Chapter 26: Gym Session

“Great work, Mrs. Sylvia,” Matumbo said, his voice dripping with false praise. “Unfortunately, you lost the balloon-popping game, but you still did great. We all enjoyed the competition. Agree, everyone?”

A chorus of casual agreements came from the students, scattered and disinterested. “Yeah, sure,” “Yup, it was fun,” they mumbled here and there, some smirking as they glanced toward Sylvia.

Matumbo turned his attention back to her, that cruel smile still on his face. “Do you agree, Mrs. Sylvia?”

Sylvia couldn’t respond. She stood there, still sobbing softly through the two dildo plugs forced into her mouth, her lips stretched painfully around them, drool slipping uncontrollably down her chin. Her body was trembling, her tears mixing with the remnants of cold water that had long since dried or soaked into her skin. Naked, her pubic area freshly shaven, she felt more exposed than ever, her hands twitching at her sides, desperate to cover herself but knowing it was futile.

Her two large breasts, once her silent source of shame, were now swollen and grotesque, bound painfully at the base by the tight puppy collar. They jutted out from her chest like obscene balloons, their skin stretched taut and turning an alarming shade of purple. The ache in her breasts had grown unbearable, a deep, throbbing pain from all the squeezing and pulling she had been forced to do. Every slight movement sent a jolt of discomfort through her chest, making her wince.

With the brief relief from the cold water gone, the full impact of her suffering was settling in. She wanted to scream, to beg for someone to let her undo the buckle around her breasts, to relieve the unbearable pressure. They felt even heavier now, throbbing painfully, as if they had swelled larger with each passing minute. The purple hue made them look bruised, and she was terrified of what the prolonged binding might do.

But all she could do was stand there, humiliated and helpless, her sobs gagged by the plugs in her mouth, drooling helplessly as the students laughed and celebrated around her. The physical pain was nothing compared to the crushing humiliation of knowing that this was what they enjoyed—her suffering, her degradation. Her breasts, her body, her dignity, all reduced to nothing more than objects in their twisted game.

Through the haze of pain and humiliation, Sylvia could only think of one thing: Please, someone let me take off the collar ... please ... I can’t take this anymore. But her thoughts were trapped behind her gag, and her tears continued to fall, unnoticed by those who relished her torment.

“So, you want to ignore my question?” Matumbo’s voice turned sharp, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

Sylvia froze, realizing with a sinking heart that she had inadvertently failed to respond. She hadn’t answered him, too caught up in her own humiliation and pain. Panic surged through her as she quickly nodded, her entire body trembling, hoping it wasn’t too late to placate him.

Matumbo’s laughter was cold, filled with cruel amusement as he saw her desperate attempt to correct her mistake. “Ah, there we go. So, you did enjoy it. That’s what I thought. Well then, Mrs. Sylvia, let’s not stop now. If you enjoy something so much, we should definitely continue, don’t you think?”

Sylvia’s eyes widened, and the tears that had already been streaming down her face came faster now, uncontrollable sobs shaking her body. Her lips, stretched painfully around the gag, quivered as she drooled even more, unable to stop. The weight of his words crashed over her like a wave, deepening her shame and despair.

More tears, more agony. She couldn’t bear it anymore. But she had no voice, no way to protest, and no power to stop what was happening. Her only response was the silent shaking of her body as she stood there, knowing that the nightmare wasn’t over. It was just beginning again.

As the city inspectors approached, Mr. Twume’s heart raced. He had promised Matumbo that he could indulge in his “bullying fun” with Sylvia during the Gym Session, without realizing two city officials would be visiting that day. Matumbo came from one of the wealthiest families on the island, and his father’s generous donations were a significant part of the Reform Institution’s funding. Thus, Tuwme didn’t want to break the promise to Matumbo. But now, as the two inspectors closed in, Twume could feel the weight of their presence. His career and the very future of the institution hung in the balance—one misstep in their evaluation could mean a pay cut, or worse, the revocation of the institution’s permit.

One of the inspectors, a short and chubby man with a stern expression, spoke first. “Why is that white woman naked?” His voice was harsh, his eyes scanning the scene in disbelief.

