The Pillowy Prison

"Let me get this straight. Your "plan" is to resist every single big pair of bouncy, huge, pheromone-glazed set of wonderful boobs that bounces your way, every single day for the rest of your entire pathetic life, all while your brain melts into a mush of boobie porn and titty jiggles?

It wasn’t selfish. It wasn’t cruel. She’d had so many excellent reasons for tucking you away there.

Safety, for one. Not every big girl was as nice as her. There were plenty of women out there who’d claim any unattended man as a plaything without even a thought. Better to make it clear that this little one was spoken for.

Convenience, for another. If she was going to have to carry you everywhere from now on, she might as well keep you in the right place. Not in her hands where you might be dropped or clenched too tight, and not on her shoulders where you might slip and fall, but somewhere padded, somewhere accessible, somewhere grown now perfect for holding little men.

And even love. Because although you’d both been through plenty of changes, it still felt so nice to hold you close. And hugging the regular way no longer seemed to be in either of your futures.

“If you need a break, just shout, okay? You’ll probably like it in there anyway.”

Really the constant aching emptiness between your girlfriend’s boobs had been so very far down her list of priorities. She’d had so many—just wonderful—wholesome, kind reasons for shoving you between her breasts. And she’d tried so very hard to cling to those wonderful reasons, for all of twenty minutes, before it became about nothing except the writhe, and the struggle, and the reverberating pleasure in her boobs.

(Only tangentially related to the Pillowy Prison… probably. Based on this AI animation: https://www.deviantart.com/feothanach/art/The-wonderful-feeling-of-him-trying-to-move-1218695811

“So. Where are they?”

“Where’s what?”

“You know what! My gifts, silly. Ooh, I’ve spent all day wondering what kind of tributes you might have bought me. Unless… wait. You didn’t forget, did you? You haven’t spent so long jerking it to boobs that you forgot to buy your girlfriend’s breasts something nice? And after I’ve been so kind, and sweet, and understanding, and patient about your reluctance to take our relationship to the next level.”

“N... no! I didn’t forget! I got you….”

Choice 1:

“A bra! An assortment of bras. Nice ones! Elegant ones. Not just cheap, trashy, sexy ones. Well they are sexy. I mean anything on your incredible breasts would be sexy. Uh m...maybe you could try them on? Right now? Maybe? Just to see if they fit?”

Choice 2:

The new “Slave-on-my-brastrap”, cleavage pounding, piston action, multi-speed, vibrating, high-intensity between-boob breast massager. Just like you wanted. (Oh god. I hope this is the right brand. And the right model. And the colour she wants. And the size she needs. And the ribbing she likes. And it doesn’t remind her too much of what’s not in her cleavage….)

Choice 3:

“For a beautiful pair of diamond hard nipples, I bought you a beautiful pair of diamond nipple rings!” (Let’s think: Even old world wedding rings were only 3 months salary, right? And so—for a Valentitties day present for a boob-blessed girl—8 months of my meagre pay has got to be enough? ...Right?)

Choice 4:

“I know how much you like to play with your breasts. I mean... not play with. You’re not just playing. I know you like to take care of your breasts—scratch that. I know they need a lot of care. Wait, I’m not calling them needy. Your boobs need to be touched a lot! I mean your boobs deserve a lot of care. So I, um, I got you the Boobylu Exotica rub-and-sigh, moisturizing lotion kit” (Jeez, this one better not react with her boob pheromones)

Choice 5:

“When did Valentines day stop being a mutual thing? N...no. I’m not demanding you get me something. I’m just asking. And… huh, since when are you my girlfriend anyway!? We only met last week." (Your gift: The intense scrutiny of an angry big titty GF! No orgasms allowed under any circumstances for the next three months, or until your boobie blessed GF calms down. Whichever comes last.)

