Gypsy Pride
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Gypsy Bra free porn video
Gypsy Bra
"You like? Deal, we make. You like?" Asked the Gypsy woman. I
blushed and looked around at the other street vendors, all apparently
out of earshot. It was pretty early in the morning, so the vendors
still outnumbered the customers ten to one.
"I'm looking for something for my girlfriend," I lied, nodding towards
the rack.
"I know; for girlfriend," said the middle aged lady, a twinkle in her
eye like she knew too much. I gave the lady a second look, trained to
always give second looks to those who were most aware. It was a
survival instinct brought on by years of working as a UN consultant. Of
course she was right, my girlfriend being ten thousand miles away from
the Slavic town I was standing in.
"What size? You want make big?" Asked the lady, her English better
than my Slavic, but then again there was only one English, and in this
part of the world there were a lot of Balkan dialects; in fact that was
one of the reasons I was here trying to help the locals learn how to
cope with a couple thousand years of disunity.
She was persistent, pointing to a young lady sitting on a chair behind
us. "My size, her size?" She asked. As soon as I noticed the younger
lady, it was hard to keep from noticing the difference between the
young, scantily clad Gypsy daughter, and the three layers deep mother.
The younger lady was actually sexy as hell, I noticed, my wang rising at
my initial glance. She had curly brown hair that fell to her shoulders,
and eyes that were pearls. Her skin was smooth as a third beer. On the
other >hand, she was barely a size B, and the mother seemed fairly
stacked under the wrappers. In fact, she had to be a D or better, I was
guessing, though something just under a hundred pounds of extra weight
might have had something to do with the extra breast size.
I leaned over and discretely said, "You size."
"Me make my size. We make deal," she said while she walked over to the
long rack of bras. It seemed odd the way things were sold here. In
America and the more civilized parts of Europe, they sold bras in boxes.
It was equally so in Belgrade. Here, barely a hundred miles away from
the Slavic capital, it was not uncommon to see vendors rip open the
boxes so they could show the product in its full glory. The lady pulled
out a bright red bra, it still attached to the rack by a hook with an
alligator fastener. I shook my head no, again looking around to see if
anyone else was watching us. Only the daughter seemed to pay notice.
"Plain? Woo woo?" Asked the woman, my face growing red. I was into
cross dressing, sure, and since she'd guessed as much, it was of no
value lying again to the world wise lady, but then again I had no
interest in attracting a crowd, particularly considering my position as
both a foreigner and someone who needed to be respected in certain
circles. Then there was the issue of my American citizenship. Things
had not been good between our countries until just recently.
"Plain. I like them plain and white," I said. Dressing was something
I'd only done occasionally, but when I had I'd done so with a common
flair. My fantasies seemed to involve the ordinary transition, as
opposed to the flamboyant. Sometimes I imagined myself the common
housewife. I wasn't gay. In fact, I was always the housewife of a
woman, as if that made sense. I guess you could say I was into a little
bit of female domination. Sometimes I thought of myself as my
girlfriend's maid, prancing around in common clothing, maybe adding an
apron as I cleaned. There were a few hotel maids on the planet who I
imagine thought of me as the perfect guest, considering my room was
often cleaner when I left than when I arrived.
She shuffled the bras along the rack until she found the perfect bra.
It was a nice D cup, with four hooks. I was impressed with the simple
cotton pattern, and the reinforced construction.
"How much?" I asked.
"Ten dollar. I make you this big. We make deal," she asked, holding
the bra out until it was almost parallel with the ground.
"Ten dollars is high," I said, putting my hand up in the air with the
palm down, as if to show her how high it seemed. Prices were cheap
here, and I imagined ten dollars equal to the lady's daily wages.
Besides, they liked to haggle, I knew.
The woman went over to the other end of the rack, and held out another
white one, but this one with half the top open, as if to show off the
breast. I had no breast to do any peeking with, so I was thinking
negatively about the new choice right away.
"Five dollar. One year, make right," she said, putting a smirk on her
face.
She saw my face, and realized I was displeased, so she pulled out
another one. This one was a three hooker, and covered with lace. The
lace looked overly done to me.
"Seven dollar. Me make good, three year," said the woman.
"I don't think I'll need the guarantee anyway," I told her, waving the
bra off. "I like ten dollar bra. I give seven dollar," I explained.
She pulled the original bra out, and shook her head no. "I want nine
dollar. This make always. This you never more money. This you never
back," she explained cryptically. As if to demonstrate, she pulled the
elastic back and forth on the main strap.
I smiled at her salesmanship, and then caught myself, looking around at
the other vendors. Only the daughter seemed to be paying much
attention, though she had absolutely no expression on her face.
"Well, the guarantee is useless, but I like. I give eight dollar," I
haggled.
