Bound Breasts on a Bus

My guess is that she was a senior at the university, or that she had perhaps just recently graduated. Typically, when I first see someone of the opposite sex, barring something particularly distinctive such as an inordinate number of piercings or an unusually-artful tattoo, what I often notice initially is the clothing.

This time, it was the chest which captivated me.

Sitting at the back of the bus, I was trying to keep from falling asleep, from having awoken at 4:00AM. I felt the bus stop moving, felt the slight tilt to the right as people boarded the bus, then felt it continue northward, toward the Catalina Mountains. At some point, I opened my eyes again and looked toward the front of the bus.

There she was, sitting behind the driver, facing the right side of the bus as her seat faced the aisle. Judging both from her facial expression and from her body language, she was clearly bored.

I do not know why, but in this instance, my attention was focused upon her chest. Her breasts were sizeable, certainly impossible to not notice, and I judged that she probably wore a C-cup bra, perhaps bordering on D-cup measurements. Her white knit top was tight upon her torso – even from the back of the bus, I could plainly discern the outline of her bra. Even more impressive was that I thought I could just barely discern a nipple poking through the cup of the bra to create a very slight indentation in the fabric of her white top. For once, I was overjoyed by the fact that the roads in the Old Pueblo are not usually well-maintained, for all the bumps and potholes continually jolted the bus quite adequately, so that I was treated to a nice quivering effect bestowed upon each plump breast.

Behind my sunglasses, I watched discreetly. My head would swivel in different directions, but my eyes continued to watch. Her breasts seemed to strain against the tight white shirt as the road conditions caused them to sway noticeably. It was also interesting to note the play of the shadows of her head and hair across her chest as her head was also jostled about from the bumps and potholes in the road.

Tearing my eyes away from her breasts, I noticed the flower-print miniskirt, the smooth paleness of her crossed legs, her low black heels. My eyes lingered for a long time upon her chest again before truly noticing her hair: brown, curly, cascading downward to brush the top of her shoulders, with a great buoyancy visibly attesting to the fact that the shocks on the twelve-year-old bus needed to be replaced rather soon.

My eyes returned to her chest once again. In my mind, I saw her sitting there with rope or leather cord or twine or perhaps a thick sturdy wire binding her breasts, encircling each feminine protrusion to make her chest even more prominent. To add a greater visual appeal, in my mind, I sliced small holes in her tight white shirt and in the cups of her bra to provide access to her nipples, and applied a weighted clamp to each one. To ensure her silence, I imagined her small mouth opened wide and filled deeply by a penis gag.

As I discreetly watched her breasts continue to sway, I wondered how she would react to my scenario, to the binding of her noticeable breasts, to the continual pain of the swaying weights pulling on her nipples and adding to the swaying of the breasts themselves... I wondered whether she would simply sit there and endure the pain, whether she would whimper from the constant swaying of her breasts and constant tugging upon her nipples, whether she would slowly shed tears from her predicament or glare defiantly at me as I studied her reactions.

Although my head was turned to look out the front window of the bus, my eyes were still upon her. I noticed that she seemed to be looking directly at me, her gaze focused and challenging. Behind my sunglasses, I watched her as I turned my head again as if looking further away from her, yet she still continued to look at me, to watch me, to study me.

...to challenge me. I knew then that if I were to have her bound before me as I had envisioned, she may or may not shed any tears, but she would certainly glare defiantly at me, her hardened gaze made more prominent and captivating due to the penis gag strapped around her head.

She looked away at last, clearly checking the landmarks, then turned and pressed the yellow strip behind her to signal her desire to disembark. A few seconds later, the bus slowed.

A stranger near me asked me a question, and I turned to answer. By the time I could look toward the front of the bus again, she was gone and the bus was in motion. I had missed watching the movement of her chest as she stood, moved toward the front door, and stepped down onto the sidewalk.

I turned to look for her on the sidewalk, but she was nowhere in sight. I sighed, but I was thankful for the fated opportunity to watch watched her breasts in motion, and to have for a few moments made a "connection" with her.

Perhaps I shall see her again on the bus. If I do, I will most likely recognize her by her chest.