Soup Style Bk. 08 - Bra Bondage

Chapter 1: Elsebet Suggesting a Viking Funeral

Diya, Lulina and Aida enjoy carpeted underarms. Diya and Aida clipped a single bit from their underarm hairs, adding them in the area of the garden at Ashley's home where Ashley's grandfather had habitually mixed hair clippings with other wastes that after an interval of time became soil in the composting for their garden. Aida took Lulina's hands in her own and gave a silent but meaningful squeeze of her hands during direct eye contact. Lulina, though unshaven under her arms, was not as generously adorned with underarm hair and instead of clipping from her armpit hairs, she clipped from the end of a long strand of her own hair before she had listened to explanations for their strange actions. "He had claimed." explained Aida, "that the hair told the intruders he did not want to be in his yard to go away, to never return, because the human hairs were the message that they should fear their predators who are here leaving the smell from hair as a subtle message to warn them to stay away."

Seriously? Hair to ward off intruders? S-e-r-i-o-u-s-l-y? Hair clippings? This was but one of unnumbered layers of protection here.

She wondered whether armpit hair was carrying the most effective smell for his purposes? He had a sensual delight in hair. A woman showing a pony tail never failed to get his favorable attention. A woman with hair showing beneath her armpits was, for him, arousing. Sufficiently arousing that he had many past experiences to recall, and each fondly recalled provided yet more reinforcement for this fetish. He did not reject women who wore their pussies bald, but neither did he avoid those with manes of pubic hair. We probably ought not to dwell on his delight at hairy asses.... But, he is gone, so..., oh, wait, is he gone? Could he have faked his own death? Could he return. as easily, say, as someone can regrow shorn locks of hair?

Lulina and Aida had bonded instantly. Tightly. They weren't alike. Lulina was tiny, the body of a dancer, feminine yet nearly flat chested but with exceptionally long and extraordinarily flexible nipples. Nipples that had been forcibly abused during her captivity. Nipples that well-deserved tongue lashings, perhaps, but not abuse. They had tied her nipples tightly, laughing at the spools of thread she was able to support, laughing each time they clumsily tied her nipples as they continued tightly wrapping yet more before they had released them (or more often pawed and slapped at her bound nipples to tug the bindings and ill-fitting adornments off her). The abuse had seemed unrelenting. Someone had attached weights to her nipples with industrial clamps to help secure the loads she was forced to carry; sometimes standing, but, most often crawling on all fours to the amusement of her captors for whom she was a sex slave in the military's comfort quarters. They had tied live animals to her nipples. Animals? Tiny animals, so that she would be frightened in a panic to try to keep them off her body by suspending them downwards and away from herself while the animals wildly tried to land somewhere, anywhere, to the unending amusement of her captors. They had even had her bound and cuddled with barnyard infant animals to try to witness if newborns were able to latch on to her nonproducing nipples while seeking food.

Aida, in contrast, had milk-enriched bobbling boobs. Boobs that had a dance of their own, moving rhythmically, and almost always in motion, whether independent of being handled, or being touched, whether gently or harshly. Her boobs were responsive, and she was quick to offer them for touching, she was instantaneous in her pleasure when her breasts were being touched. She would sometimes slap them herself for the pleasurable pain she could experience. Her breasts were the first gift she offered and the last withdrawal she took away.

Aida was now early in her second pregnancy; glad for Lulina joining at the day job because she had worried and was anxious for neither child had a father. Her boobs were hanging but pointing. From a side view of her naked, you could easily imagine her breasts as a road sign pointing a direction to, oh, nobody would take their eyes off of looking at those tits to go anywhere else! The "directional pointing" feature from a side view of her breasts, as wonderful as it is, does compete with any view if mounting this MILF for the penetration of her also desirable holes. While she had been capable of spraying milk as a lubricant, she was also able to flow with sexually libations of her own making. She was aroused by the simple glance of someone noticing her hairy armpits, she would blossom with engorged labial responsiveness to just having eye contact with a hint of more to come. Breasts and labial responsiveness to touch might have become less firm than before, but, likely to be firming more during the pregnancy changes yet to come. To cum, would she resort only to toys? Would she find other men? or women? With her day job working on developing sex toys and potions, likely all! She was literally hoping to have more fun with toys, with sex, with touch, with bounce, with sucking, suckling, nursing, and wanted especially to have double penetration, to enjoy anal and vaginal penetration while her breasts were being touched separately from her nipples being pulled and twisted at absurd lengths. She groaned softly at the thought of the sensations on her nipples.

