Bridget’s Called Up

Bridget walked nervously out to the front of the class, uncertain how she’d caught the teacher’s eye. She wasn’t like Tracey, always in the front row with a low-cut top and a hungry look. In dress and action Bridget always aimed not to be noticed, and up to now felt she’d become quite adept. Trying to ignore a resentful stare - it shouldn’t be possible to have angry cleavage but Tracy was managing it - she made her way out between the desks.

“Come along Bridget. We need to get started.”

Miss Stapleton wasn’t being unpleasant. Everyone else seemed to enjoy these lessons, they were fascinating, but the fear of being called on to stand at the front of the room - with all those eyes on her - always left Bridget too tense to relax and really enjoy learning. Now, nearly at the end of her schooling, just when she thought she was safe, she’d finally been pulled from her lair in the back row. She and Beth, the fellow inhabitant of her shy little clique, had exchanged looks of horror when Bridget’s name was called. Now Miss Stapleton was smiling encouragingly at her as she shuffled reluctantly forwards.

It wasn’t even that Bridget didn’t enjoy the subject of torture - she was always thrilled to learn new ways you could inflict pain on the female body - and it certainly wasn’t because she disliked her teacher. Like most of the pupils who had Miss Stapleton for torture, she had a bit of a crush on her. In fact, alone in her room, Bridget would often fantasize about giving herself over to her teacher’s abusive pleasure - it was just, in her dreams, there was always just the two of them.

 The problem for Bridget was her weight. When you were a teenager and plump, verging on fat, you did tend to be quite self-conscious about it. It was always easier to skulk at the back with her friend Beth, trying to stay out of sight. Beth was as self-conscious about her boobs, or rather the lack of them, as Bridget was about her flabby body. Their plan only partly worked, the class had given the quiet pair nicknames - flatty and fatty - which they didn’t hesitate to use when certain no teachers were around.

Ever brisk, Miss Stapleton plunged on before her pupil had reached her desk. She was definitely a popular teacher, a bubbly blonde in her late twenties, still fired with enthusiasm for expanding young minds. A tendency towards almost low-cut tops, and not quite short skirts, kept the boys’ attention, while an obvious enthusiasm for her subject generally held the girls’. Today was the last practical lesson before the upper class left the school, and the little smile playing on her lips suggested she’d planned something pretty spectacular.

“That’s right Bridget.” she said, as her model finally reached the teaching platform. “Just hop up here and stand facing the class with your hands behind your back. Make sure everyone can see you before we start.”

As Bridget climbed up she couldn’t help, despite her butterflies, wondering what she was in for. Usually there were just one or two pieces of equipment on the platform, but today Miss Stapleton seemed to have emptied out half the stock cupboard. Turning her back on the intriguing plethora of apparatus, she stood up straight, trying not to catch her classmates’ eyes.

It wasn’t often that Bridget was the focus of attention. She was described as chubby by those being kind, fat by those who weren’t. Her dark brown hair was more mousy than sleek and, despite her best efforts, never seemed to grow below her shoulders. Her face itself was quite attractive, helped by youthful skin that had stayed soft and clear, but she would have taken a few spots over the first suggestion of a second chin.

“What are you sniggering at Jason?” asked Miss Stapleton sharply. One thing she was known to dislike was anyone in her classes being rude at the wrong time to the girls called on to be demonstrators.

Jason stopped sniggering hurriedly, and started looking worried instead. He didn’t want to be thrown out of the last ever practical lesson they’d have.

“Well, come on Jason. What are you amused about?”

It wasn’t any good lying to this teacher, she always seemed to know, but Jason’s answer was delivered reluctantly.

“It’s just that Bridget is a bit…” he paused, then plunged on, “…well-built, I suppose. She’s not going to bend like Sharon or Tracy.”

Blushing furiously, Bridget looked firmly straight in front of her, staring at a poster of advanced knots on the back wall of the room. In her distress she didn’t hear the start of her teacher’s answer, but, as her blood stopped throbbing in her ears, things didn’t sound so bad.

