“We think you’re hiding a secret,” Vladimir says, pulling up a stool. “Why don’t you just tell us, so there won’t be any surprises later?”

I…I don’t… Please?

Vladimir sat heavily upon the stool and gnawed coarsely at the toothpick between his yellowing teeth. The woman standing before him, buckled to a single wooden beam and blindfolded under the hot glow of a single lamp, was beautiful, even in her frantic state.

“My dear,” Anton grinned patiently, stepping in closer, holding the woman’s driver’s license. “Dawn, is it? I think you know exactly why you’re here. Just give it some thought.”

The woman’s whimpers turn to pleas of panic at the sound of footsteps echoing behind her. She can’t see me approaching – me, the silent man emerging from the cellar’s deep shadows.

Our prize is dizzy with fear, her mind spinning to count the number of people in the room. Is it two? Is it three? Maybe it’s five? She has no way of knowing how many sit around her, observing her trembling form; the cameras poised beyond the pool of light, watching, ready to film the show.

Nawww… P-P-PLEASE…Who’s out there!?

Leather straps circle her neck, cross her forehead, pinching her tightly to the wooden beam. The leatherwork ensures she remains standing, trembling wearily in the pool of light, still clad in her high red heels. We’ve left them on her feet as ornaments; a slutty decoration for a teasing bitch.

She is a sight to behold, a dancer working at a Florida club outside Miami with the biggest tits I’ve seen outside of a magazine. We’d been watching her for weeks, filling her g-string with dollar bills, luring her in as she strutted across the stage on Saturday nights. Prime-time, as Vladimir calls it, when only the best hit the stage.

Now, thick leather straps circle her ankles and knees, squeezing her legs together, pressing them against the beam; the straps so tight her flesh bulges above and below the rusted buckles. Her arms have vanished behind her, locked behind the beam by straps circling her elbows, her wrists; her wrists locked again to an eyebolt screwed deep into the wood.

As for her dress, we’d torn it to tatters long ago and left it on the floor. The blonde dancer, so confident at the club and proud of her assets, now cowers in her bra and panties. Some time ago -- and for good measure -- Vladimir had tugged those panties sharply upward, leaving them wedged between the puffy lips of the dancer’s smooth pussy.

I’ve circled the bound bitch more than once, snapping pictures of her shapely figure, her twisted expression. I’m intoxicated by her pitiful whimpers, the cries of panic that consume her as she struggles to understand a single, growing sensation she can’t yet place.

She will understand it soon enough.

And then… I’m grinning just thinking about it.

“Have you an answer?” Vladimir asks calmly, vodka stinking up his breath, the smell of cigarette smoke rising on the cellar air. “We’re each waiting for you to spill your little secret. When you’re ready, of course.”

I… I… I don’t…I don’t know what you want! PLEASE!!! I don’t feel… I don’t… Something’s wrong! IT HURTS!

Yes, it has begun, and when Vladimir nods, I open the razor and slide the blade carefully below the clasp of the dancer’s expensive bra. I move the razor slowly, enjoying her reaction as it cuts the heavy clasp and her bra goes slack.

She’s begging now, something about God and Please don’t! Her bra has lost its comforting hold on her tits and her breasts shift heavily without support. It’s music to my ears listing to her wail with fright. She’s no doubt wondering how she ended up here like this in this awful situation, surrounded by fiends looking to make a buck.

I want to tell her how it’s only going to get worse. Much worse in fact. But I don’t. I want to keep her guessing. We haven’t even started yet.

“She’s got tits like cantaloupes,” I say with a demented grin, marveling at the size of out captive’s breasts, their weight and fullness. They’re capped by wide, pink areolas, her nipples long and thick. Blue veins cross beneath the skin. “She looks like a fucking cow.”

The woman groans and begins crying with snivels and gasps. Vladimir grins as well and reaches out his hand. I pass him the dancer’s severed bra and watch as he turns it over, looking for the tag as if studying a precious stamp. When he finds it, he whistles sharply.