Choice 6:

Oh crap. she’s expecting something big. I guess a pack of breast pads and a month of boob rubs isn’t going to cut it this time. I have to find something to give her. Think. Think. No! God. Don’t look at her boobs when you’re trying to think. That’s the worst place to look. I need to think of a gift. Come on. Something big. They’re so big. So big and soft, and beautiful…. It's hard to think. I’m so hard. “You can have me.” No, wait. Fuck. Fuck. Style it out. Offer her the boob rub. “You can have me. I’m obsessed with your breasts. I need them. I need them more than anything. Let me take care of them. You can do anything you want with me.” No. No. Come on. “I need your boobs on my cock. Make me your slave.” Fuck! Fuck...

“They’re fake.” she said, rubbing taut strap between thumb and finger. “Promise. They’re totally safe if that’s what you’re worried about.

She flashed him the cookie cutter—and a smile—before tucking the little plastic man into the deep slit of her cleavage, leaving the yellow arms jutting above the swell of her breast like a drowning man signalling for help.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Titmas. Everywhere you go. Take a look at the ladies’ bras, jiggling near and far With candy canes and little lights that glow.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Titmas, Toys for every breast. But the loveliest one of all is the tit-brained, horny fool Clasped in my own chest.

“Carmen?”

“—A pair of bouncy-big boobs and a cleavage that soothes Is the wish of Barney and Ben Slaves that’ll hump and can take a few lumps Is the hope of Janice and Jen Soon Ben and Barn’ can’t help but moan to be set free again.

“Carmen? What are you…?”

“—It’s beginning to look a lot like Titmas, Everywhere you go. There are couples at Grand Hotel, Some in the park as well, They’ll keep tithumping never mind the snow.

“It's beginning to look a lot like Titmas. Soon the bells will rock. And the thing that’ll make ‘em shake Is the carol that you make Thrusting with your cock.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like—hm? What is it? You’re looking at me funny. Is it the song? You don’t like it? I did kind of spring it on you, but I wanted to surprise—”

“—No, no,… no, it’s. Well, the song, but when did you… how did you get…?” Tim gestured at his girlfriend’s two new, big Titmas decorations wobbling within their velvet and ribbon cage.

“Oh the outfit?” she asked. “I picked it up earlier.” Carmen twirled in a circle, her snowball earrings swinging outwards, matching the spinning trajectory of the breasts gliding past Tim’s face. He kept his eyes safely locked on the two pirouetting snowballs to stop his gaze from trailing down the curve of her neck, down into the deep softness of her chest.

“You like?” With one final, jiggling shimmy, Carmen dropped her hands down to her hips. Her chest, fur-lined, proud, and inexplicably big, jutted out towards her boyfriend like a threat. “I kept thinking I didn’t have anything really Titmassy to wear at this time of year. And—I know, I know—I always say how much I hate Titmas; with the whole breast obsession, and the sex, and all the humiliation you guys have to put up with and everything, but—I don’t know why—this year I’m just overflowing with Titmas cheer.” Her eyes caught the lights glowing from the tree, flashing with unrestrained glee.

“Yes,” Tim said, slowly. “The outfit I get. The song I get. But your breasts, the blessing. What triggered the growt…?”

An easy smile appeared on Carmen’s cherry-painted lips as she reached forwards, sliding a hand around the back of Tim’s head. Her eyes, green and piercing, peered into his, and she caressed his hair with her fingers, leaning in close. For a moment he thought she might kiss him. Then came the sharp tug forward. Then came the crashing down, Christmas lights burning glowing trails across his vision as the huge breasts rose up to meet him. Soft flesh smashing into his cheeks, forcing a gasp of air out of his lungs as he collided into winter cold skin.

Carmen kept her hand firmly clamped against the back of his head, and began to grind his face into her breasts. Leaving him muffled, gasping and struggling between a pair of fat tits which had barely even been there this morning.

He was dazed. Not just by the sudden slap of soft boobs against his face, not only by his girlfriend’s new madness and strength, but by the nutmeg scent burrowing into his brain. Even her boobs smelled like Titmas now. Lovely, enticing pheromone scents, turned malicious, summoning up memories of Titmases past: paraded around naked for the girl’s to laugh at, suffering the whims of boobsex-starved women as they demanded tribute and presents. One Titmas he remembered vividly, stuck on the couch all evening, pressed underneath the unwanted boobs of a maiden aunt. And every year, that false promise that all of the pain and madness would end—if only he would slip his cock between a heavy pair, jostling with Titmas spirit.

