Fingertips on Bound Breasts

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Elle Cohen studied her reflection in the mirror and she could hardly believe her eyes.

Her bare breasts — round C cups — were bound with soft black rope. The rope made exactly 3 loops around each breast, hooked around her shoulders, and circled the back of her neck to create self-bondage.

Overall, the rope formed a makeshift bra that warped her round breasts, causing them to protrude obscenely, while her large brown nipples looked fully erect from the pressure they were under. It took a while to get used to the tight squeeze of the rope around each tit, but it was extremely stimulating.

Everything else about her was proper. Her long hair was in a bun and she looked like a librarian rather than a professor. She wore a knee-length skirt today and her heels made her look even taller than usual. She rarely ever dressed like this, but it was politely suggested that she do so. ‘It will make you look so sexy,’ Cohen was told.

She put on a silk blouse to cover her breasts and poking nipples, buttoned to the top. No bra today, aside from the breast bondage rope. Then she completed the look with a blazer, with the buttons done so that the protruding shape of her tits would be covered.

After a deep breath, she went to her car to drive to campus. It would be her first time teaching class with this underneath, and she was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

Flashback: The Student with Bound Breasts

The first week of the new semester had been a disaster. The peacefulness of the university was upended when there was a report of a foreign student being infected with a virus. That student had been placed under quarantine for three days.

Most of the tranquility returned to campus when the report had been proven false.

Professor Cohen felt bad for her international students from Asia. It was early in the semester and already things felt off. Since she taught Chemistry, class unity was critical because most of her curriculum revolved around group projects.

She did what she could to brighten the mood during lectures, including telling jokes that only geeks would understand, sharing funny stories of laboratory disasters from over the years, and doing fun group exercises to end each class.

For the most part, she succeeded. She always did.

At the end of a lab class, a particular student caught her eye.

The Malaysian student named Farah — who was truly one of the smartest students the professor had seen in a while — spent a little extra time taking notes on a chemical compound under a microscope. Farah seemed like one of those immaculately dressed and well-spoken students who purposefully kept to herself. Her black ponytail was perfect and her brown skin was a contrast to her bright white lab coat.

Looking a little closer, the teacher noticed how intricately tied the ponytail was, along with the small hair ties that held everything in place.

Professor Cohen wondered how long it took the student each morning to fix her hair with those hair ties. She also wondered if the self-imposed isolation was actually on purpose, or a lingering effect from the ongoing virus uncertainty.

“You know that class ended, right?” the professor teased, breaking the student’s concentration.

Farah looked up and smiled. “I know. My next class is in 3 hours.”

“Ah, makes sense.”

“Am I disturbing you somehow by still being here?”

Professor Cohen shook her head. “No, I was headed to my office. People usually bolt for the door after I unleash the harder topics on them.”

“Actually, I’ve studied some of this in Kuala Lumpur. So I have a head start compared to your other students.”

There was a polite smile on the student’s face, almost as if to avoid hurting the teacher’s feelings somehow. Instead, Professor Cohen appreciated the intellectual curiosity she was seeing here.

“I like your work ethic,” the professor nodded and smiled back. “Well, I’m always available if you need me. My email and office hours are on the syllabus for a reason.”

Farah’s smile became a little wider. “Thank you, Professor Cohen.”

“One other thing. How are you getting along with other students on campus? I don’t normally ask, but given the current circumstance, I’m curious.”

The professor could see the mixed feelings and pretend confidence on the student’s face. Things were clearer than ever. It’s common for foreign students to struggle with making new friends because of cultural and language differences. But the threat of the virus had taken its toll in other ways.

It made the professor’s heart sink.

“I have a friend,” Farah said after some hesitation.

The quote was stinging. ‘A friend.’ A smart and lovely girl like this should have lots of friends on campus. Professor Cohen smiled as kindly as she could towards the student, who seemed receptive to the gesture.

“Like I said, I’m always available if you need me.”

Breaking ethical rules (making an exception just this once), the professor gave the student a friendly pat on the Casibom shoulder. She wondered if the Malaysian student would flinch, given cultural differences, whatever they may be. Instead, the student genuinely beamed.