Before Twume could stammer out an answer, the second inspector—remarkably tall for someone from Aprico Island, standing well over 180 cm—looked directly at Sylvia, his brow furrowed in recognition. “I know you! Weren’t you the humanitarian aid worker? I hardly recognized you...” He paused, looking her up and down in shock, the change in her appearance too stark to ignore. “God, you ... you look so ... different now...”

Sylvia felt her stomach twist with shame, the inspector’s words cutting into her like a knife. She remembered him—the unusually tall man, among the short people of Aprico Isand. They had met during many of visits to the institution. Back then, she had been clothed, respected, and treated with dignity. Now, here she was, standing naked in front of him and the other inspector, her once-proud body exposed, gagged with two dildo plugs, her breasts grotesquely swollen and tied, a symbol of her utter degradation.

The urge to hide overwhelmed her. Without thinking, her hand moved to her crotch, trembling as she tried to shield herself, desperately covering what little she could. Her other arm went across her chest, attempting to hide her large, swollen breasts from their view. She lowered her head, her face flushed with embarrassment, as if by avoiding eye contact, she could somehow disappear. The humiliation was unbearable, and the reality of her nakedness struck her like a blow. She tried to make herself smaller, to vanish into the background, wishing that if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her.

But she couldn’t hide. The weight of their stares pressed down on her, and the sound of their judgment hung in the air. She stood frozen in her shame, naked, humiliated, and unable to speak, with nothing but her gagged sobs to break the silence.

The plan had been hastily thrown together. The idea was to tell the city inspectors that Sylvia wanted to participate in the Gym session, that she was a nudist by nature, and that she preferred having her breasts tied because she was some kind of pervert. But Mr. Twume wasn’t stupid. It was clear that such a lie wouldn’t hold up—especially now that one of the inspectors recognized Sylvia as the humanitarian aid worker she used to be. Anyone could see from her tear-streaked face, her trembling body, and the way she desperately tried to cover herself that she was being forced. The pretense wouldn’t work. So, Twume hesitated, his heart pounding as he scrambled for another solution.

Before Twume could say anything, Matumbo, always quick on his feet, jumped in, spinning the situation to his advantage. His voice was smooth, confident, as if he had rehearsed it all in his head. “Mrs. Sylvia here is our teacher, you see,” he began, gesturing toward her with exaggerated sympathy. “And, well, she showed up to the school today dressed in bondage gear—basically naked—but worse than that, as you can see from her balloon-looking breasts.” He shook his head, feigning shock and dismay. “We students were completely stunned. Didn’t know how to respond at first.”

Matumbo cast a glance at Mr. Twume, who remained nervously silent, as if agreeing with the tale. “But when Mr. Twume returned from the city,” Matumbo continued, his voice growing grave, “he was furious. Completely outraged by her indecency. Mr. Twume, as you know, is a decent, very moral man. So, to maintain discipline, he decided to punish Mrs. Sylvia to teach her a lesson about proper conduct.”

The two city inspectors exchanged glances, unsure of what to make of the story.

Matumbo, sensing their uncertainty, pressed on, his tone shifting to something almost conspiratorial. “Mr. Twume put me in charge of disciplining Mrs. Sylvia. I thought about whipping her to set her straight, but Mrs. Sylvia—being the perverted nudist that she is—begged instead to participate in the Gym session. She wanted to prove herself through physical challenges, and if she could pass these, then she wouldn’t need to be whipped.”

The inspectors’ eyes flicked from Matumbo to Sylvia, who was still sobbing, trembling as she stood there with her breasts tied up, her face turned down in humiliation, barely able to stand the weight of the false narrative being spun around her.

“Is that true, Mrs. Sylvia?” the tall inspector asked, his voice low but pressing, looking at her with something resembling pity.

Sylvia’s tearful eyes met his for a brief moment, her lips quivering around the gag. She wanted to scream, to tell them it was all a lie, that she was being tortured and humiliated beyond anything she could have imagined. But with the two dildo plugs filling her mouth, she could only shake her head slightly, her body collapsing under the weight of her torment.

Matumbo laughed, covering for her silence. “She’s too ashamed to admit it, but it’s the truth. Look at her! She’s crying because she failed the challenge, and now she knows what’s coming next.” His grin widened cruelly. “She was desperate to avoid the whip. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Sylvia?”