That time of year again. The time for the ritual punishment of naughty boys who hadn’t found their proper places yet. Titmas, Merry Titmas. The cruellest time of the year.

“Mmnn I can tell you’re excited.” Carmen’s voice, just a whisper, brought him back to a room still droning with Titmas music. He could see little but the veined skin of her boobs, only able to snatch half glimpses of twinkling lights out of the corners of his eyes. “I’m excited too.” she said, holding him so close. “We’re going to have so much fun together this year.”

And he couldn’t help but laugh. The gasping sound bursting from his throat immediately swallowed by Carmen’s breasts, making the huge udders shake with the force of it. He wondered whether perhaps the mad spirit of Titmas was getting to him too: the music, the lights, the grinding Titmas tits shoved up against his face, sending pheromones zapping through his brain, all making his synapses spark with holiday cheer.

But most of all, in that moment, still pulling and struggling, writhing and choking against her tits, it had seemed somehow incredibly funny to him that Carmen had picked the wrong song:

“What are you playing with over there?”

Heels coming closer clack against kitchen tile. Pheromones like an unfamiliar perfume poison the evening air. She finds him in the corner, hunched and furtive.

“Whatever it is, it must be a lot of fun. It seems to have you awfully, Oh!—“

She makes a show of sounding surprised. Her lips forming that perfectly proportioned ‘O’ as she gently, firmly, takes hold of his shoulder. He looks up at her dopily, but she’s seen it before. This one has a wide, squashed kind of nose, and a scraggly beard, but the eyes are nothing new.

“—Oh, honey. You don’t want to rub that. It’s not a toy. What would your wife think if she saw you touching something that belongs to her? Come now, be a good boy while she’s away, okay? You wouldn’t want to get me into trouble.”

Her shy glance away is just as calculated as the hand that tucks the loose strand of hair behind her ear, and just as polished as the smile—loving changing to mischievous—as she kneels down next to him.

“If you’re a good boy...” Pause now. One, Missus Titty. Two, Missus Titty “...maybe I’ll let you watch something naughty with me later.” Drop your voice just slightly. Raise your breasts to eye level. “Maybe it’ll even be the really naughty stuff.” Lean in. Whisper. Tilt chest. “The kind your wife won’t even let you watch.” Pull back. Pout lips. Finger wag. “But only if you promise not to touch it again. I can’t have you being bad.” Briefly reminisce about words on a chalk board, years ago now.

And as she slips his unresisting cock into her hand, she listens for those familiar whimpers of a man held between frustration and pleasure. Finding that edge easily through disciplined, professional pumps, she feels the warmth of him in her palm and—hard, needy, insistent—something inside her shifts. A possibility she hasn’t considered in years throbbing through a cleavage she thought she’d learnt to ignore. And the fingers of her other hand are already fumbling towards the clips of her dress. Unhooking metal from metal. Letting her breasts spill free into the blue-tinged light of someone else’s kitchen.

“I’ve got...” Pause again. Don’t time it. Sigh in a way that makes your chest heave. “Something else you can play with.” Leave the script. Boobs out. Feel for the first time free. “They’re bouncy. Bouncy bouncy. The kind boys like? You really like those don’t you?” Tilt chest, but now be honest. Give him what he wants. Do what you want. “You can touch them, if you’d like.”

Her voice trembles and her nipples buzz, and she glances to the window, looking for the flash of headlights spilling around curtains, listening for the squeal of tires from the road outside, but the window is dark, and all is quiet, and that fat-titted wife with her plump boobs is bouncing them many miles away, rubbing nipples over other nipples, pressing chest against the tit drunk faces of men she also doesn’t know how to take.

The woman’s eyelids flutter as she feels the man’s awkward groping squeezes. Her lips form that poorly proportioned ‘O’ of surprise.