Nurse Joyce Chained

My fingers are going numb already. I can feel the weight of my own body dragging against the restraints, my heels barely touching the floor. The white uniform is still buttoned tight, still pristine, and that somehow makes it worse. The fabric pulls across my shoulders every time I move, straining tight over my tits as my chest heaves with every panicked breath. I can feel the buttons digging into the fabric, the material stretched thin across them, threatening to give with every hard pull I make against the chains.

The collar around my neck is the worst part. A heavy steel band locked snug against my throat, with a chain running back to the wall behind me. Every time I lunge forward to scream for help, the collar yanks me back and chokes the air right out of my lungs. I’ve already done it three times and each time the chain catches me harder. My throat is raw from the pressure. I can feel my pulse thudding against the inside of the collar, and every heartbeat reminds me that I’m tethered like an animal. When I jerk forward, the uniform pulls tight across my chest and the fabric presses flat against my tits, the friction harsh against my skin underneath. There’s nothing underneath but thin cotton and my own sweat, and I can feel every thread of it because the adrenaline has made my skin hypersensitive.

My ankles are chained together and bolted to a ring in the floor. I can’t step, can’t shift my weight, can’t do anything but stand here and pull uselessly at the ceiling. The metal cuffs around my ankles are just as heavy as the ones on my wrists. They clink against each other when I try to move and get nowhere. I’m anchored top and bottom and pulled back by the neck. There’s no slack anywhere. No give. Just cold steel and the slow realization that I cannot get out of this. The position forces my hips slightly forward, the uniform pulling taut across my pussy, the fabric pressing snug between my legs. Every time I shift my weight trying to find relief, the material shifts against me there, a constant reminder of how exposed this position is despite being fully clothed.

I scream again. “Someone help me!” My voice echoes off the tile walls and dies in the empty room. The hospital is too far from anything. This room is isolated, tucked at the end of a hallway nobody uses. I know because I’ve worked here for two years and I’ve never seen another person on this floor. The door is locked. He locked it on his way out. I heard the click. I screamed at him to stop, to think about what he was doing, and he just looked at me with this flat, dead expression and walked out. My tits heave with every desperate shout, the buttons straining, the fabric pulling tight across my chest. I can feel my nipples hard against the cotton, stiff from the adrenaline and the cold air of the room, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

My arms are burning. Holding them above my head is exhausting, but I can’t lower them. The chain is too short. I try to relax my shoulders and let my weight hang, but the collar chokes me the moment I drop even an inch. So I have to hold myself up, have to keep some tension in my legs, have to stay on my toes. The muscles in my calves are shaking. Sweat is starting to form at my temples and along my spine, soaking into the white fabric that was perfectly pressed this morning. The sweat makes the uniform cling to my skin, the thin cotton going translucent in places, molding to the curve of my tits and the line of my pussy. I can feel the damp fabric hugging every contour, leaving nothing to the imagination even though every button is still fastened.

I freeze. I hear something outside the door and my whole body goes rigid. My breath catches. I don’t move. I don’t pull. I just stand there in the chains and listen with everything I have. Footsteps. Maybe. Or maybe just the building settling. I can’t tell. I hold perfectly still and the collar presses gently against my throat and the cuffs sit heavy on my wrists and I wait. The footsteps don’t come closer. They fade. Or they were never there at all. In the stillness I become acutely aware of how the uniform feels against my body. The fabric draped over my tits, heavy with sweat, shifting slightly with each shallow breath. The material pulled tight between my legs, pressing against my pussy every time I unconsciously clench my thighs together. I force myself to stop. I can’t control any of it.

The fear comes in waves. One second I’m furious, yanking at the chains with everything I have, feeling the metal grind against my bones. The next second I’m frozen, staring at the locked door, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I can’t control it. The anger feels good because at least it’s something. The fear is worse because it turns me into a statue. I just hang there and breathe and try not to think about how long it’s been. An hour. Maybe two. My mouth is dry from screaming. When I struggle, my tits bounce against the straining fabric, the buttons pulling at their holes, the uniform fighting to stay closed. When I freeze, everything settles and I can feel the weight of them hanging heavy in the sweat-soaked cotton, the fabric clinging to their shape.

