My breath comes out in thick white clouds that vanish into the icy air around me. The ropes own every inch of movement I try to make, biting deeper with each shift, reminding me over and over that nothing I do will change a damn thing. My wrists are crossed and bound tight behind my back, coarse rope grinding against bone no matter how I twist. My ankles are looped close together, forcing tiny, pathetic shuffles that barely cover ground. A single thick rope runs horizontally around my chest, pressing directly across my breasts, pinning my upper arms and thrusting my tits forward against the shiny fabric of my competition leotard. Every breath makes that rope squeeze tighter, every pull on my bound wrists makes it dig in harder, turning my own body into the enemy.
I remember the coffee shop near campus. Kira had texted me that morning, all fake sweetness about wanting to talk after the team kicked her off for faking scores. I felt bad enough to say yes. We met at the little place with the big windows, steam rising from our lattes. She slid mine across the table with a small smile. I drank, and the warmth hit fast, too fast. My head went foggy, thoughts thick and slow. I remember her calm voice suggesting we take a drive to clear the air. I remember nodding, standing, following her out to the car like it all sounded perfectly reasonable.
Now the winter forest presses in close, tall pines blocking the flat gray daylight, snow crunching under my hobbled feet. I yank my wrists apart with everything I have, shoulders straining, muscles burning from the effort. The rope holds firm, not giving even a fraction. I yank again, harder, desperate short pulls that send fresh pressure through the rope across my breasts. My tits ache from the squeeze, nipples already hard and rubbing against the inside of the leotard with every heave of my chest. I keep yanking anyway, over and over, until my arms tremble and I have to stop, chest rising and falling fast against that relentless band.
I shuffle forward a few tiny steps. The ankle rope snaps taut and I lose balance completely. With my arms pinned useless behind me, I crash chest-first into the snow. The impact jars me hard, snow packing cold against my face and the front of the leotard. That rope across my breasts crushes in, forcing a sharp gasp as my tits take the full weight for a moment. I roll onto my side, shivering, and start pulling at my wrists again, violent tugs that do nothing but make the ache worse and send unwelcome heat between my legs despite the cold.
I force myself back to my feet, thighs shaking from the effort and the chill seeping through the thin shiny fabric. Another shuffle, three or four steps this time before I topple sideways, shoulder slamming into the snow. Cold bites everywhere the leotard touches the ground, my bound body jolting from the uncontrolled fall. I lie there panting, tits squeezed tight by the rope, nipples throbbing points against the material. Then I drag myself up again because lying still feels worse than trying.
I spot a tree with rough bark maybe twenty feet away. If I can reach it, maybe I can rub the wrist ropes against it. I start shuffling toward it, each minuscule step a fight against the hobble. The rope across my breasts saws with every breath, reminding me how exposed and helpless my tits are, thrust out like an offering in this freezing hell. Twelve steps and my legs buckle. I fall face-forward this time, snow smashing into my cheek and mouth. I stay down longer, twisting my body side to side in the snow, yanking desperately at wrists that refuse to budge, feeling the rope grind harder across my breasts with every useless movement.
Somehow I get upright again. More shuffling, more yanking until my shoulders scream and tears freeze on my face. Another crash, full-length onto my side this time, body shuddering from the impact and the cold. The cycle goes on and on. A few pathetic steps, violent pulls behind my back that achieve nothing, hard uncontrolled falls into snow because I have no way to break them, lying there shaking and pulling harder, forcing myself up to do it all again. Every attempt feels exactly like the last, covering almost no distance, loosening nothing, just wearing me down bit by bit until my legs barely hold me and my tits feel swollen and sore from the constant pressure.
I remember Kira guiding me from the car while my head was still swimming. She walked me deeper into the trees, voice low and satisfied. “Feel that rope going across those perfect tits of yours? It’s going to squeeze them nice and tight while you freeze out here, all helpless and on display.” She worked fast, wrists first, then ankles, then that final band around my breasts, cinching it just enough to make me gasp. She stepped back, checked her phone, snapped one quick picture of the trees behind me for her cryptic post, and walked away without looking back.
The hours stretch in that same exhausting loop. Yank until my arms go weak. Shuffle until I crash hard. Fall after fall, each one leaving me slower to rise, more drained, the rope across my breasts digging deeper with every breath and impact. My body trembles constantly now, the shiny leotard streaked with snow, nipples aching points, unwanted wetness between my thighs from the sheer humiliation of it all.
Then voices cut through the wind, calling my name. Three teammates push through the pines, stopping short when they see me collapsed on my side in the snow, bound and shaking, tits thrust out helplessly by the rope still biting across them. They rush over, hands already working the knots behind my back while I stay there too spent to do anything but shiver.
The ropes finally loosen and fall away. But the deep ache in my shoulders, the lingering pressure across my breasts, the memory of every single pointless yank and uncontrolled fall stay burned into me long after.
