The Tit Man

Toppy sends me photos of tortured tits.  Purple and wrapped with rope. Erect nipples between the sharp teeth of steel clamps, videos of women crawling on their hands and knees with weights hanging off their nipples. 

He tells me to fuck myself while watching the videos. He gets me to send him little videos of myself playing with my tits, licking them and squeezing them. He texts back his usual little smiley faces, bizarre emoticons that seem to be grimacing more than smiling, but I'll take it. 

He tells me about this man who's mad about the tit. The Tit Man. The guy will do just about anything with them. He doesn’t care about any other body part. He doesn’t want to fuck or get sucked . He just wants to use this one body part. The idea should be offensive to me and I guess it is, but it’s also a turn on. Plenty of men stare at my tits every day when I’m on the bus or at work. I often think about showing myself to them.

Women are allowed to go topless in public here. I’ve never done it, but I’ve fantasized about it. Just walking down the street tits out downtown with a bunch of business men around. On a cool or windy day, my nipples would be hard. I cum to this fantasy more than once. I would have no control over who looked at them, who got aroused. What they thought about it. They’d probably think I was a total slut. I blush at the thought. It turns me on.

Eventually, after driving me crazy, Toppy  makes an appointment for me with the Tit Man. I’ve been fucked by fetishists before. They derive pleasure from something very specific. I’m both aroused and horrified by the fact that the idea makes me hot. I watch the videos over and over, even on my lunch break at the Bank. I squat on the toilet, lick my fingers, slide them over my clit and rub at it while I watch some chick’s nipples grow dark and stiff as they’re whipped.

I send photos of my tits to the Tit Man. It feels like an audition. He wants to see them naked at rest, my nipples soft. He wants to see them slick and sticky, so I lube them up. He wants to see them with a dildo in between. He wants to see them braless in a wet t-shirt. He seems to have an endless appetite for photos of my tits. Every photo I take turns me on even more. I have to send the same ones to Toppy. Each time Toppy texts me back a smiley face.

Toppy’s little smiley faces always send me over the edge. I crave his approval and attention. All I ever get are these little smiley faces. Or silence.  I hate it when Toppy’s silent.

On the day of my appointment with the Tit Man, I’m more than ready. I’m desperate. Gagging for it, you might say. I presume I won’t have to get down on my knees and suck his cock, which fills me with disappointment, but I need to do this to please Toppy and I don’t like to admit it, but to be used, objectified this way was always a secret, shameful desire of mine. Toppy makes this possible for me.

I ride the cargo elevator up to the eleventh floor of a converted warehouse condo. It’s dirtier than I expect.  I brush off my skirt, unzip my jacket to reveal the see-through blouse Toppy insisted on.

My cunt tingles. I’m so fucking wet. And afraid at the same time. I can’t stop my legs from trembling. I could turn around and take the elevator back down, grab a cab and return to my little apartment ten minutes away, and I consider it. I look down at my tits, touch them through the shirt. They’re hard. I’m wet. I want this.

I take a deep breath and knock.

The man is middle-aged with thick dark hair and a heavy black mustache and beard. I have no idea what his connection is to Toppy. I never ask.

He nods as I enter. Tells me to take off my jacket and my top. I stand in the middle of the loft, naked above the waist, my nipples stiff from the cold. He strokes himself on the outside of his jeans and gawks at me. He does this for quite some time. I’m wondering if this is all that will happen when he approaches me and brushes his hairy hands over my tits. He moans. His breath stinks of garlic. I try to turn away but he roughly jerks my chin toward him.

His pupils are wide and dark. I notice a string of drool clinging to his mustache.  Fuck, I’m even more turned on. He continues to paw at my tits for what feels like ages. I feel the bulge of his jeans against my leg, but he doesn’t open his pants or ask me to kneel.

He leaves me standing in the middle of the room and walks to a table. I notice there are all kinds of objects on it, including some rope. He brings over a coil of rope, just your regular hardware store stuff, nothing fancy. The rope is actually in two long pieces. He shoves me down into a hard-backed chair, slaps both of my breasts, turning them red. I feel like a nothing with tits. A zero.

When I get like this, I sometimes float out of my body. He must sense that I’m not paying attention. I don’t know why he cares. I’m just a pair of tits to torture. He bites down on my nipples until I cry out. My cunt spasms as I feel the sting of pain. He wraps a rope around the base of each of my breasts, tightening the rope as he goes, making my tits swell and turn dark red. My nipples are now very erect. He’s breathing heavily as he looks down at my breasts.

He makes me stand up. He licks my distended nipples, making me moan. He bites them hard again and I cry out. Tears roll down my eyes.

He brings over a crop, brushes it against the nipples and then strikes them, alternating from one to the other. I count each stroke. One. Two. Three. So fucking painful. Four. Five. Six. They are hard, red bullets of pain. Seven. Eight. Nine. All I am is pain. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

I want to fuck myself. I reach down to put my hands down my pants, but he shoves them away. I am an object to be used, nothing more. He gives me another eight strokes. The sting of the crop is making my nipples tingle hotly.

He pushes me down onto the cold, concrete floor. Finally he unzips his pants. His cock is hard and thick. He fists the shaft, his thumb moving over the slit of his cock, which weeps precum.

He removes his pants. All he has on is a pair of black socks and a t-shirt. He straddles me upside down. Most men want me to clean their asses in this position, but I get the impression with this guy that I should just keep still and let him concentrate on his business.

He groans as he slides his cock over my red and swollen nipples. His balls dangle down onto my chin. I feel them tighten. He jerks off on my tits. The cum spurts onto my chest, making a sticky mess that grows cold in seconds.

He climbs off and takes a photograph. Walks away, leaving me neglected on the floor, covered in cold jizz.

I find the bathroom, clean myself up and get the hell out of there.

When I arrive back at my place, I check my phone. There’s a smiley face from Toppy.