The next part of my examination was a compression test to
assess the malleability of my body, and its capacity to be formed into
different shapes when put under pressure from a selection of bindings. Dr
Forrest came over with two big rolls of two inch wide, elasticated bandage,
like the ones they use to strap up sprained ankles, and began wrapping it round
one of my breasts while the nurse supported its weight. “This will make your
fat boobs nice and tiny again,” explained the doctor, “just like a teenager,
and no-one will be able to tell you’ve just had them drained of all that milk.
That’s an unfortunate side effect of lactating, Katie, big boobs getting all
swollen up, and then squeezed out till they’re flat and empty, so we’ll build
you a pair of teenage torpedoes to start with, then later we’ll bind them again
to a childish flat chest with cute little breast buds.”
As the doctor wrapped the material tightly round the base of
the globe, working her way down its length towards my nipple, by the time she
reached half way, my breast was swollen and tight near the end, the teat
dripping with milk. Nurse Sandra sorted that out for me, with a flat bar clamp
over the nipple, tightening the screws till the milk stopped leaking out entirely.
It only took them a few minutes to cover my breast
completely, with the end crisscrossed so a swollen aureole and clamped nipple
were all that showed, every piece of bandage tugged and stretched to create an
all over, constant pressure. The end result was indeed a torpedo, though
lacking the curves and contours of a natural breast, it looked completely
artificial, especially in contrast to the other side, which now seemed even
more flat and deflated than before. This inequality was soon remedied by
binding the other breast just as tightly, creating an identical torpedo shape,
complete with a silver clamp to prevent my nipple from leaking, and aching just
as badly as the first.
In order to check they were both wrapped securely, Dr
Forrest had me shake my chest from side to side, producing just a slight jiggle
in my lengthened tubes, followed by bending and straightening my knees to
bounce them up and down, which was more exaggerated than it was side to side.
Finally, she had me doing jumping jacks, and this set up quite a bounce in the
tightly wrapped flesh, stiffened by the bandages so that all the pressure was
exerted onto my chest, feeling as if my titties were being ripped away from my
ribs. Even after the tears were running down my cheeks, the doctor had me
perform another dozen jumps before I was allowed to stop, then she had the
nurse help her find out how far they could move my breasts manually, pulling
them in all directions as she made notes about the stress lines in my skin.
Leaving the bandages compressing my breasts, Dr Forrest brought
over a beautiful light blue satin corset, holding it beneath my bust line as she
wrapped it round my body while the nurse fastened two rows of hooks to secure
it in place. The front came down to a point on top of my smooth pubic mound,
the edges swept up above my hip bones, and then plunged into the cleft of my
bottom stopping well past the tail bone. It was a totally different style to
the corset I’d been fitted with at my last milestone exam, supporting my
breasts with a small shelf, while covering half of my pubis instead of framing
it with the satin, and cut much higher at the hip.
I obediently leaned on the edge of the examination table as
the doctor and nurse laboured together, tugging the laces through their holes,
working up and down the interleaved threads that pulled the edges of the corset
closer and closer together. When they finished the lacing, tying the strings
between my shoulder blades, the corset was punishingly tight as they stood back
to admire my re-shaped figure, commenting on my narrow waist and widely flared
hips. This corset was another of John
Langton’s designs, a friend of Dr Forrest that I’d done some weekend work for a
few years ago on her recommendation, mainly modelling in his lingerie store, with
the rest of the time filled by re-stocking shelves, tidying rails, or working
on the sales register. Pretty much a regular shop job, except the store uniform
I had to wear was a corset and high heels, no bra unless it was a high corset,
and no panties unless they were a special addition to the garment,
usually with internal spikes or a fitted vibrator.
This pale blue corset had a pantie attachment to it, covered
in matching blue satin with rows of silver eyelets on the outside, and a thick
curved steel bar along the gusset, with quarter inch spikes sticking out all
over it. The ends of the spikes were rounded so they wouldn’t pierce the skin,
but I’d no doubt they would be very uncomfortable when embedded inside my girl
cleft, which was where I guessed they were designed to fit. While the nurse
pulled apart my outer labia the doctor carefully eased the bar into my groove,
holding it in place as the nurse clipped the front fasteners to anchor points
on the bottom edge of the corset, then tucked the rest of it between my legs,
where it attached to the boned satin just below my tail bone. There were a
couple of laces running through the edges of the panties, which the nurse
tightened further and further, pulling them into my groin till I thought my
legs would be cut off, but at last she tied them in a secure bow behind me.