Sylvia’s chest tightened, and more tears poured down her face. She could do nothing—nothing but stand there, humiliated and defeated, as the story of her “perversion” continued to unfold, trapping her in this horrific lie.

“Okay, I guess,” the short inspector said with a shrug, clearly uninterested in pushing further. “Yes, Mr. Twume, as principal of the institution, you do have the right to discipline your employees. And with the Anti-Foreigner Decree in place, foreigners aren’t exempt, so I’m glad to see you’re not treating this white woman with any undeserving leniency just because of her race.”

His words made Sylvia’s heart sink further. The cold indifference in his voice only deepened her sense of hopelessness. To him, she was nothing more than a foreigner subjected to the same brutality as everyone else, a small pawn in a cruel system.

The tall inspector, however, was less convinced. He furrowed his brow as he studied Sylvia’s tearful face, the dildo plugs gagging her, the grotesquely tied breasts, and the obvious signs of her distress. “Yeah, but this is a bit unusual as far as punishment goes, isn’t it? Punishment is supposed to be strictly about discipline—strip ‘em naked, whip ‘em, depending on the offense, of course. What you hit them with—a whip, rubber stick—depends on the crime. More importantly, where you whip them. But making her participate in a gym session? Is that really punishment?”

Twume, now emboldened by the short inspector’s approval, found his confidence returning. “No, it isn’t punishment by itself,” he agreed, giving a measured nod. “I insisted on disciplining her the right way—for her own good, of course—so she learns her lesson properly. The plan was to administer the necessary whipping, but Mrs. Sylvia begged us for a chance to avoid it. She pleaded to be allowed to compete in the gym session challenges, hoping to win and avoid the physical discipline.”

He gestured toward the group of students with a nod. “And our students here—despite their criminal histories—are merciful young men. They all felt sorry for her. They begged me to allow her to participate instead of just whipping her immediately. So, I decided to let her go through the challenges, giving her the chance she asked for.”

The tall inspector glanced at the students, some of whom were still snickering, but they quickly straightened up under his gaze. Sylvia’s body continued to shake with sobs, her mind reeling from the humiliation of hearing these lies spoken so casually, as if her suffering were a choice she had made.

The short inspector shrugged again. “If that’s the case, then it sounds reasonable enough,” he said, brushing off the situation. “You did give her a chance. She asked for this. As long as it’s all within the institution’s rules, there’s no issue.”

Twume nodded, smiling at the growing sense of relief. “Exactly. We are following the regulations, and Mrs. Sylvia has been given every opportunity to prove herself.”

Sylvia, meanwhile, could only stand there, broken and powerless, as the false narrative cemented itself, her voice trapped behind the gag and her dignity stripped away.

“Nice to see you again,” the tall inspector, Tunde, said, his tone shifting to something softer, almost personal. “Your name was Sylvia, wasn’t it? I heard the institution’s new teacher was a white woman who decided to stay on the island, but I had no idea it was you.” He paused, his eyes lingering on her naked, trembling form. “Maybe we can have coffee later.”

Sylvia’s heart sank deeper as she stood there, barely able to register the words through the haze of her own humiliation and pain. Her head remained low, tears falling steadily down her flushed cheeks, her body trembling under the weight of it all. She felt like a trapped animal, and now this—an invitation to coffee from someone she remembered from her past, when she was a respected humanitarian aid worker.

Tunde, on the other hand, was lost in his own thoughts, his mind racing with the realization that he had just asked her out. I actually did it, he thought, almost in disbelief. He remembered Sylvia vividly from their first meeting. Back then, she was radiant, her beauty seemingly untouchable, her body out of this world. He, a 40-year-old single man, never thought he’d have the nerve to speak to her in any meaningful way—certainly not in this context.

Growing up on Aprico Island, Tunde’s height had always set him apart, but not in the way that made him desirable. He wasn’t popular, and his dark skin made him feel even more distant from the world that Sylvia came from. He had spent lonely nights fantasizing about women like her—beautiful, out of reach, women he could never ask out. The very idea seemed ridiculous. A 40-year-old local Aprico Islander, a man who wasn’t even well-regarded here, daring to ask one of the most beautiful women in the world—a white woman—for coffee? It had always seemed impossible.