“… so you’d be amazed how little difference a fuller figure makes, especially if the slut’s quite young.” Miss Stapleton was saying. “A lot of serious connoisseurs prefer someone like our model today who has more to work with, I know I do. Ever since this class came to me two years ago, I’ve been thinking our model’s body shape would be ideal for this lesson.”

Bridget’s mind was reeling. Had Miss Stapleton really been watching her all this time, while she thought she’d just gone unnoticed? It certainly sounded like it. Did her pretty teacher really prefer fat girls? It was an intriguing thought, and she stood a little taller.

“We’re going to be covering a lot in this demonstration.” the teacher continued. “So we’ll have to skip the reveal and tease. I’ll just get our model to strip off everything and we’ll start from there.”

No one missed the girl on the platform’s face turning white, they just couldn’t work out why. Nearly every girl in the class had been naked up there at some time. What they didn’t know, and Bridget did, was how little personal grooming she’d done recently. Over-confident that she wouldn’t be picked now, for the past few months she really hadn’t bothered with anywhere that was covered by her school uniform. Instead of, maybe, a neat triangle over her pussy, she had a full thatch sprouting from every crevice, even her armpits were growing respectable little bushes. In the confusion of the last few minutes it had been driven from her mind, but now, instructed to get naked, the full horror of the situation was coming back to her.

There was no point in refusing, that would just mean detention and a fail. Bridget turned away from the class, hoping to delay the inevitable, as she slowly undid the buttons on her blouse and unzipped her skirt. Reaching behind to unhook her bra, her arms pushed out from her sides, she groaned inwardly as the sniggering started. From the corner of her eye she could see Miss Stapleton walking out into the room, presumably to see what was amusing her pupils. Bridget braced herself for some pretty sharp comments.

“Have you lot learnt nothing from two years in my class? I really did expect better of you.” Miss Stapleton sounded more weary than annoyed. “Lift up your arms model, it’s time these giggling schoolchildren learnt something.”

Bridget, confused and unsure, but slight hope making her just a little less nervous, raised her hands high above her head, feeling a hint of breeze cool the warm damp hairs in her armpits. Still turned away from her classmates, she couldn’t see how they looked, but the teacher’s words created a quiet stillness behind her.

“If you want to know how to play a woman, if you want to know when she’s aroused, even more if you want to know when she’s afraid - even in pain - her scent will tell you more than any amount of writhing, moaning or screaming. The sheer joy of smelling a woman in tortuous agony is the height of what I’ve been trying to teach you.” Miss Stapleton reached up to gently stroke the hair in Bridget’s nearest armpit, causing the girl to shy slightly in surprise, before bringing her fingers up to her nose and inhaling deeply.

Miss Stapleton paused, to let her words and actions sink in, before continuing, “Without hair you lose nearly all the aroma, and the ability to play your victim like the finest musical instrument. Let’s see if this model is playable all over.”

Bridget almost fell over. In one swift movement Miss Stapleton had ripped her knickers down to her ankles and pulled apart the cheeks of her arse. Almost before she regained her balance she felt a second surprise as her teacher’s nose pressed into the crack of her arse, then the little rush of air across her sphincter from a deep inhale.

Turning back to the shocked class, Miss Stapleton announced, “Very revealing. Our model here hasn’t been wiping too well, which is always a help. Recently she’s been very nervous, almost frightened, but she seems rather calmer now. Would anyone else like to come and take a sniff?”

It was pretty mortifying having your bum read, especially after the comment about imperfect wiping, but at least her teacher seemed pleased with her. Feeling a little bolder, Bridget even turned round to see if anyone would take up the offer to come and inhale from her back passage. There were a few brave, if slightly nervous, souls, including Beth, unusually volunteering to leave their back row.