"You make deal now?" Asked the lady. I shook my head yes. "Eight
dollar," she said, closing the deal and pulling the clip on hook off of
the strap, releasing the bra. She took it to her daughter, I was
guessing to wrap it, as I pulled out my money clip and rifled out eight
bucks.
"You sit. Me make deal ready," said the middle aged lady as she came
back around. I looked into her eyes and got the feeling that, that was
exactly the thing to do. I sat on the bench in front of the rack of
bras as they swung in the light breeze.
"Yes. You sit. You watch. I make deal. I make long time," said the
woman, as I sat there watching the bras swing gently back and forth.
After awhile I noticed the daughter was sitting beside me. In my
peripheral vision I thought I could see her holding the bra in her lap.
Then, over to the other side of me another woman sat. It was hard to
tell who she was, though I had the impression that she was another of
the vendors. Up in front of me, the original woman knelt as I looked
over her shoulder toward the swinging rack of bras.
"Yes. You like. You not want to look away. You unable to go away.
You like so much. Me make you. Come. I help," said the woman.
Sensing something wrong, I tried to break my gaze from the line of bras,
looking to the side where the woman's daughter sat. The girl looked as
if she were in some kind of trance, or perhaps a prayer, as she held the
bra up against her body. I felt a little covetous just then, realizing
that I'd bought the lingerie. It was mine, after all. She should be
wrapping it, I thought. Of course, I didn't linger on the thought, my
eyes quickly back to looking at the bras as the older woman held my hand
and guided me right up to the rack.
The woman shoved the bras on the rack just in front of me to each side
and then put my hand on the rack. My hand seemed to find that most
relaxing, all of my fingers wrapping around the display bar, though with
a tender embrace. Another woman sat a stool under me so I could get
comfortable. Yes, I thought, This is extremely comfortable. I need to
be very comfortable. The daughter pulled up a stool next to mine, and
started to unbutton my shirt with small, delicate fingers. I should
have protested, but couldn't imagine living without the attention as her
mother and the other woman untucked my shirt and removed it. There was
a chill in the air; the daughter seemed to sense my discomfort, touching
my chest with the cups of the bra, rubbing it against my skin. I looked
down, and found the fabric in her hand amazingly pleasurable as it
touched me.
"Is so nice. I make deal. You be white. You be big like me. You be
eight dollar, forever. No more need money. No more need deal. I do
this for eight dollar. Highway robbing me, but I do OK. You like stay.
You go now some, and what I make stay," said the gypsy.
It was amazing, I thought. Just the sense of relaxation seemed worth
the measly eight bucks. In fact, it all seemed completely liberating,
especially the way the arm that had been connected to the display rail
started to feel.
"There. I see much already make nice. Soon all make forever, like you
say. You so happy. You me make," said the woman, as if chanting. I
closed my eyes and reveled in the incredible feeling that had made its
way down my arm and into my shoulders. Something about that upper
quarter of my body was irresistibly nice. It felt almost like my penis
had felt once when I'd forced myself to hold back from an orgasm so I
could prolong the edge. You know, like the orgasm was being sucked into
my body, and then moving on, though just short of the spurt. I peeked
down at the daughter's hand. The bra seemed to have vanished, even
though I could still feel the texture of the fabric where her hand met
my pale skin. No, I thought, it wasn't as if the bra was stroking me,
but rather it felt as if I were wearing the bra, and she was caressing
it. That had to be a trick of my imagination, I rationalized.
"Nice big, size like me. White like the dove. Not some time, but all
time; your choice. You feel like. I make you want so much," said the
overweight gypsy. For some reason, her every word soothed me. The
feeling in my arm and shoulders crawled down my body, out my other arm,
through my hips, and into my legs. It was amazing how I felt, as if I
were being liberated. I closed my eyes to capture the pleasure and
moan.
As soon as my eyes closed, other thoughts filtered by. I thought, of
course, I have other obligations. I mean, a job and places to go, I
tried to tell my grounded half. Just exactly what those obligations
were though, I couldn't put a finger on. Nor did I want to, bathing in
the awesome feeling that finally had found my face and toes. Certainly
the cares could wait until I'd orgasmed from this pleasure. Then, as my
entire body became one with the sensation, it started to ease my cares
even more. I was left with a little bit of a vibration, almost a
tingle, but it no longer seemed close to orgasm. As much as I missed
that, I knew the tingle was still nice, and in the end, I guessed,
probably more sustaining.
"You now my size forever," said the Gypsy, moving the bras to either
side of me in the rack back into place so that barely two inches
separated my hand from the bras to each side. She teased me by pushing
one cup of the bra in front of me into my face, and moving it around.