But now, here she was, standing before him, naked, tear-streaked, drooling around the gag in her mouth, her large, swollen breasts painfully tied, her body trembling with shame. The scene was surreal, and yet, he couldn’t help but feel an unexpected surge of confidence. Her posture—defeated, humiliated—told him she wouldn’t refuse.

Tunde’s gaze traveled over her curves, her sensual figure still striking even in this pitiful state. God, she’s still so pretty, he thought, his breath quickening. Her body ... so perfect, so curvy. For a moment, the twisted reality of the situation faded from his mind, and all he could see was the woman he had once admired from afar, now standing before him in a way he never thought possible.

He had asked her out, and somehow, deep down, he knew—she wasn’t going to refuse.

“Can we go ahead with our gym session, officers?” Matumbo asked confidently, flashing a charming smile toward the inspectors.

The short inspector nodded, clearly indifferent to what was unfolding. “Of course, we’ll watch and see what kind of gym session you’re designing here.”

Matumbo’s grin widened. “Great! You’re in for a unique experience. Nowhere else in the world will you see a sporting game like this.” He turned to the students, his voice loud and commanding. “We’ll have two teams, each with seven players.”

He picked out seven students, then selected another seven. Once the teams were formed, he turned to the first group. “You seven, take off your shirts,” he ordered. The boys complied, stripping down to their bare chests. “It’ll be top versus topless.”

Sylvia’s heart sank further, the pit in her stomach growing as she realized what was about to happen. Her breath quickened, and her already tear-filled eyes welled up even more. She tried to focus through the haze of fear, but when Matumbo explained the rules, she felt as though the world was crashing down around her.

“Here’s how it works,” Matumbo said, his voice gleeful. “Whichever team hits Mrs. Sylvia’s balloon titties more times will win. The first team to reach ten hits wins.”

Sylvia’s body stiffened in horror. A muffled groan of protest escaped her gagged mouth, and she struggled against the restraints, the pain in her swollen, tightly bound breasts becoming unbearable. How could he even think of something so vile? Her breasts already ached horribly just from standing there, throbbing from the tight collar constricting their base. The thought of being slapped and hit repeatedly felt like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

Matumbo ignored her gagged sobs, his eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement. “Oh, and Mrs. Sylvia,” he added, “you can win also—if neither team reaches ten hits in twenty minutes, the game ends. So, you have a good chance, really. These teams will be trying to stop the other from hitting you, after all.”

Sylvia’s chest heaved, her body shaking violently. Matumbo made it sound as though there was some semblance of fairness to this, but in truth, it was nothing but another cruel twist in her nightmare. The idea of being chased down, hit, her swollen breasts targeted as the main objective, left her gasping for breath. It was horrifying.

Matumbo continued, ignoring the gagged protests Sylvia made. “Marimba here will be the referee. He’ll run alongside Sylvia, yelling which team made a hit every time they land one. I’ll be the scorekeeper. Remember hit has to be hard enough to make a loud slapping sound!”

The students exchanged grins and chuckles, clearly eager for the game to begin. Their eyes gleamed with anticipation, watching Sylvia with cruel excitement, knowing she was the target.

Sylvia could only sob quietly behind her gag, her body trembling, her heart racing with dread. The humiliation, the pain—she knew she was about to face something even worse than what had come before. This wasn’t a game. This was pure torture.

“Oh, one more thing,” Matumbo said with a wicked grin as he tossed Sylvia’s running shoes at her. They were the extra pair she kept in the classroom. “You’ll need these. You’ll be doing a lot of pivoting—like rugby, you Australians play, right? Don’t want you to peel the skin off your feet.”

Sylvia hesitated, her trembling hands still covering herself, as much as she could, shielding what little dignity she had left. The idea of putting on shoes, preparing herself to run for this sick game, felt surreal and humiliating beyond words. She glanced down at the shoes, then back at the laughing faces surrounding her, her body frozen in place.

Before she could react, Tunde stepped in, moving swiftly toward her. He squatted down right in front of her, his head uncomfortably close to her crotch, as she desperately tried to keep her hands in place for some semblance of modesty. His hands moved to her feet, placing the first shoe on with practiced precision, then the second, tying them securely. His proximity made Sylvia’s heart pound in her chest, her humiliation deepening as her tears continued to fall.