She hadn’t been touched so much since first starting school, when they’d all excitedly tried out what they’d just learnt on each other, mostly with little success - and no one had ever stuck their face down there. Ricky, one of the few boys who’d ever asked her for sex, seemed to spend longer smelling her crotch than he had fucking it. Beth, after surprising her with a tongue that just probed into her sphincter, walked away with a secret little smile on her face. The final boy to volunteer, a hunky blond called Jason who Bridget quite fancied, kept his face in her arse even longer than Ricky.

“So Jason.” said Miss Stapleton, as he sat down, “How did you find the scent of our model?”

Jason, trying not to look embarrassed, answered a bit too loudly, “Really interesting. You were right Miss, I’ve got the most amazing boner.”

“Thank you for being so honest Jason.” his teacher looked at him proudly. “Just for that you can take first place if you want to relieve yourself in the model.”

This was the best perk of being called up to model as a pain-slut, even Bridget looked forward to this bit. The boys were about to be invited to come inside the girl who’d been picked as today’s model, it was the best way of making sure they could concentrate for the rest of the lesson. The thought of more stiff cocks than she’d ever experienced was making her pussy down, but there was a small problem. Bridget knew what to do, dropping down onto all fours and pushing her bum over the edge of the platform. Having avoided censure for being slow, she motioned to Miss Stapleton that she needed a word.

“What is it model?” her idol asked quietly, as she bent in low.

“I haven’t been taking my pill Miss.” Bridget half-mouthed, half-whispered as the teacher came so close to her.

“Don’t worry about that now.” was miss Stapleton’s breezy response. “That’ll all be taken care of soon.”

As the young teacher stood up to announce Bridget’s fertile state, causing more than the usual rush of boys, Bridget herself was a little worried. There were always pills and procedures to deal with unwanted pregnancies, but Miss Stapleton’s manner had suggested something faster than that. The last practical lesson was always rumoured to be special, even if no one ever talked about what actually went on. If there wouldn’t be any chance of her getting pregnant, what was planned for her?

Bridget couldn’t  worry too much about the future for a while, it’s hard to concentrate when a class of randy teenage boys are lining up to bang you. The fat girl was shaken so wildly it took all her concentration just to avoid falling over. None of the boys, just looking for a quick cum-dump, took more than a couple of frantic minutes, but the constant succession of swollen pricks kept her dripping snatch feeling full. By the end Bridget could feel the hot sticky semen dribbling down her legs and pooling inside her where it had been pistoned into her womb.

“Okay everyone. Now we’re more relaxed, let’s get on with the lesson. Stand up model and face the class.”

Her legs feeling like lumps of jelly, Bridget stood up, flushed and still a little dazed, convinced she could feel hot spunk sloshing inside her. Most of the girls in her class had stood here before her, in much the same condition, and Bridget knew the sight she must be presenting. Running pretty much on automatic, she followed the next instructions.

“If you could just pop your arms behind your back, we can cuff them out of the way.” Miss Stapleton told her. “I don’t want you flailing around when you’re lifted up.”

Rope work, though Bridget, struggling to think clearly, we haven’t done that for a while. It can’t be my hands if they’ve been cuffed. I hope it’s not my tits, Angela’s went all saggy after she was hung by them. Maybe, gulp, it’ll be my neck, it is the last practical. Let’s hope it’s my ankles, that wouldn’t be so bad.

A sharp pain, and she was brought back to the present by the sound of laughter. Muddled by her shaking and lost in contemplation of her fate, Bridget hadn’t even noticed the teacher start to wind a rope around her left breast. The look of shock on her face, as the first turn was pulled tight, caused the class, who had been paying attention, to let loose a guffaw.
 
“There we go.” Miss Stapleton tugged to check the final knot, Bridget’s boob already turning a little blue, before pulling the slack rope over the pulley. “As you can see I’ve used a triple bind. That will add to the slut’s discomfort by cutting the circulation more, and it will ensure the breast doesn’t slip out when it’s holding her entire weight. Yes Angela?”

