Chapter 25: Gym Session

“Oh shit, we just spent 30 minutes of Gym session time on her pooping the butt plug out! This isn’t fair, Principal Tumwe!” Matumbo suddenly yelled, his frustration evident.

Tumwe raised a hand, his voice calm but patronizing. “Calm down, Matumbo. I realize that, and I’m man enough to take responsibility. I was the one who told Mrs. Sylvia to take those filthy things off first, so we’ll consider Gym to start when you begin your prepared athletic games. You did say you had something special planned for today, didn’t you? Some type of student and teacher competition, right?”

Sylvia’s heart sank deeper into the pit of her stomach. The words “student and teacher competition” echoed ominously in her mind. She wanted to protest, to beg for mercy, but her mouth was painfully stretched, filled with the two large plugs—still slick with her own filth. Her lips quivered from the strain, her jaw aching as she tried to breathe past the vile taste and smell that consumed her. She couldn’t utter a word, not even a plea for this nightmare to end.

The tears that had flowed freely down her face moments ago still clung to her cheeks as she stood there, helpless, knowing that after all the humiliation she had endured, more awaited her. The weight of her suffering pressed down like a leaden blanket, suffocating her with the dread of what was to come.

The African boys around her, especially Matumbo, were now charged with a dark energy, eager for the “competition” to begin. And Sylvia, standing naked and broken, filled with disgust and shame, realized that her torment was far from over.

Principal Tumwe’s cold, mocking voice interrupted the silence. “Oh, by the way, Mrs. Sylvia, take those off too. I know you like to morph and disfigure your breasts into those ugly balloons, showing off how big they get. But we’re not playing that sick game here. Take them off.”

Sylvia’s body tensed, her heart sinking even further. In the overwhelming storm of humiliation and shame, she had momentarily forgotten the constant ache in her chest. Her breasts, tied at the base with a small puppy collar, had swelled unnaturally, pinkish-purple, and now taking on a darker hue. The tightness had made them sensitive to even the slightest touch, each breath reminding her of the constriction. Despite the throbbing discomfort, the depths of her shame had momentarily numbed her to the physical pain. But now, Tumwe’s words brought her back to the cruel reality of it all.

With trembling hands, Sylvia reached up to unbuckle the collar, trying not to graze her tender, swollen breasts. The very idea of releasing them from their balloon-like state brought a mix of relief and more humiliation, knowing that every eye was on her, judging her.

But before she could undo the buckle, Matumbo spoke up. “Wait. My athletic gym session games I’ve prepared require them, Principal Tumwe. Can we keep them on?”

Tumwe looked at Matumbo, considering the situation, before shaking his head. “As I said, the city officials are coming here for a pre-English test evaluation. It’s going to be hard enough explaining why she’s naked, let alone why she’s in bondage gear.”

Tumwe glanced at Sylvia with a smirk. “I should make her wear gym clothes, but we don’t have anything that would fit her, eh? Especially with her huge melon titties. I could explain she’s a nudist and wanted to participate that way—if she’s completely naked.” His words hung in the air, the cruelty in them digging deeper into Sylvia’s already broken spirit.

The students snickered, some unable to contain their laughter at Sylvia’s expense. Tears welled in her eyes again, the sheer degradation of it all hitting her harder than ever. It was as though she wasn’t even there, her humiliation discussed like she was an object, not a person.

But Matumbo wasn’t done. “We can explain it’s part of the gym session program, not bondage,” he countered, his grin widening, fully invested in his twisted game.

Tumwe paused, considering the suggestion, then finally nodded in agreement. “Okay, agreed. You’re in charge of this.”

Sylvia’s heart sank even further as Matumbo’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Her body trembled with the knowledge that, once again, her torment was far from over, and Matumbo’s cruel games were only just beginning. She stood there, tears streaming down her face, naked, violated, and utterly powerless.