Taking my elbow, Nurse Sandra led me across the room to the
full length mirror, each step rolling my pussy round the spiked rod in my slit,
stimulating me like having ants biting me everywhere. I’ve done something
similar at home with a small round hairbrush, but this was much more intense,
and the spikes being steel meant I could have been shredded down there if it
went wrong. The corset looked amazing, my waist far narrower than I’ve ever
seen it, which emphasised my uncovered hips, and the panties gave me an
impressive pouty pussy. Dr Forrest brought over a pair of breast gloves to
cover the bandages round my bound titties, sliding the pale blue stretch satin
down their length, but before she zipped them up, she had Nurse Sandra replace
the bar clamps on my nipples. There was a little leakage as they were undone,
quickly mopped up, then a pair of silver acorns fitted in their place, a centre
plunger pushing out a four jaw collar to open it up at the bottom, which
slipped down to the base of each nipple, closing tightly as the plunger was
released. A small spring inside pulled down the acorn design cover to hide the
jaws as it nestled against the aureole, and when the nurse took the plunger out
entirely, it was replaced with a cover topped with a deep blue sapphire.
The final touch was to close the zippers below my breast
gloves, which tightened the stretch satin, adding more pressure to my lactating
titties, increasing the ache deep inside my large torpedoes. Dr Forrest handed
a tape measure to Nurse Sandra to measure the compression and restructuring
achieved so far, the results on each part of my squeezed anatomy being put into
my research notes.
Telling me to slip my high heels on, Doctor Forrest said I
needed a little exercise to allow my internal organs to settle into their
restricted space, so I was to go into the waiting area and ask the receptionist
for two cups of coffee, one for herself and the other for Nurse Sandra. Before
I left, Dr Forrest pulled the sapphire studs from the end of my nipple shields,
slipped them in the jump ring of two small bells, and then replaced them so the
bells dangled from the end of each breast, tinkling softly at the slightest
tremor I made. Every step I took set my bound tits in motion, the small shelf
on the corset, supporting them a few inches from my chest, acted as a pivot for
the cantilevered cylinders of constrained flesh, the foundation garment
gripping my body a few inches too low to prevent the base from moving in the
opposite direction to the silver covered tips. Even when I stood still, there
was still enough spring to let my breasts bounce several times before settling,
providing a gently ringing for a few seconds after I had stopped.
As I walked along the short corridor, my chiming bells
announced my impending arrival, not unpleasantly noisily, but sufficient to
attract everyone’s attention to me as I entered the large waiting area. With
all those eyes admiring my bouncing bosom, and its movement kindling fresh
arousal in my laced and aggravated pussy, the spiked steel bar was slipping
easily along my dripping wet slit, some of the pins rubbing the base of my
clitoris, while another hooked the covering hood upwards. It was very difficult
to place my request for coffee as I teetered just this side of orgasm in front
of the receptionist, and it took me a moment to realise she’d asked if I wanted
sugar in the coffee. She would have known how the doctor and nurse took their
coffee every day, but she took the opportunity to send me walking all the way
back to enquire myself, extending my exhibition for the on-looking patients and
carers, and I’d also be required to return to the desk with their response.
When I entered Dr Forrest’s office she didn’t give me chance
to ask about the sugar, but just instructed me to lean against the desk while
they tightened my laces a little more, now that my insides had settled. I was
gasping by the time they had squeezed my waist another half inch smaller, and I
could feel my rib cage folding in on my lungs as the doctor reminded me to
breathe with my diaphragm, not my chest, which made things a little bit easier.
Armed with the information about their sugar requirements, I sashayed back into
reception, my hip swinging increasing the bounce of my titties, and the motion
of the bar embedded deep in my wet slit, putting on a show for my audience.
The receptionist had me wait a few moments while finishing a
phone call she was on, making me stand with my chest against the counter as she
absentmindedly toyed with my little bells, then she handed me two coffees,
adding the sugar I requested she said there was no need for any cream since I
could supply any that was needed.
When I returned to Dr Forrest’s office she took the coffees
and said it was now time that my breasts were emptied again, so Nurse Sandra
unzipped the satin sleeves round my titties, then unwrapped the bandages to
free them. This is one of the fascinating things Master Mark has taught me to
embrace about bondage, that when I reach my limits of being bound, the release
afterwards can push me just that little bit further. Nurse Sandra appreciated
this as well as she carefully wound the bandage back from my right breast,
leaving the two coils at the base till the very last, holding them tight as she
stroked the pale blue flesh while it returned to nearly its former rounded
shape. Dr Forrest commanded me to grip my opposite elbows behind my back, and
then the nurse gave a flick of her wrist and released the blood supply back
into the now starved vessels feeding my lactating tit. I struggled to keep my
shoulders drawn back as the pain exploded from chest to nipple, trying
desperately not to shake the throbbing ache away as it pulsed with each beat of
my racing heart.