Now on the secret team, the red team (Elsebet and Aida on the blue team, but Lulina and Perizat on the red team) for the development of products for clients (the current ones who seemed to be interested in kinky innovations in the sex toy industry), Lulina had ideas of her own, for later, yes, but, for now, was glad to have the ideas of others to make into real products. Her own ideas? Later, yes, later, be patient and know we will learn about her efforts, but,... later. For now, appreciate that Lulina is, well, imagine how you might feel, as if she were the most capable computer you can get, but, that you don't have the software to exploit its capabilities. Do you pass it on to others? Do you use it with what you have known from less capable models, ignoring what it might be able to do for you? Do you try to get programs that can challenge those capabilities? Do you just leave it shut down? Lulina was hoping to be turned on. Hoping.

No doubt you also want her to be turned on. No, not as a computer might boot up. No, not as an appliance might become active fulfilling its purpose. You want her. You want her aroused, your sensations engaged as her lips and those nipples are dragging across your own skin. You want her to use the touch of her lips and the touching of her nipples to your skin as if to tactilely map the counters of your own body. You want her. You want all the prelude to taking her to orgasm, your own. You want the stimulation for your excitement to climax. Imagining the curvy and bouncing bodies of others, but, also the small, firm, muscular body that she brings to the bed. You. Want. Her.

Lulina had dark hair. Aida had scarlet hair (colored to match her breasts, perhaps). Lulina was educated from universities around the globe in general fields that included mathematics, physics and in specific fields that delved deeply into statistics and fabrics. Aida was mostly experienced in on the job training in out of the mainstream topics related, quite loosely, to integrated health care. An odd pair to have bonded so totally to one another? Almost instantly? Not to exclude anyone else, no, just especially so between themselves. Jealousy is the ugly turn that every relationship must navigate. Nobody was jealous. At least not yet. Maybe nobody else, yet, had given any attention to her? Everyone was somehow in Ashley's orbit. Everyone. In. Ashley's. Orbit.

The women mourning his passing certainly appeared to honestly believe he was gone. He had to be gone. His own granddaughter calling for the ambulance, after secretly bringing his lifeless body back home to be taken by ambulance. couldn't be in on it, could she? The ambulance crew were trained so they would have had to have tested and noticed, right, had he been faking his own death? The doctor calling him dead at the hospital would have been risking her career to do so, which everyone knows that doctors will not risk their careers no matter what the temptation or cause, right?

Anyone hearing or seeing what happened would likely have no reason to suspect he could be alive, though, they might have a reason to extend any investigation from the crime scenes next door to this house all the way to the small cemetery, you know, that old little part of the parks area, where it was Halloween all the time, where already hundreds of years ago the place was adorned with a few headstones, fewer crypts and mostly plaques that you had to practically stand at to see it was nearly filled with its permanent residents?

Maybe a high official didn't believe he existed, okay, but he wasn't someone that could be ignored, dead or alive, someone that had to be considered as perhaps no longer a witness if not having had a more active role than proximity to a scene that was flagged for multiple incidents.

What would be a clue leading police detectives to the vigilante archers? The current thinking of the detectives was that the vigilantes were geeks, hidden in an attic with many ways to communicate with a fleet of remotely piloted drones; in this scenario, the police fantasized units of the fleet of drones had provided the floodlighting and probably different drones had launched arrows from something like a cross-bow on board. Unlikely as it seemed, the fantasy ran along the lines that there were probably many of the drones deployed or rapidly capable of being deployed, preferably at night, and when an opportunity was found, the vigilantes mobilized their stealthy air force of drones, perhaps some prepositioned throughout the city, one arrow capable of being fired from each of the separate weaponized drones kept hidden in darkness by coordinated control of the separate drones deploying floodlighting. Had they found such drones? Errr, no. Wait! There had to be evidence, evidence of more than multiple arrows so expertly aimed as to wound none while pinning by their own clothing so that they were dependent on others to free them. But other than testimony with odd bits of broken arrows removed in freeing those who had been pinned by the arrows, there was no evidence to follow further. Damn those geeks with their night-enabled drones! They were probably peeking toms, anyway!