“Well, well, it’s a 32 G,” he says. Looking up at the blindfolded bitch bound before him, he adds, “Is that the secret you’re keeping? Did you want to tell us you’ve got melon-sized tits?”

P- P- PLEASE STOP…“My… They… It hurts!

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Vladimir says, standing up. He’s just fucking with her now. He knows exactly what she’s trying to say, even if she can’t get it past her lips.

Yes, it has begun, and I’m ecstatic. The evidence forms as a single white bead on the tip of dancer’s left nipple. Her milk is coming in, as the doctors like to say, but she doesn’t now this. She can’t see it, though I’m sure that by now she can feel it, the pressure, that dull pain in her udders.

The owner of the strip club, who’s in on our little project, has been slipping the bitch hormone capsules for weeks. She missed the last three days of work, refusing to strip, to dance for the customers. She wouldn’t say why, but we already knew why.

Now her full shame is on display with no way to hide it from the cameras watching from the dark. Vladimir grabs a camera, snapping pictures of the dancer, pausing to shoot close ups of the milky dot ready to drip from her tit.

“My, oh my, what do we have here?” I say, stepping behind the woman. I’m playing dumb, acting surprised. “I think we’ve got a real cow. A real milk cow with fat swollen teats.”

The bitch can’t see me reach around with my hands open like claws. When she feels my index fingers brush her nipples, she inhales sharply and releases a gushing sob. She trembles against the beam, unable to move, to escape my fingers. The effort only puts her tits in motion, those milk-laden sacks jiggling and bouncing upon her chest.

I follow her frantic dance, tickling her swollen nubs to full erection. The drops of milk begin to form more quickly, seeping from her nipples, which look more like nozzles in their engorged state. She shivers and shakes, doing everything she can to avoid my fingers while screaming NO and Pleeease Don’t over and over again.

The slightest touch drives her deeper into a frenzy, forcing troubled cries from her lungs. I can’t help myself, so I continue stroking her nipples, softly tracing them, brushing them, just to see the bitch contort in desperation. Ever so softly over her swollen nips my fingers dance, gently stroking them between thumb and finger, carefully brushing them side to side, skillfully coaxing the milk to flow.

And when it does, I leave her whimpering and wheezing with teary cheeks, shaking as if she’s got a cold. Her nipples are so fat we could hang tree ornaments from them, but Vladimir has a better idea.

“The thing about lactation,” he begins, presenting a sack filled with tiny elastic bands and a silver tool used to apply them during surgery. “Once it begins, it must continue. If a woman doesn’t release her milk, well, I’ve read it’s terribly painful.”

“With a good deal of swelling,” I add, removing the dancer’s blindfold. I want her to what she’s about to experience. “It doesn’t take long, an hour or two. Unfortunately for you, we’ve got as long as we wish.”

“We’re in no hurry,” Vladimir whispers, watching the woman’s teary eyes focus on the surgical tool clutched in his hand. Strapped to the beam as she is, she can’t lower her head, yet I can see her eyes straining down, looking to her breasts, her proudest assets, the beads of milk seeping from her nipples, veins crossing her swollen tits.

Her eyes press shut, tears streaming down her cheeks. She snivels softly, begging please and why why why. The look on her face is priceless, her twisted expression, her trembling lips, the tears in her eyes. I’ll explain the reasons why, but not before my fingers return to her swollen nipples, tickling them, tugging them, laughing as she twitches with panic against the beam, locked from head to foot with no way of moving, no way of hiding from my fingers.

It’s so easy, this simple touch, and she erupts in a series of frenzied cries, screaming PLEASE STOP DOING THAT! She shrieks hoarsely, twisting madly against the straps that hold her rigid against the beam. Her pitiful cries are music to my ears, enticing me to continue toying with her nipples, flicking them and brushing them, anything to keep her singing.

“Her tits are filling up like water balloons,” Vladimir says, and he’s right. Milk slowly drips from each of the dancer’s engorged nipples. The drip, the slowness of it, was clearly agonizing, leaving the bitch on the verge of hysterics. “I think the time has come to – how shall I put it – to stop the flow?”