Unbinding my left breast was even more traumatic, with the
pain being combined with my aching right globe, until my whole chest was in
agony as the last bandage was removed. It settled down after a few minutes to
just a mild discomfort, peaking every so often when the nurse squeezed or
lifted one of my titties to check on its progress. While Nurse Sandra held a
pretty china cream jug below my breast, Dr Forrest fitted the release pin into
the silver acorn clamp on my right nipple, pressing it several times to open
the clamp then reapply the lock. Each push sent a streak of agony through my
teat, tempered by the rush of fluid through my milk ducts as the white liquid
dripped into the waiting cream jug, until the doctor finally took the clamp off
altogether. I watched as droplets of milk formed all over my nipple as it
flowed out of the ducts, gathering together into much larger drops which fell
from the end of the teat and into the flowered china jug.
“Well done, Katie,” Dr Forrest praised me, “your lactation
has set in really well this time, but let’s test the effect of sexual arousal
on the let-down reflex shall we? Your breast first.” Using a gentle touch, the
doctor stroked her fingertips down the upper slope of my right tit, then around
the sensitive area just behind my aureole, the tingle in my flesh causing my
milk sacs to squeeze down, the steady drip of milk growing to a trickle. “What
about your adorable little pussy, young Katie, do you think we can make it purr
today?” With that, Dr Forrest tugged at the gusset of the corset, making the
spiked bar dig harder into the slit between my wet labia, one spike stretching
my clitoral hood, while two others dug into the base of the shaft. The painful
stimulation of my tender womanhood increased the flow of milk along with my
sexual excitement, one of my milk ducts beginning to spray rather than drip,
trailed quickly by a second duct, then a third and fourth, till Nurse Sandra
had to slip the mouth of the jug over the end of my breast to catch it all.
The flow soon reduced to nothing when Dr Forrest stopped
stimulating my body, but then the left hand nipple clamp was removed, and the
procedure repeated on that tittie until I had half-filled the milk jug. Now
that the excess milk had been removed, Nurse Sandra fitted the tubes of the
breast pump over my teats, and started the machine going, with the pressure at
medium while they sat and enjoyed their milky coffee, courtesy of my straining
breasts. Every few minutes either the nurse or doctor would reach over and
increase the suction a little more, the milk rushing out through my nipple
ducts, while the ends of my breasts were drawn deeper in the flared glass
tubes. After fifteen minutes, Dr Forrest stopped the pump, removed each tube, and
slipped a sleeve halfway down them, before replacing them on my breasts and
starting up the pump again. Slowly, my breast flesh was pulled into the tube
until my nipples reached the sleeve, where the centre hole was only a little
larger in diameter than the teat itself, but there was sufficient pressure to
force the brown flesh down the full length of the hole, and out into the lower
section of the glass tubes.
As the suction was stepped up again, the sleeves prevented
my breast from going any further inside, but I could now see that the hole was
in fact tapered at either end, the upper narrowing compressing my aureole into
the thin tube, and the lower reduction allowing both my nipples to flare out
somewhat. My milk was spraying strongly into the collection chamber, but it was
not left to the suction alone, because Dr Forrest would pull, rotate, and twist
the tubes so that more of my nipple was pulled through, and more of the aureole
was sucked deeper into the constriction. Quite soon the complete brown fleshy
area at the end of my breasts had pulled down the central hole, which now
showed the paler tittie flesh inside it, but my aureole had resumed its
previous globular shape in the lower section, only more so due to the suction.
It took another agonising five minutes before every last
drop of milk was pumped out of me, twenty five minutes of being handled like a
dairy cow, even having to kneel on the table, with my udders hanging down while
they were squeezed and pulled. The tubes were disconnected, leaving just the
sleeves holding my nipples and aureoles like puffies on a stick, which Nurse
Sandra pulled and tugged in every direction, working the bloated flesh back
through the small channel much more painfully than when they’d been inserted.
At last they were free, but kept their rounded shape, like the puffies I’d
loved when my tits first began to blossom, only much more sensitive.
The nurse now took the bandages that had bound my breasts
earlier, and wrapped them round my chest this time, above one breast and below
the other, round the back, then over and under the opposite way, compressing my
empty globes, but leaving a three inch gap around each of the swollen nipples.
When she had finished, I’d been left with a pair of apple sized boobies, topped
with beautiful puffies, and hard, pointed nipples, just like I’d had when I was
fourteen years old, only even firmer. I gasped when Doctor Forrest squeezed the
erect teats, flicking them with her finger to demonstrate that they hardly
wobbled at all, then licking them to show just how sensitive they were. Nurse
Sandra brought over a pale blue crop top, similar to a training bra, slipped it
over my arms and head, then fitted the garment round my chest, just above the
top of the matching corset, the material so clingy that it displayed every
detail of my little girl titties. I was informed that the bindings would remain
in place for half an hour, and in the meantime I could return the empty cups to
reception, which I recognized was just another excuse to put me on exhibition
to everyone in the waiting room.
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