But, what about the incident at the opposite edge of the park from the old cemetery? The reported incident where a police vehicle drone had malfunctioned, flashing its lights and coincidentally (coincidentally? ha!) captured an image of a dark figure holding a bow? High tech systems suspected at two incidents but low tech image captured at a third? Unrelated? That combination of a technical glitch for the police vehicle drone but capturing an image of a ninja-ish bowman instead of a flying cross-bow mounted drone offered no confirming path for the detectives to pursue. That third incident, which was outwitting, or perhaps overcoming or maybe the outright harvesting of the gang members who had kidnapped a young girl for ransom by her mother, had gone without police notice. The only report had been the diversion, err, the failure of the police vehicle drone. The criminals need file no report. The police reports? No reports of arrows launched and landed. No reports of ransom demanded, whether or not paid. No reports of kidnap victim, whether rescued or not. Only an odd report of an unlikely failure of a police vehicle drone that captured the image of a darkened figure with a large bow.

That didn't require a detective effort. It was something the team in tech support would put to rest (even without ever knowing why whatever had gone wrong hadn't gone right). The police vehicle drone was back in service. It had even visited Ashley's street earlier that day, as part of the mobilized forces that routinely were dispatched so as to be seen in an effort to reduce the risk of break-ins after a resident passed away.

Sara had been masturbating in her bed when the police vehicle drone drove by her place. The sensors in her leather (also holding her weapon, communications links, handcuffs) had gently activated, alerting that the police vehicle was so close. Sara's fantasy had been interrupted. She had been fantasizing that there were two circles, one inside the other, comprised of masturbating women. The outer circle was the MILFs and mature women, packing the extra weight for curves that jiggled as they masturbated. One was holding her ass cheeks open to invite attention. Another was turning sideways, holding a heavy breast to emphasize her curves at ass and chest. All the outer circle MILFs were busty and big-assed. Some had big clits, some had long and open slits, being touched with excitement. Every color of skin was represented in the circle, and all the skin was greased, moving sensually, swaying, rotating, open and ready for action. The inner circle, watching the outer circle, was comprised of younger women, tight bodied, lithe, mounted on saddle-like toys that double penetrated each rider. The members of the inner circle were wearing leather collars at their necks that had attachments. Some of the attachments went only to connect to their nipples, but others were securing the girls to the saddle-like sex toys. Sara had been imagining more of the what was happening in her make believe scene but the interruption broke the fantasy entirely. She got up to prepare to show up for her shift at the station, she would probably be the only neighbor not attending the potluck get-together at Ashley's today.

The white board at the side gate from Ashley's yard was not displaying its calendar function. The calendar had normally blacked out from viewing any of the days and times for which nobody could ask for an appointment for hair care by Ashley. Earlier today, Ashley had surprised everyone by resetting it to different purposes for them. In this instance, she had instructed some kind of voice interface to calendar and sequence a planting schedule for the mapped out sections within the garden that she then photographed and sent to the women interested in maintaining her grandfather's garden. It was more versatile than anyone had known or expected possible. None knew or understood the implications of it not being connectable to the internet. Nor did anyone appreciate the significance that it was only visible at certain angles from limited and totally protected positions in the yard.

The women were brainstorming. What to do for Ashley? What to do for her grandfather having passed away? For some reason, it was Elsebet leading the discussion. Her hair was in a loose pony tail. She also had just clipped a tiny strand from her hair to add to the garden memorial. She was wearing a bright blue patterned Summer dress that clearly showed all that could be shown yet covered. Aging gracefully was an understatement. Elsebet was growing more lovely by the hour.