“Mrs. Sylvia,” Tunde said quietly, his tone strangely gentle compared to the cruelty surrounding her. “You should wear these. If you’re going to pivot and run in that dirt yard, your feet will be bloody within minutes without them.”

He was right. The rough ground would tear her feet apart. As much as Sylvia wanted to resist, she had no choice but to let him tie the shoes. When he stood back up, his eyes briefly met hers, and she quickly looked away, feeling even more exposed and vulnerable.

Matumbo’s voice cut through the moment. “Now, to make things fair,” he said, walking over with a malicious grin, “we need to tie Mrs. Sylvia’s hands behind her back. It wouldn’t be a fair game if she had her hands in front to block anyone from slapping those big balloons, right?”

Sylvia’s heart sank even lower. She mumbled a gagged protest, shaking her head, her voice muffled and desperate. But Matumbo’s words, once again, left her with no room to argue.

“Or would you rather go straight to your punishment? No chance at forgiveness, no opportunity to avoid the full consequences?”

Sylvia, her body trembling, reluctantly gave in. She let out a soft, muffled sob but nodded her head slowly, knowing she had no choice. Tunde stepped forward again, this time with a rope in hand. His face was serious as he approached her from behind, gently pulling her wrists together.

The roughness of the rope stung as he tied her wrists tightly behind her back, leaving her completely defenseless. Sylvia bit down hard on the gag, trying to stifle the overwhelming fear and humiliation coursing through her. With her hands bound, her breasts jutted out even more, their painful swelling highlighted by the tight collar around their base.

The moment the rope was secure, the cruel laughter of the student returned, echoing across the yard. Sylvia stood there, bound, gagged, and terrified, her heart pounding in her chest as she faced the unimaginable ordeal ahead.

The moment the words left Matumbo’s mouth—”Mrs. Sylvia, run now!”—Sylvia’s body sprang into action, propelled by pure instinct. Her legs moved frantically, carrying her across the rough dirt yard, but she had no idea where she was going. The weight of her tightly bound breasts, swollen and grotesque from the cruel collar, bounced with every step, sending waves of searing pain through her chest. She gritted her teeth behind the gag, her breath already ragged from both the physical strain and the overwhelming humiliation of her predicament.

Each bounce of her breasts felt like an unbearable punch to her chest, the tightness around their base cutting off circulation and intensifying the ache with every movement. Sylvia could feel her tears mixing with the sweat already beading on her face, her heart hammering against her ribcage as panic surged through her.

Behind her, Matumbo’s voice rang out, loud and gleeful. “Shirt-top team, ready? Yup. Topless team, ready? Yes. Okay, then ... hunt down that white trash dog!”

The air exploded with noise. Student from both teams shouted as they charged after her, their heavy footsteps pounding against the dirt, kicking up dust as they ran. “Get her!” someone yelled, their voice filled with malicious glee. Laughter erupted, cruel and mocking, as they closed in on her, eager to play their sick game. The words “white trash dog” echoed in her ears like a cruel taunt, fueling her terror.

Sylvia’s legs pumped harder, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, but the pain in her breasts was unbearable. They swayed painfully from side to side with each stride, the collar keeping them grotesquely ballooned, every bounce a reminder of her torment. The sound of the student closing in grew louder, their voices mingling with the frantic rhythm of her own heartbeat. The dirt beneath her shoes crunched, but it did nothing to drown out the taunting voices behind her.

“There she goes! Get those balloons!” one of the topless team members yelled, laughing as he sprinted forward.

“Don’t let her get away!” came another voice, this one from the shirt-top team, the thrill of the chase evident in every word.

Sylvia barely registered the terrain ahead of her, her mind too preoccupied with the agony in her body and the terror of being caught. Her feet pounded against the ground, but with her hands bound behind her back, she couldn’t balance properly. Every step was clumsy, uncoordinated, and her bound breasts kept pulling her off-balance, making it harder to keep running.

Suddenly, a sharp slap echoed behind her, followed by laughter. “Not her fat ass! But I’m gonna give you that one for free!” Marimba’s voice rang out, gleefully declaring the first hit.