“Yes,” I agreed, stepping up, placing my lips to the dancer’s ears. “You tits are so full they’re dripping. The pressure is building. We’re going to ensure it continues.”

PLEASE IT HURTS PLEASE LET ME GO she begs, watching with wild, frantic eyes as Vladimir opens the tool, stretching the first elastic band. NO NO NO PLEASE DON’T PUT THAT ON ME.

The dancer’s lungs release a miserable scream when the elastic band contracts around the base of her left nipple. The band digs deeply into the tender flesh and the nipple swells, taking on the shape of a mushroom. Her cries continue as Vladimir repeats the process on her right nipple, trapping it in the painful grip of the elastic band.

“Look at those fuckers swell,” Vladimir says, grinning sickly

I reach out with my fingers. “They’re as big as marbles.”

I give one nipple a solid flick with my finger, sharply. The dancer’s reaction is immediate. I’m sure she would have collapsed to her knees if she wasn’t synched so tightly to the beam. Her reaction is perfect, and with both my fingers curled, I flick and pop her swollen tit tips, comparing them to the size of my thumb, wondering how long it will take before they go numb from a lack of circulation.

P-P-Please PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!

“Please what!?” I laugh, flicking her nipples as sharply as I can manage without breaking my fingers. I already know what she wants, but I want her to say it, to wish for something that will not happen.

PLEASE TAKE THEM OFF!!! She’s screaming now, her words reflecting her growing desperation. Spittle dribbles down her chin and the milk that once seeped from her nipples has stopped, cut off, as it were, by the squeeze of the elastic bands.

I stop flicking her nipples and commence to stroking the heavy slope of her breasts. They are warm and white, but I’m surprised at how hard they’ve become, and how dark the veins are.

The dancer trembles delightfully, her tits quaking with each labored breath as she screams TAKE THEM OFF and PLEASE DON’T TOUCH ME THERE! The throbbing has clearly begun, the dull pain growing to sharp pulses as her tits continue to fill, hardening, the skin taking on a discolored sheen, a light shade of blue.

Despite her wild hysterics, I begin to manipulate the dancer’s engorged tits, and it’s only minutes before Vladimir joins me. I squeeze and pump her left breast, digging my fingers in deep, listening to the bitch shriek with despair. Vladimir does the same, pumping her right tit, manipulating it deeply with all ten fingers.

NARGHHHH NO PLEEEASSSE STOOOOP TOUCHING MEEEE!

We have no intention of complying with her simple wish. But I want the bitch gagged. I release her heavy tit, promising to return, and find the dental gag we’d brought for the occasion. Vladimir gives the dancer’s tit a sharp two-handed pump, causing it to balloon until the dancer’s lungs erupt with a raspy scream, which allows me to easily shove the gag between her teeth and crank it to its widest setting. It locks her mouth open, stretching her jaw, bringing fresh tears to her eyes.

Within an hour, the woman is reduced to a pillar of pain, her tits so heavy and swollen they look like they might explode. If we remove the elastic bands, I’m sure the milk would flow in a constant stream. She wants this release but she will not get it. She would undoubtedly be begging for it – no, screaming for it – if not for the gag.

Vladimir grabs the camera and sets the tripod directly in front of the frenzied dancer. As much as we’d like to continue fucking with her, it’s time to let nature run its course. I pull out a small squirt bottle filled with ice water and spray the woman’s tits. She gulps deeply, on the verge of shock before finding her breath, shrieking with misery as her tits respond to the icy flow, the skin tightening, further squeezing her already swollen milk sacks.

The game is well underway, and we spend the next hour sipping vodka and smoking cigarettes, ignoring the howling woman across the room, that fucking dancer from the club who can’t relieve the pressure in her tits. We don’t touch her, but we do take turns spraying her breasts with ice water, spraying her face for the hell of it, pushing our fingers to the back of her throat to make her gag, reminding her that we’re there, that we’re just getting going.

The real fun has yet to begin, and we’re in no hurry to get started.