Over the next few days Paul tried to avoid me where he could, but I desired to be seen, to parade myself infront of a man that coveted my body above all others. I’d see him sneaking glances at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, his trousers tight as his erection tried to free itself, to burst forth and claim me as it’s prize. In an attempt to help me, he’d measure my breasts, clocking in at a titanic 38K, before ordering me a custom undergarment he thought I might be able to wear. When the package arrived, he requested I don it. Loving the attention, I found myself flirting and teasing him, repeatedly discarding the garment before begrudgingly accepting the titty prison he kept handing back to me.
I’ll admit, it was nice to finally have some support for my girls. I loved the lacy pattern and the silky-soft feel of this garment on my chest. But best of all was that it came with special holes for my nipples to proudly poke through; displayed, framed and showcased for the benefit of everyone around me. The discomfort and anxiety at being covered did return, but at a much slower rate than it had when I’d worn a top previously. To my chagrin, Paul forced me to wear this garment around the house whenever he was around. As much as it frustrated me that my girls couldn’t be free, I did relish the opportunity to use my exposed my nipples, brushing things past them and ‘accidentally’ bumping into him whenever I could.