It was the least the professor could do.


Another false alarm happened two weeks later. Another student was put in quarantine for a few days and several classes had to be canceled for the week. The suspect was a foreign student, and whether it was right or wrong to even put that student under quarantine was a hot button topic on campus.

Changes with campus culture were small, but noticeable. Fewer students attended public rallies. Certain students were being avoided. Was any of that the right decision? Professor Cohen didn’t have the answer. But as an educator, she felt horrible, as if the lack of unity on campus was partially her fault somehow.

While she was in her office, the professor used her time to grade papers. Many people would find this tedious. But the silence and concentration were almost a form of meditation for her.

Footsteps were approaching and she was pleasantly surprised to see Farah again, who asked if it was okay for a quick chat.

Making a point, Professor Cohen didn’t sit across from the student like she normally did. This time, she insisted that they sit side-by-side, close together. It was a small way of showing solidarity. She knew the student picked up on the gesture and seemed grateful for it.

During their private question and answer session, it dawned on Professor Cohen that the student’s intellect was even more attractive than the student’s physical appearance. She brushed those inappropriate thoughts out of her mind and continued her job.

“Interesting, I’ll write that down,” Farah said, turning her attention towards her notebook on the table.

It was while the student bent her head down to take notes that the professor had a closer view of the student’s intricate ponytail. The weaves at the end of the ponytail seemed different this time and so did the design of the knots.

“I love that,” Professor Cohen said, after the student finished writing. “I’ve never seen a ponytail like yours before. It’s cute, in a smart-girl kind of way, if that makes sense at all.”

As if a source of pride, Farah’s face lit up and she tossed her ponytail over her shoulder so that it would lay across the side of her chest.

“Do you like it?” the student asked.

“Oh yeah. It’s terrific. Is it something cultural?”

“Nothing like that. To be honest, I learned it from a previous instructor when I was a student in Malaysia. I took the habits with me when I came here to America.”

“That’s always good,” Professor Cohen nodded. “In my younger days, I studied abroad in Spain and then Israel. So I definitely understand having things that remind you of home.”

Farah twirled the hair ties. “This reminds me of a lot of things. Do you… ummm… You get what I’m talking about, don’t you? America is a much more liberal country than Malaysia, so I’m assuming you know what this represents.”

The student seemed shy, as if this conversation was some sort of major revelation, using the tip of her index finger to pluck her hair ties like an instrument. It seemed like such a perplexing reaction to such a simple thing.

“Sure I do,” Professor Cohen said. “I grew up with sisters and we played with each other’s hair with bands and different scrunchies. There were a lot of great memories there.”

Farah sat there, looking so perplexed and innocent with upright posture, before slowly smiling. This girl had a secret. But what?

“I can show you the rest next time, if you want. But only if you want.”

The professor smiled, thinking nothing of it. “Sure, why not? It sounds like fun.”

“Don’t worry, I can be discreet,” Farah said shyly. “Maybe it’s my way of thanking you for the kindness? I appreciate everything that you do for me and other students.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

The word ‘pleasure’ seemed to have lifted Farah’s eyebrow, which was the moment Professor Cohen should have known that they were on a slippery slope.


It was a week later when things escalated. Professor Cohen had just assumed that the student was only being nice when talking about taking things further. After all, they both had demanding schedules and the student had advanced curriculum to worry about.

But when lab ended and the rest of the class left, it seemed as though the student was ready to follow through with that promise, whatever the promise was.

Farah wore a looser top than usual — a long and thin sweater with a skinny jacket over it — and had a nervous (but positive) energy like she was about to give a major presentation. And now, Farah seemed a little less shy, a little more upbeat.

“Great job today,” Professor Cohen said. “The way you handle equipment is stellar.”

“Well, I’m sort of a lab nerd as you can tell.”

“I knew we had a lot in common,” the professor teased.

Farah blushed. “In Casibom Giriş more ways than just a love of science, I hope.”

When the student pulled her ponytail over her shoulder and onto her chest like last time, the teacher knew this was flirtatious. There was no other way to interpret it.

“You have a new hair design today,” Professor Cohen said, taking a close look. “I like it.”