Gathering together, but, not yet a full ensemble, this was a large gathering already. Ashley had not yet returned after having left together with (and at the request of) EmmaLee, asking everyone to stay, telling all that they would shortly return.

Uyghur and Uzkek food had been made by Lulina. Swedish food had been made by Elsebet. Sara had made food, which she rarely did, based on her mother's own Japanese foods. Perizat had a signature soup cauldron that had in it everything, including non vegan choices of, well, not appropriate to relate now. It was quite the potluck brought to feed Ashley and to have a reason to keep her company. So, why had Ashley left with EmmaLee. Who was EmmaLee? Not there to be questioned, instead, the food smoothed the way for everyone to question Lulina.

Answering questions, Lulina was, in a sense, integrating into a new home. new community, almost like a child entering a new school and introducing herself, hoping to find friends here. She explained that she came from a remote Central Asian place where her people had historically mostly been weavers and shepherds. Her family had gone from being hand-crafting weavers to industrial scale fabric makers. She herself had studied abroad in facets of what her parents thought might be useful for the future of the family businesses, but, that had all ended. She was orphaned, and [at this point she went quiet]. Diya picked up the story for her, explaining that Lulina's cousins had come to study in India, where they had met Diya, and when Diya herself came here for further studies, she and Liluna had entirely by chance come together because Diya had needed tailoring for her school's uniform and then learned of a common friend. Yes, some of Lulina's cousins had escaped to India. Some of her family had escaped to Kazakhstan or to the Kyrgyz Republic, and she shared many of the common legacies and shared heritage with Perizat as well as Ashley. Odd, she mused, contrasting Perizat retaining a traditional name in contrast to her and Ashley having such unfathomable ones; how did they come by these faked names now? So different from names in their native tongues. As her thoughts and words touched that subject, though, Elsebet blurted out, "Lilla Gubben." Almost everyone answered together, asking "Whaaaat?" and all eyes turned to Elsebet.

She wasn't wearing any makeup. She was strangely so Swedish for someone who had been gone so long from Sweden. "Does anyone know his name?"

If Sara had been there, then Sara likely would have said that there must have been a name. Right, a name that her boss' boss, Samantha McLeod, recognized for him (even if she had not believed he could have existed, let alone still have been alive at that point).

Sara wasn't there to say that. Nobody there had any idea about a name for Ashley's grandfather. Shrugs. Shrugs all around. Then laughter. They were all demonstrating having acquired at least that much of a vocabulary in shrug.

As somber as the reason for their talking now, Elsebet was easy to smile. Her smile was contagious. "I never knew his name, so I gave him a nickname. I even joked he must be the real Rumpelstiltskin." She shrugged, so everyone joined in with another round of shrugs, synching into a group shrug, then a group smile, before she continued speaking: "The Swedish name for a character from children's movies about a young girl hilariously on adventures trying to rescue her father. The girl is awkwardly dressed, incredibly strong, quite blunt in manner, and is accompanied by her monkey and her horse. Since Ashley was a young girl raised by an old man who sometimes rode horses with her, I borrowed the name of that horse as her grandfather's name, the name 'Lilla Gubben' means 'the old man.'"

Elsebet got a lot of laughs from everyone else there. Absent-mindedly, she would sometimes stroke her neck, her throat, even her breasts. But, mostly, her tummy.

"A Viking funeral. Set him in a boat or a raft to push off from the pier, then set it ablaze?" She mused, imagining it in her mind, even wondering about making the portions that would transform the raft to a Viking-like appearance. Almost without pausing in her stream of thoughts, she began thinking of arsonist dreams for a quick flame, running only as long as the music for a funeral dirge. Others began to fantasize about sex by firelight. Easily able to be aroused, almost able to lose consciousness of reality when aroused. Touching themselves. Elsebet was touching her own upper body. Diya was stroking upwards from her feet along her legs and increasingly aching to stimulate her labial lips and clitoris directly. In Japanese tradition, remains were cremated, but Sara was not there to offer that suggestion. The idea of a Viking funeral was not troubling to anyone. Nor was blood, gore, death or mourning rituals distracting anyone's, err, thoughts.