“Okay, then, let’s start,” Matumbo said with a mockingly polite tone, as if addressing her kindly. “Mrs. Sylvia, we need a few minutes to prepare. Would you be so kind as to run around the yard, get yourself warmed up?”

The contrast between his words and the harsh reality of her situation was almost too much to bear. Sylvia, in a daze, slowly lifted her hands to remove the two plugs filling her mouth. By now, she was drooling heavily, like a Saint Bernard—her saliva pooling at the sides of her mouth and dripping uncontrollably onto her chest. She kept wiping at her mouth, self-conscious of the mess, even as she realized the absurdity of it all. Here she was, standing naked among 18 fully clothed African boys and men, having just endured the most humiliating experience imaginable—pooping out a butt plug in front of them—and yet she was worried about drooling.

Her breasts were still bound tightly at the base with the small puppy collar, swollen like balloons, their pinkish-purple hue a constant reminder of the pain and degradation she had endured. Despite the extreme nature of her shame—her naked body, her tied-up breasts, and the plugs still in her mouth—her instinct to wipe away the drool persisted. It was a small, futile attempt to regain a sliver of dignity, even in the face of such humiliation.

Just as her fingers brushed the plugs, ready to remove them, Matumbo’s voice cut through the air again. “Leave them in your mouth. You’ll keep them in your mouth until the Gym session is over.”

Sylvia’s heart sank even further, and she hesitated, her hands trembling. But Matumbo wasn’t done. A twisted grin spread across his face as he added, “It’s part of your breathing exercise, Mrs. Sylvia.”

Her tears welled up again, the sheer absurdity and cruelty of the situation washing over her. Defeated, she lowered her hands without removing the plugs, knowing she had no choice but to comply. The dildo plug still filled one side of her mouth, while the shit-smeared butt plug rested on the other. Her lips were stretched painfully around both objects, and the taste and smell made her stomach churn. But she couldn’t do anything but endure it.

“Okay, now start running,” Matumbo ordered, his tone casual, as if he were simply instructing a normal gym session.

Sylvia, tears spilling down her cheeks, turned and began to jog around the yard. Her legs felt heavy, her body weak from both physical and emotional exhaustion, but she kept going. The sunlight bore down on her bare skin, and every step felt like another blow to her already shattered dignity. She could hear the laughter of the men behind her, mocking and cruel, as she ran with her breasts bound painfully, plugs filling her mouth, and the taste of her own degradation lingering on her tongue.

She felt a dull but extreme pain as if her breasts were about to burst, as pressure filled, with blood not circulating, balloon breasts bobbed up and down. She almost stopped running they hurt so much. She supported them with her hands as she ran. She looked ridiculous, she knew holding and literally carrying her two melon size breasts in her heads, but no choice. Meanwhile, the students were preparing something, two large buckets, filled with, Sylvia looked to see what it was, looked like ballons, two large buckets filled with ballons.

Sylvia returned to the spot, her hands under her aching breasts, trying desperately to support their weight and not let them bounce as she ran. The throbbing pain in her chest was overwhelming—each bound breast felt like it was about to burst, the tight collar digging into her tender skin. Her breasts, swollen to the point of a purplish hue, were painfully sensitive to every movement, and holding them up with her hands was her only solace. But Matumbo, ever-watchful, noticed her struggling.

“Oh no, you cheated, Mrs. Sylvia,” he said with feigned disappointment. “You made a small circle. Please run one more time, but a large circle—go all the way to those trees on the east side, and then to that fence on the west side. Full circle. No cheating.”

Sylvia’s heart sank. It was so unfair. She had followed the regular running path, the same one used in every gym class. But she knew protesting would only lead to more suffering, more pain. Swallowing her tears, she turned and began to run again, her hands still supporting her throbbing breasts, trying to minimize the agony. But before she could even complete a few steps, Matumbo’s voice cut through the air again.

“No, Mrs. Sylvia, that’s cheating too. Keep your hands behind your back and interlock your fingers.”