Angela, the model in the last tit-hanging lesson, had raised her hand, a questioning look on her face. Bridget couldn’t help glancing at her classmates chest, currently showing plenty of cleavage in a supportive bra. They’d all been fascinating watching the changes to Angela, hung by increasingly stretched boobs in front of them all lesson, noting how her sounds of pain had grown louder. Afterwards, her once pert boobs sagging to her navel when set free, they’d taken turns squeezing them to feel the ruptured tissue.

“Won’t that rip her tit off?” Angela asked, unconsciously stroking the stretch marks on her own mangled bosom. “I know mine nearly ripped off, and that was being hung by both of them - and I’m nowhere near as heavy as today’s model.”

“Well spotted Angela.” Miss Stapleton smiled, pleased that one of her class was using their brains. “I’m rather disappointed that no one else worked that out. You will all be writing up this lesson for homework and I expect you to be watching closely to see the changes in the model’s skin as it reaches, then passes, breaking point.”

“You’re going to be ripping my tit off?!” Bridget knew she shouldn’t interrupt, but couldn’t stop herself, she barely even registered the reference to her weight.

There was a bit of giggling from the class at this outburst, but most of them were far too thrilled about this news to fool around. Every pair of eyes was staring intently at the girl roped in front of them. They’d done extreme mutilation in theory, but this was the first time they were going to see it performed live.

Miss Stapleton didn’t bother answering such an obvious question. She reached up to the girl’s face with one of the heaviest school masks.

“Open your mouth. I’ll need to get you gagged, I don’t want to have to try and teach over your howling.”

This is it, thought Bridget, opening her mouth to let in the stifling rubber mask. She glanced down at her tits, one jutting out so oddly with the coils of rope wound tightly round it. It was already throbbing pretty badly, and she’d nearly made it through school without being disfigured, typical of her luck.

As the teacher slowly lifted Bridget clear of the platform, the teenager tried to hang still, hoping to slow the torment in her rapidly disfiguring breast. Almost before she was pulled clear she could hear, and feel, the creaking and snapping in her overstrained flesh.

“Can you see the change in colour as the skin reaches breaking point.” Miss Stapleton used her stick to prod at Bridget’s ripping tissues. “See how the stretch marks are changing from white to purple. We should see the first tear any second now, and once that’s happened the whole breast will rip off pretty quickly.”

The school gags were very effective, reducing even the most desperate of shrieks to a murmur, but they did make breathing quite an effort. Flashes of red and green crossed Bridget’s eyeballs as she fought to let out the scream her pain demanded.

From her position, raised several feet in the air, Bridget barely noticed the pain shoot through her ankle as she crashed back to the platform. Vision blurred by tears, she could hardly even make out her severed breast, still tightly bound in the rope six foot above her.

Miss Stapleton, ever practical, didn’t waste time. “Get up you. I want to do your other boob now, and they’re a bugger to rope if you’re lying down.”

Bridget struggled awkwardly to her feet. Unable to use her hands, her weight on her damaged ankle was sending rods of pain through her leg. Staggering upright, she was grateful for the teacher’s hand helping her to balance.

“I think we’ve broken the model’s ankle.” Miss Stapleton announced, as she balanced the girl upright. “Always a good additional torment to aim for. It is affecting her balance and unfortunately, so I’ll need to get one of you up to rope up her remaining breast. Nigel, you’re leading the class table currently, get up here and grab another rope.”

Nigel positively strutted to the front of the class, lapping up the envy of his fellows. He’d won the school trophy for his rope-work, and he was obviously delighted at having a chance to demonstrate his skills.

As Nigel grabbed another rope and began winding it round Bridget’s remaining tit, pulling it even tighter than Miss Stapleton had, the tortured girl was still interested enough to look down. Even through the pain she can appreciate the ugly red wasteland where one breast had been, surprisingly bloodless, but sending throbbing shafts of torment through her chest. Then there was her remaining lonely breast - being forced out from her in a constricting tunnel of rope.

This story is a fantasy, set in another place, with only the slightest passing nod to our reality as it’s glimpsed on a distant horizon. If this isn’t immediately apparent to you, I strongly suggest you seek urgent psychiatric care.