#compression tights

I flex my new legs—his legs—spreading them wide on that stability ball, just like in the mirror selfie I caught him taking. The black Nike compression tights cling to me like a lover's grip, squeezing my thighs, my calves, my ass so tight it's like they're vacuum-sealed. I can feel the fabric compressing every muscle fiber, the way it molds to the massive bulge between my legs, outlining my—his—thick cock and heavy balls in obscene detail. It's semi-hard already, throbbing against the spandex, the pressure building like a dam about to burst. Jake's screaming in there, I know it. He can feel the heat rising, the way I'm grinding his hips down onto the ball, letting the rubber press up against his taint through the thin layer. "Feel that, Jake?" I whisper to myself, my voice—his deep, rumbling baritone—echoing in the empty gym. "Your body's mine now. And I'm gonna make you cum in these tights until they're soaked."

I kick off the sneakers he had nearby, baring those big, perfect feet. Size 13, veiny arches curving like works of art, toes long and strong, soles rough from all those squats and runs. I plant them flat on the cool gym floor, spreading my toes wide, feeling the air kiss the sensitive skin. Jake's trapped consciousness squirms—I can sense his horror, his futile resistance as I curl those toes, imagining them wrapped around something filthy. I lift one foot, pressing it against the stability ball, rubbing the sole over the smooth surface, the friction sending shivers up my spine. His spine. "Oh yeah, big boy," I growl, my hand—his hand—sliding down to grip the bulge through the spandex. The compression fights back, squeezing my fingers around the hardening shaft, making it pulse harder. I stroke slowly, teasing, feeling the precum leak and spread, darkening the fabric. Jake feels it all—the humiliation, the unwanted arousal building because it's his nerves firing, his blood pumping. He's begging silently, but I just laugh, low and wicked.

I stand up, the tights pulling taut over my quads, compressing them into rock-hard pillars. I saunter to the mirror, phone in hand, snapping more selfies just to torment him. Look at us, Jake—your blond hair tousled, beard trimmed, those hazel eyes now gleaming with my malice. I flex my biceps under the long-sleeve compression top, the Nike logo stretching across my chest. The fabric hugs my pecs, nipples hardening into points that poke through, begging to be pinched. I do it, twisting hard, and Jake's pain-pleasure spikes through me like electricity. "You like that, don't you? Trapped little bitch, feeling your own body betray you." I drop down, assuming a squat position, feet planted wide, toes gripping the mat. The spandex strains over my ass, compressing the cheeks so tight I can feel every seam digging in. I bounce a little, imagining fucking something—someone—with this power, those big feet slamming down with each thrust.

But I'm not done. I sit back on the ball, legs splayed, and peel one leg of the tights up just enough to free a foot. I bring it to my face—his face—inhaling the musky scent of sweat and skin, then lick the sole from heel to toe, tongue tracing the veins. Salty, warm, divine. Jake's revulsion floods me, but so does the arousal—his body responding despite him, cock twitching wildly in the compression prison. I shove the toes into my mouth, sucking them like candy, biting the pads just hard enough to sting. "Mmm, your feet are fucking huge, Jake. Perfect for a freak like me." My free hand dives into the tights, wrapping around the thick shaft, jerking it roughly under the spandex. The fabric stretches with each pump, compressing the head, making it swell purple and desperate. Precum slicks everything, the wet sounds echoing as I edge us closer.

I can feel him breaking inside, his will crumbling as the orgasm builds. "You're gonna cum for me, trapped boy. Feel every spurt, every throb, knowing it's me using you." I speed up, foot still in my mouth, toes curling against my tongue. The compression tights amplify everything—the squeeze on my balls, the hug on my thighs, the way my big feet flex and arch in ecstasy. It hits like a freight train: ropes of cum erupting inside the spandex, soaking through, warm and sticky against the fabric. Jake feels it all—the release, the shame, the aftershocks rippling through his trapped soul. I collapse back, laughing breathlessly, one hand smearing the mess over the bulge, the other massaging those glorious feet.