Later, after Tiffany had revived enough to put her top back on before the boy’s parents returned home, the brassiere pressed on her forcibly erect nipples as if they were push buttons, jamming those already aching tit tips straight back into her full breasts. The stubs of the thorns kept catching on the material of her brassiere for good measure.
Tiffany felt fulfilled. She had achieved her desire both to punish herself in a manner fitting her crimes and to reward the boy in a manner befitting his helpful advice of the night before. She was sure he would come back now for her repeat performance tonight to watch the wrestling match between her teeth and the Devil’s thorns.
Tiffany hoped the boy would enjoy the encore at least as much as he had enjoyed the premiere, for his obvious appreciation of her efforts the night before had been good moral support and had helped her to keep struggling with the stings even when she thought she might never get them out. Besides, for some reason, she felt a profound need for his approval; without it, she could not seem to bring herself to do anything to soothe her complaining nipples.
Back in her apartment, time seemed almost to have stopped. The seconds dragged into minutes, and the minutes into hours. Tiffany looked at the clock again, for perhaps the hundredth time, and groaned. Showtime was still hours away, and she could hardly wait for the spectacle to begin: Those thorns really hurt.
THE END.