Then I felt her doing the same to my lower body with the lower hanging
cup. Yes, I thought, that is very nice. I opened my eyes, and could
literally count the threads of the bra cup right in front of my eyes. I
don't think I've ever felt this free, as if all the cares in the world
had been lifted from me.
"My, this is incredible," I willed my mouth to say, but for some reason,
no words escaped. I tried to move away from the bra in front of me, but
I wasn't moving. I tried to stand up from the stool, but couldn't rise.
Wondering what was wrong, I realized two shocking things: One, the
stool didn't seem to be under my butt, and second, I could feel the
gentle breeze all over my body. "Oh god! I'm naked!" I tried to
protest, again not hearing the words flow from my lips to my ears.
"Very white," she said.
"Very white," I thought I said, the words mostly thoughts.
"Very thin," she chanted.
"Very thin."
"You want, bra," she declared.
"Want bra," I seemed enchanted, and had to repeat as mental words.
"Big white," she proclaimed.
"Bit white."
"Forever."
"Forever."
"Forever, please."
"Forever, please."
"Forever, I beg!"
"Forever, I beg."
"Then by your thrice wish," she said, as if proclaiming it so.
"My wish?" I asked, the words again soundless. I felt so very
confused, as if my mind was now as paper thin as had been that bra.
"Yes. You now big and white. Eight dollar. Me make all time. Now
done," said the older gypsy lady. I looked over through the small seam
left between me and the bra in front and back, seeing that the daughter
had moved back to the seat in front of the building. Her mother
apparently had returned to her seat, waiting for another sale. She
smiled my way, as if not entirely seeing me, but seeing one of many, a
rather simple glance in my direction. Why was the space between the
bras in front and back so small, I wondered, feeling panic grip me.
Then I saw my clothing sitting beside the daughter. Her hand pulled my
wallet out of my pants. She was soon slowly pulling the contents out,
and sorting them on a bench beside her. I was being robbed, I wanted to
protest, but unable.
And of course I was naked, the other half of my head told me. In fact,
it felt almost as if some of the breeze was blowing right through me,
though my body had the sensation of a constant warm temperature. Why
was I just letting this happen, I screamed in my mind, looking up to see
if I was somehow chained to the rail. No, there are no chains, I
noticed, seeing only those plastic two inch wide clips that became hooks
where they ran over the rail. All of the hooks looked the same, all
clipped neatly to their respective straps. All of the straps wandered
down to where the shoulder straps met, and then to where the first cup
of the bra met. Nothing seemed unusual. I looked down, and saw the
other half of each bra strap dangling, occasionally waffling in a gust
of breeze. Each had a tag attached, showing the price in the local
currency. I knew the exchange rate, though my mind was incredibly
mushy.
Mushy? Yes, of course that's it, I told my mind. I've been drugged.
Nothing else made sense, considering I was perfectly normal, perfectly
the same as the bra in front and behind me. Even my price seemed
correct, the Slavic equivalent of eight dollars.
The gypsy woman returned her attention to me. "Yes, now you see. Now
you know, American man. I free your mind to know. It is time to see,
American man. You eight dollars. Me make bra. You bra not one year,
not three year. You forever," chanted the gypsy, her words but fatal
whispers in the wind.
"Oh god! I'm a bra!" I soundlessly shouted, my body no longer a body,
and my mouth no longer a mouth. In fact, I was exactly the same bra
that I'd bought it seemed. Then some instinct told me the truth; I
wasn't the same bra, because the spell had used that one. I'd bought
that bra, and consumed it. Now I was another bra, an exact duplicate.
And, to my horror, I understood that this second bra, me, was the
property of this gypsy clan. I was just a bra, one of many that dangled
in the breeze, awaiting a pair of tits to serve.
As my slower and shallower mind conjured up these thoughts, the late
morning crowd started to arrive, sorting through the bras. I was
shuffled one way, and then the other, drawing an occasional second look,
though at no time did I hear any of the gypsies refer to me as if I were
in any way more or less special than the bra to either side of me.
I could tell that most of the women did not want to buy me from the
gypsies, many of them size C; size D wannabes. Then a short middle aged
woman took a long look at me. She pulled me off the rack, and even
strapped me on without hooking my hooks, checking for size. I could
feel the warmth of her breasts through her wool sweater. The woman
handed me to the gypsy lady, and started to haggle over price. The
gypsy looked appropriately insulted when she sold me for four and a
half. Shoving me into an old shopping bag the middle aged woman took me
home to her cottage where she put me in a drawer. After she shut the
drawer, I slept in pillows of lingerie, waiting for my turn to serve the
lady of the house.