The uniform is still buttoned. That’s the thing that keeps hitting me. Every button in place, the fabric crisp and white against the heavy dark chains. The contrast is obscene. I look like a nurse, I look like someone who belongs here, who has a job and a purpose. But I’m chained to the ceiling and the floor and the wall and I can’t move more than a few inches in any direction. The uniform pulls tight across my chest when I struggle, the fabric straining over my tits, and I can feel every thread of it because my skin is alive with sensation from the adrenaline. Between my legs the fabric is damp and pressed flat against my pussy, the uniform riding up slightly with every movement, the chains forcing me into positions that make the material rub against me in ways I can’t ignore.

I pull again. Hard. The chain above me groans and the cuff digs into my left wrist and I feel skin break. A warm trickle runs down my arm. I don’t stop. I pull until my shoulders scream and my vision blurs and the collar chokes me so hard I see spots. Then I stop. I gasp. I hang there and swallow against the steel on my throat and try to breathe through my nose. The blood drips down my forearm and soaks into the white cuff of my uniform. A small red stain spreading into the fabric. My chest heaves as I suck in air, my tits rising and falling hard against the uniform, the buttons straining with each desperate breath. I can feel my heartbeat in my pussy, a deep throbbing pulse that matches the one in my wrists and my throat, my whole body alive with the desperate need to get free.

I think about him. The man who did this. He’d been waiting in the emergency room for four hours. I saw him sitting there when I started my shift. He was still sitting there when I went on break. When I came back, he was standing at the desk, and his face was different. Tight. Wrong. I told him I’d check on his status. I told him I was sorry for the wait. He followed me down the hallway. I didn’t notice until I heard his footsteps behind me and by then it was too late. He had the chains in a bag. Heavy chains, like something from a hardware store. Metal cuffs with padlocks. A collar. He’d planned it. He’d been sitting there for four hours planning it. My tits were the last thing he looked at before he walked out. Not my face. Not my eyes. I remember that.

My legs are trembling constantly now. I can’t hold this position much longer. Every time I try to relax, the collar cuts into my throat and I have to force myself back up onto my toes. The floor ring holds my ankles tight and I can feel the cold metal through my thin nursing shoes. My arms have gone from burning to aching to something beyond pain. A deep, hollow throb that pulses with my heartbeat. I try flexing my fingers to keep the circulation going. I can barely close my hands. The uniform has gone fully transparent with sweat now, clinging to my tits so tight I might as well be wearing nothing, the cotton molded to every curve and contour. Between my legs the fabric is soaked through, pressed flat against my pussy, and every tiny shift of my weight sends another wave of friction through me that I can’t escape.

I scream one more time. “Please! Someone! Please!” The words tear out of me and bounce off the walls and come back empty. Nobody comes. Nobody hears. I pull one final time with everything I have left and the chains hold and the collar chokes me and my wrists bleed and I stop. I just stop. I stand there in my white uniform with my arms above my head and my ankles bolted to the floor and my neck chained to the wall and I breathe. In and out. In and out. My tits rise and fall with each breath, heavy and aching in the wet fabric. My pussy throbs against the tight cotton, warm and sensitive from hours of friction I couldn’t control. The room is quiet. The chains are quiet. I am quiet.

Model: Pony
Positive
SCORE_9, SCORE_8_UP, SCORE_7_UP, source_anime, source_pokemon,
a full body photo of nurse joy (pokemon), blue hair, (solo), looking at viewer, (view from {front|behind|side|above|below}),
chain,cuffs,bound,bdsm,bondage,ankle cuffs,chain leash,
background is ruanyi1119,hospital,intravenous drip,monitor,indoors,hospital bed,
Negative:
SCORE_6_UP, SCORE_5_UP,
basic background, two girls, more than 1girl, 1boy, boy, boys, child, children, underage,
more than 2 arms, more than 2 legs, incorrect number of arms