Sylvia froze for a moment, the dread of what that would mean sinking into her bones. Slowly, hesitantly, she lowered her hands and interlocked them behind her back, her fingers trembling as they held each other. The moment she released her breasts, an overwhelming wave of pain surged through her body. Her breasts, already swollen and tender, bounced violently with every step she took, the skin pulling painfully against the tight collar that bound them at the base. Tears poured from her eyes as the pain became unbearable, but she forced herself to keep running, knowing there was no other option.

The cruel sensation of her balloon-like breasts bouncing freely, each step making them sway and jolt uncontrollably, sent sharp waves of agony through her chest. Every movement caused her skin to stretch painfully, the delicate flesh bruised from hours of compression. Each bounce felt like her breasts were being ripped apart, the tight collar biting into the base, making the swollen mounds feel like they might burst from the pressure.

Sylvia tried to run with smaller, softer steps, hoping to minimize the bouncing, but Matumbo shouted again. “Run faster, and get your knees up higher! If I see you faking the run with soft steps, you’ll have to run again and again. Keep your knees up, bounce in your steps!”

A fresh wave of despair washed over Sylvia. She had no choice. She had to run with higher knees, which meant more bouncing, more pain. Her breasts heaved uncontrollably with each forced step, the purple, swollen flesh jiggling painfully with every stride. The agony was so intense that she could barely breathe, her chest burning not just from the physical exertion but from the crushing humiliation of being forced to endure this in front of all of her students, Omari and the principle, Tuwme.

The scene around her blurred as tears streamed down her face, but the reality of her surroundings remained cruelly vivid. The bright sunlight beat down on her naked body, her skin glistening with sweat, her bound breasts bouncing grotesquely in the open air as she ran. The school yard, with its dry earth and looming concrete walls, felt like a prison that offered no escape. The 18 African boys and men standing there—fully clothed, fully in control—watched the lone white woman’s suffering with dark amusement.

Each step sent a ripple of pain through her body, the bouncing of her breasts pulling against the tight collar, the swollen skin flushed red and purple, so tender she could hardly stand it. Her tears fell faster as she ran, her knees lifting higher, her body forced to obey despite the torment. All around her, the men’s eyes followed her, their laughter echoing in her ears as she ran like a broken doll, her body exposed and humiliated, each step another reminder of the agony she had no choice but to endure.

Sylvia finally completed the full circle around the school yard, her body screaming in pain and exhaustion. Her legs felt like lead, and she was still panting heavily, her swollen, purple-hued breasts heaving painfully with each labored breath. They looked grotesquely like balloons, tightly bound and aching with every movement. Sweat glistened on her alabaster skin, and she could feel the dull throb of her flesh where the tight collar had cut into her breasts. She was drooling heavily from the side of her mouth, the two dildo plugs still stretching her lips, her jaw aching from the unnatural position.

As she came to a stop, she noticed two large buckets filled with water balloons near the center of the yard. The sight filled her with dread, and her heart raced even faster. She knew whatever was coming next would only further her humiliation and suffering.

Matumbo, standing smugly, began to explain the rules. “Okay, we’ve got 25 water balloons for our teacher, here,” he gestured toward Sylvia, “and 25 for us. It’s going to be a competition—Students versus Teacher. Whoever pops all their balloons first wins.”

“The student representative,” Matumbo continued, “will pop their balloons by squeezing them between their legs. Simple enough. And as for Mrs. Sylvia...” He turned to her, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “She’ll use her balloons.”

He pointed to her bound breasts, purple and swollen, looking grotesquely like overfilled balloons themselves. Sylvia’s eyes widened in horror as the realization set in. She would have to use her breasts to pop the water balloons.

“You’ll squeeze the water balloons with your breasts until they pop. Whoever finishes first wins. If the Teacher wins, Gym session is over. But if she loses, we move on to the next game.”

Sylvia’s heart sank. The humiliation of what she was being forced to do was unbearable, a level of degradation she couldn’t comprehend. She wanted to protest, to plead for mercy, but her mouth was still filled with the dildo plugs, her lips stretched painfully around them. Even if she could speak, she lacked the courage to protest. She was simply too scared for all the right reasons.