Time passed excruciatingly slowly. I tried to remember a mission, some
sense of higher duty, some past connections, but things in my past were
fading so fast. No, I had to get somewhere ... else. I had to call out
to someone I knew, but who did I know, other than this woman and those
gypsies? I had things to do? I don't know? It all seemed so full of
anxiety, and then nothing; as if I were a bit schizoid. I did know,
more and more, the main and most important desire to feel the weight of
the woman's breasts. I want to make that very clear. It is so
important. Nothing could possibly have more meaning, so I'm sure my
worry is stupid. I yearned to test the weight on my straps. I imagined
the men of the village noticing how they stood out so proudly due to my
labor. The thought of having a chance to serve seemed such a dream.
Like Christmas, I waited with minute by minute anticipation of the first
time I'd be called to surround my Mistress's breasts with my feminine
lace.
Then, suddenly, the drawer opened, flooding my room with light. She
looked down at me, her hand reaching towards me, her breasts bare and
sagging nearly to her belly button. She turned me around, and I felt
myself just under her breasts. Then I was behind her, and she was
fastening my hands and feet together in front of her. I was again
twisted, so my body was just below her sagging breasts. She slowly
lifted me, putting her breasts into my cups. I felt my straps being
forced through her arms, and then settling over her shoulders. The
breasts were all over inside of me then, and I began to feel as if she
were me, and I no more than cosmetics; of course, I understood, this is
precisely the case; I am nothing but a bra, and the idea of my
personification no more than fanciful extrapolation. In no time at all,
the skinlike layer that I'd become even smelled of her, adding to my
delusion that I was showhow equally human. There was tension in my
straps, as I worked to hold my owner's huge breasts up as if for
display. Every minute was devoted to this labor, my life force becoming
the simple duty of support.
She walked away after covering me with a blouse. As she walked, my view
of the world was clouded by the fabric between me and it, though I was
too preoccupied with my support duties to do much idle ogling.
Through the day there was much talking and movement. At first I
struggled to catch the words and phrases I could understand in her
language, but as the day wore on I seemed to be losing the capacity and
desire to find meaning in the words. Then, as night fell, I found it
impossible to distinguish one word from another, or for that matter, one
sound from the next.
"I am holding up my owner's breasts. I am a bra. I am white. I am
big. I am forever. These are beautiful thoughts. I must hold up my
Mistress's breasts. I am in the service of my owner's breasts. I must
hold things up. I must look nice while I am privileged to serve." The
mantras rambled in my flat, white, lacy head over and over again, a
series of short songs that would not go away.
Late that night, the blouse vanished. It was dark in the room, only
hints of light filtering in as the full moon looked into the bedroom
window. Someone else was very close, my sense of smell appearing to be
growing as my other senses dimmed. Then I saw his face as he lowered it
to me. His mouth seemed to attach my face. It looked as if he were
about to eat me as I found my whole head in his mouth. Instead he made
me wet, soaking me with his saliva as he sucked. I knew that he was
after my owner's nipple, reminded of it as her nipple hardened against
the back of my head.
Suddenly my arms and legs were unfastened from one another. I found
myself slipping from my Mistress's chest, the weight completely off of
my straps. I fell, the world tumbling around me. In a second I was on
the floor, being trampled by my Mistress's feet and her lover's socks.
Then they fell on the bed. The superior human animals moaned. I sensed
the room vibrating to the beat of intercourse, their godlike life
forces, unlike mine, in the process of reproduction. What exactly was
going on wasn't entirely apparent to me as I sat in a heap on the floor,
forgotten in the excitement.
After awhile my Mistress's holy hand descended, grabbing me in the dark.
She wiped her thigh clean of a few drops of milky white liquid, and then
tossed me back on the floor. My body was tingling from the brief
encounter with her wonderful touch, and equally, but oppositely
disappointed that the touch had been so brief. Then, after awhile
things settled down, getting dull and silent for what must have been
hours.
I cried, saddened that I no longer seemed to have the wonderful purpose
of serving my Mistress's breasts. Purpose? What had that once meant?
I wondered, seeing tiny memories of something in my past. What was
that? I had dreams of a man, his cock seemingly just a couple feet
below my eyes, pointing out as if it were a part of me. I was the one
looking at the oints of the bra, taking myself off by my hooks, sucking
on my owner's nipples, inserting my penis into the amazingly superiour
human animal that I hoped to serve as long as my straps retained their
elasticity, she in front of me. I laughed, as best a simple piece of
feminine undergarment could. It's so strange, the silly, lofty thoughts
a plain white bra can have while lying idle on the floor. If I didn't
know how good I'd been at my prime mission of support just hours ago,
I'd think myself crazy, dreaming arrogant thoughts like that. God I
can't wait until she puts me back on. I feel so useless lying on the
floor at the foot of her bed like this, thinking stupid thoughts that
were best repressed. But, they keep floating back like unwanted moths.
The End
Marisol
- 22.08.2020
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