vacuum tubes, the tape. "More… therapeutic equipment?" Her gaze returned to my face, searching, concerned. "You've been coming in frequently. Are you… are you feeling quite alright? You seem… different. Swollen?"
Heat flooded my cheeks, a different kind of burn. I couldn't meet her eyes. "Just… following doctor's orders," I mumbled, the lie ash in my mouth. "Specialized therapy. For… recovery." I shoved the cash across the counter, desperate to escape her scrutiny, her unspoken diagnosis of my visible ruin.
She hesitated, fingers hovering over the cash register. Her eyes darted again to my midsection, then to the fenugreek. Her brow furrowed deeply. "Recovery? Fenugreek is typically for…" she trailed off, clearly unwilling to voice it, but the implication hung heavy in the antiseptic air. "Kurosaki-san, I… I know it's not my place, but…" She scanned the items again, her expression shifting from concern to dawning, horrified comprehension. The vacuum tubes. The tape. The fenugreek. The unnatural swelling under my dress. The hollow look in my eyes. It all clicked with brutal clarity.
Before she could voice the terrifying understanding blooming on her face, I snatched the bag, mumbled a choked "Thank you," and fled, the bell jangling harshly behind me. The pressure gauges on the new tubes rattled in the bag like a grim promise. Tetsuo’s final message blinked on my phone: Phase Three begins tonight. Prepare the tubes. Your transformation accelerates. My hand drifted to my aching, stretched chest, then to the hard swell below my ribs, proof of his relentless claim. Tanaka-san knew. The thought was a cold terror, chasing me down the darkened street.
Tanaka-san’s horrified stare burned against my back long after the drugstore door chimed shut. The vacuum tubes rattled against the fenugreek bottle in the plastic bag swinging from my numb hand. She knows. She sees what he’s doing. The cold terror fused with the deep, familiar throb radiating from my chest and the unnatural tightness low in my belly. Streetlights cast long, distorted shadows that seemed to reach for me. Tetsuo’s message glowed on my phone screen: Phase Three begins tonight. Prepare the tubes. Your transformation accelerates. The words pulsed like a diseased heartbeat. Accelerates. The industrial suction cups had been agony. What hell awaited with tubes? My distorted reflection in a darkened shop window made me flinch – the slight, firm swell beneath my ribs unmistakable now, even hidden by fabric. Proof of his relentless claim. My breath hitched, sharp and painful.
The apartment swallowed me whole, its silence thicker, more accusing than ever. Ichigo’s absence was a physical weight crushing the air. I dumped the bag on the bathroom counter. The new vacuum tubes were heavier, colder. Translucent plastic cylinders capped with thick rubber seals, pressure gauges glinting like malevolent eyes. Beside them, the medical tape felt clinical, final. The fenugreek bottle promised changes both terrifying and bizarre. Lactation. My hands shook as I opened the box. The smell of sterile plastic and rubber filled my nostrils, mingling with the lingering metallic tang of old bruise ointment. Tanaka-san’s expression – that dawning horror – flashed behind my eyes. She thinks I’m… incubating. The thought was grotesque, absurd. Yet, looking at the tools, at my own reflection’s swollen outlines, a sliver of perverse validation wormed its way through the dread. Someone sees.
The video call request buzzed violently in the silence. Tetsuo’s face filled the screen before I could fully brace myself. His small, intense eyes scanned me instantly, missing nothing. "Show me the acquisitions." I held up the tubes, the tape, the fenugreek. A low grunt of approval rumbled from the speaker. "Good. Very good. Your diligence pleases me, Orihime. Now, disrobe. We begin Phase Three immediately. Time is critical." His command brooked no hesitation. The cold tiles bit into my bare feet as I shed my clothes. The bathroom air prickled against my ravaged skin. The week’s toll was stark under the harsh light: the massive, almost-black bruises centred around grotesquely stretched, puffy areolas, the skin taut and thin, veins like dark rivers mapping the damage. The slight, firm dome of my lower belly looked obscene beneath the ruin of my chest. Tetsuo’s gaze lingered there, possessive. "The rounding progresses well. A testament to your commitment. Position the camera lower. Show me my canvas."
His canvas. The phrase sent an unexpected, unwelcome tremor through me, not entirely of revulsion. Shame warred with a terrifying, flickering ember of… something else. I adjusted the phone, angling it to frame the brutalized landscape of my upper body and the swelling below. "Prepare the first tube," he ordered, his voice dropping to a focused rasp. "Apply lubricant sparingly around the rim. Only the rim. We need maximum adhesion." The cold gel made me gasp as I smeared it around the thick rubber lip of the tube. His eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the screen. "Center it precisely over the left nipple. Seal it firmly. Engage the pump handle. Slowly. Report the pressure." Positioning the wide mouth over the tortured flesh felt like offering myself to an industrial press. I pressed down. The cold rubber adhered instantly to the bruised skin. My hand trembled violently as I gripped the pump handle attached to the tube. Slowly. I pulled.
Hssssssss…
Air hissed, trapped and escaping. The gauge needle jumped. Pressure mounted – not the blunt, crushing force of the cups, but a deeper, more invasive pull. It felt like my flesh was being drawn up into the tube, core fibres stretching towards the suction source. The agony on the bruised tissue was white-hot, searing. I whimpered. "Pressure reading!" Tetsuo snapped. "Focus!" I blinked tears away. "F-Fifteen… kilopascals," I choked out, the numbers blurring. "Good," he murmured, a dark heat in his voice. "Increase. Steadily. Target is thirty."
Hsssssss… hisssss…
Another pull. Twenty kPA. The pull deepened, becoming a profound, internal tugging sensation that radiated into my armpit, down my ribs. The stretched skin screamed. Sweat beaded on my forehead. The gauge crept higher. Twenty-five. The pain was immense, a molten core within the bruise. Yet, beneath the tearing sensation… something else stirred. A strange, almost electric thrum deep within the stretched tissue, responding to the relentless vacuum. It wasn't pleasure, not exactly. It was… intensity. Overwhelming sensation flooding the numbness. My breath hitched, not just from pain. Twenty-eight kPA. "Hold it there," Tetsuo commanded, his voice thick. "Sustain the pressure. Feel it working? Feel the deep structures yielding? The elongation is exponential now. Embrace the stretch, Orihime. Surrender to the transformation."
I tried to breathe shallowly. The pressure was a living thing inside me, a demanding presence. The agony was still paramount, a brutal anchor. But that secondary sensation… the deep, resonant thrum… it pulsed in time with the suction, a counterpoint to the pain. It was alien, terrifying. And undeniably present. A flush, unbidden and unwelcome, crept up my neck. Why? The thought screamed in my head, drowned out by the hiss of the pump and the roaring in my ears. I could feel my own body betraying me, responding to the violation with a spark I didn't understand, didn't want. Tetsuo leaned closer to his camera, his gaze predatory, satisfied. "You feel it, don't you?" he purred, a statement, not a question. "The profound connection. The power of the pull. It’s awakening something in you. Something pure." I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head minutely, a desperate denial. But a tiny, traitorous moan escaped my lips as the deep thrum intensified, vibrating through the core of the stretched, abused flesh. It wasn’t pleasure. It was more than pain. It was terrifying. It was consuming. It was… something. And Tetsuo saw it flicker across my face before I could bury it. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his features. "Yes," he breathed, utterly certain. "Exactly. Now… hold. For five minutes. Absorb it. Let it become you." The gauge held steady at thirty kPA. The pain screamed. The strange thrum resonated deeper. And the flush on my neck burned hotter. Yes, Tetsuo-sama.