Matumbo’s voice broke through her racing thoughts. “Who wants to be the student representative?”

One of the students eagerly raised his hand, and Matumbo picked him with a nod. “Alright, you’ll represent the students,” he said, then turned to another student. “You, your job is to pick the water balloons from the bucket and place them between his knees.”

Sylvia’s mind was spinning. She couldn’t believe what she was about to do, forced to use her tender, bound breasts to pop water balloons in front of all these boys, knowing that every movement would only add to her pain and humiliation.

Matumbo’s voice called for attention again. “Now, we need a volunteer to help Mrs. Sylvia. Who wants to assist her?”

All the students raised their hands, eager to participate in the cruel game. Matumbo glanced around, then shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t be fair. You’d all want the students to win. We need someone impartial.”

His eyes landed on Omari, standing nearby. “Oh, Omari, you can do it. You’re not a student here, so you’ll be fair.”

Omari, grinning, eagerly stepped forward, ready to assist in Sylvia’s further degradation.

Under the scorching sun, Principal Twume and the students of the Aprico Island Reform School gathered around like spectators at a sporting event. To them, it was a spectacle, a twisted game of humiliation they enjoyed. The helpless white woman stood off to one side, just a few feet away, her body trembling, her eyes already brimming with tears. Next to her, the student representative stood. Next to them, two large buckets filled with colorful water balloons, bobbing and splashing in the cold water. Another student crouched down in front of the representative, ready to pass the water balloons, while Omari, standing close to Sylvia, wore a wide grin as he was readying himself for his role.

Sylvia’s sobs, muffled by the gag in her mouth, caught in her throat. She felt utterly helpless, her body exposed, and her mind drowning in shame. Matumbo’s voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd, “Alright, get ready!” he barked. He then looked directly at Sylvia and smirked, his eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement. “You see him?” he gestured to the student next to her, legs spread wide, knees bent, awaiting the balloon between his legs. “That’s how you’re going to do it. Mrs. Sylvia, you need to do the same, but with your titties.”

Sylvia’s body trembled harder as she sobbed behind the gag, her tear-filled eyes pleading for mercy. But mercy wasn’t coming. Slowly, hesitantly, she raised her hands, reaching up to her swollen breasts. Her cheeks flushed in humiliation as she parted them, her hands awkwardly trying to hold the inside of her large breasts.

Matumbo clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. “No, no, not like that. Your hands’ll pop the balloon that way, Mrs. Sylvia. You’ve gotta spread those titties, but only by the nipples. Pull your nipples to spread your titties, to make room for the ballon. Then, when Omari places the balloon between your titty balloons, you push ‘em in from the sides. Got it? Nod if you understand.”

Her humiliation deepened as Sylvia’s face grew even redder, and more tears spilled down her cheeks. She sobbed uncontrollably, her body shaking with the shame that engulfed her. The crowd’s eyes bore into her as if her torment was their entertainment, and her pleading, broken gaze met Matumbo’s. Slowly, with every fiber of her being screaming in despair, Sylvia nodded.

Her trembling hands moved to her nipples, gingerly pinching them between her fingers, while the students’ laughter echoed around her like a cruel chorus.

The sharp pain shot through her nipples as her trembling fingers pinched them, the discomfort made worse by the weight of her swollen breasts. The tight puppy collar around their base had cut off circulation, making them balloon unnaturally, like grotesque orbs hanging off her chest. Her triple D-sized breasts—an eternal source of embarrassment—now seemed even larger, more obscene. She had always hated how her body drew unwanted attention from men, with her voluptuous figure and curves that seemed designed to invite their stares. She had wished countless times that her breasts were smaller, flat even, like those of the skinny girls she envied. But here she was, standing naked, her humiliation on full display, her body’s exaggerated femininity making her feel ridiculous and perverted.