Sylvia flinched as the pain hit her seconds later, one of the topless team members landing a firm slap on her swollen breast. She stumbled but kept running, gasping behind the gag as the pain shot through her chest, amplified by the tight collar binding her breasts. The hit had left a stinging sensation, and she could feel her skin burning from the impact.

“Come on, we can’t let them win!” a shirt-top team member shouted, and more footsteps pounded after her.

Sylvia tried to veer to the right, hoping to buy herself a few more precious seconds, but her body felt like it was betraying her. Her arms tugged uselessly at the rope binding her wrists, and her breasts, already sore and swollen, continued to bounce painfully, each step feeling like a cruel twist of the knife. Her lungs burned, the hot air of the island feeling thick and oppressive, but she had no choice but to keep moving.

Another slap landed, this time from a shirt-top team player. “That’s one for shirt-top!” Marimba shouted, his voice booming through the yard.

The hit was even harder than the last one, and Sylvia’s knees nearly buckled from the pain. She let out a muffled cry, tears streaming down her face as her chest throbbed. The cruel, callous laughter of the student filled the air as both teams jostled for position, trying to outpace each other for the chance to land the next blow.

One of the topless team members lunged forward, his hand raised, but just as he was about to slap her, a shirt-top player barreled into him, sending both of them tumbling to the ground in a cloud of dust. The chaos behind her was almost surreal—like a twisted game of tag where her suffering was the prize.

Sylvia tried to keep running, but her legs were weakening, and the pain in her breasts was becoming too much. The sharp, stinging hits kept coming, each slap landing with a loud smack that sent waves of pain radiating through her chest.

“Two for topless!”

“Three for shirt-top!”

The scores were neck and neck, and the teams were growing more desperate, their voices filled with competitive rage as they fought to land more hits.

Sylvia’s vision blurred as she stumbled again, her feet kicking up dust as she struggled to keep her balance. She could feel her strength slipping away, the relentless chase wearing her down. Her bound hands made it impossible to steady herself, and she was constantly fighting to stay upright as the hits kept coming. The sound of each slap against her breasts was deafening, each one followed by roars of laughter and cheers from the opposing team.

By the time the score reached 9-9, Sylvia was barely able to keep moving. Her breasts felt like they were on fire, the skin tender and bruised from the repeated slaps. She gasped for air, her chest heaving as she stumbled forward, desperate for some kind of mercy, even though she knew none would come.

Suddenly, she felt a sharp, brutal slap from right on top of her right breasts, a final hit that sent her crashing to her knees, the force knocking the air from her lungs. “Ten for topless!” Marimba shouted triumphantly.

The game was over. Sylvia lay in the dirt, panting heavily, her chest burning with pain. Her body trembled uncontrollably, tears still streaming down her face as the reality of what had just happened settled in. The laughter and cheers of the student surrounded her, a cacophony of cruelty that made her want to disappear into the ground beneath her.

“Topless team wins!” Matumbo declared, his voice filled with malicious satisfaction.

Sylvia’s heart sank. She had endured the full brunt of their twisted game, her body bruised and broken, her spirit shattered. And as the cheers of the winning team echoed around her, she realized with a sickening clarity that this was far from over.

Sylvia cried and cried laid there, cried for exhaustion, shame, humiliation and pain ... Her breasts were on fire, ached, about to burst, pain, (describe her body, visual, and scenery)

Sylvia lay on the ground, completely broken, her body trembling as sobs wracked her frame. Tears streamed down her dirt-streaked face, mixing with the saliva that continued to drool from her gagged mouth. Her face was flushed, wet with a mixture of sweat, tears, and the dirt that clung to her skin. The weight of exhaustion settled over her like a heavy blanket, her chest heaving as she cried uncontrollably, her body shaking with each breath.

Her breasts, grotesquely swollen and painfully bound by the tight collar, felt like they were on fire. Every inch of her flesh was tender, bruised, and burning from the relentless slaps she had endured during the game. The skin was stretched tight, turning an angry shade of red and purple, as if they were on the verge of bursting. Each small movement sent new waves of pain radiating from her chest, a constant, throbbing ache that refused to subside.