“Do you… want to see more? I mentioned it last time. My knotting skills took months to refine, but I perfected what I need.”

“Sure,” the teacher smiled, thinking nothing of it.

Farah held the bottom of her thin sweater and lifted it over her chest. The student was braless and her small, pointed and dark nipples were on full display.

But what made the image so jarring was the smooth black rope which tied the student’s pert breasts. Each tit had several tight loopings of the rope, which also went around the student’s neck to hold everything in place. It wasn’t tight enough to cause redness or pain, but it looked tight enough to make a statement.

It became clear that the slim jacket was to cover the shape of the student’s braless chest and to prevent hard nipples from poking through.

“What are you doing?” the stunned professor asked.

Farah continued the exposure. “Isn’t this what you wanted to see?”

Admittedly, it was an enticing sight for the professor. It was her first time seeing a student’s breasts (or any body part in a sexual setting) and the taboo was hypnotic. Professor Cohen was a woman who followed the rules and the blackletter law of this career.

Doing what she believed was the ‘right thing,’ she had to pull her eyes away from the student’s bound breasts to give a straight-forward and adult response to this madness.

“Farah, this is wrong,” the teacher said, bringing sanity to a tense situation. “I’m your teacher. We’re on campus, in a lab.”

“But… but…”

The student covered her chest and held her head down, clenching her eyes tightly as she was on the verge of tears. The student didn’t try to run away, she just stood there in shame, ready for any sort of consequence.

It immediately dawned on Professor Cohen that this student was carrying a heavy burden and wanted to share it with someone, anyone. A fetish. And now Farah was being rejected for it. Was this the student’s attempt of making a human connection on campus in the face of all the fear and hysteria, and all the isolation that came with it? The professor wondered.

Wanting to make the crying student feel better, and wanting to build that emotional connection for a student in need, Professor Cohen used her fingertips to gently pinch the bottom of the student’s sweater to lift it. She did all the work as the student remained motionless.

“Why do you want to see them again?” Farah asked, with her hands still down and her eyes still clenched.

The simple question caught Professor Cohen off guard, even while trying to lift the student’s top. In search of any attempt for an answer, all that was left was the truth.

“I think you’re interesting and beautiful. Your fetish is something I’ve never seen before, but I think it’s kind of… sexy… and erotic.”

Looking up, Farah locked eyes with the professor, then helped lift her sweater to bare her breasts again. Somehow, those little dark nipples had turned even harder. Oh yes, the student was blatantly aroused by this indecent exposure.

Farah breathed deeply, showcasing her bondage. “This is part of who I am. It’s what I like and enjoy.”

Professor Cohen was treated to the unusual view of breast bondage once again. The thought of anything like this had never crossed the teacher’s mind, but at the same time, it made all the sense in the world, in a strange submissive kind of way.

Female breasts are wondrous and a source of great pleasure. The proper nipple stimulation could produce an amazing orgasm. The sight was mesmerizing, and the longer the professor stared, the more she was sucked in.

Farah spoke again, “My previous professor in Kuala Lumpur taught me how to do this. She’s a Malaysian woman like me. She has sensitive breasts, like me. She taught me about self-bondage, and with a rope tight around my breasts, I can give myself orgasms.”


The professor’s voice trailed away as the revelation hit her like a ton of bricks. This was something that teachers should never know (or see) about their students, under any circumstance. But she was still curious. Who wouldn’t be?

“Can you say something?” Farah asked so innocently. “Anything at all, so I don’t feel crazy for showing this to you.”

Professor Cohen marveled at the breasts and she reached up to touch them. She wanted to grab them, but didn’t. She didn’t want to be so intrusive for their first contact. It was a real possibility that the student would reject the touch.

Instead, the teacher took a more cautious approach, using only her fingertips to graze around the soft flesh that was being squeezed by the black rope. The Casibom Güncel Giriş skin felt silky smooth and her fingers made the flesh react. She could see the shape of the breasts harden, ever so slightly.

Moving her fingertips upward, she circled around each of the small, dark nipples. She didn’t touch. That was a boundary too far, but she wanted to with all her heart.

“Does it hurt?” the professor asked, briefly touching the soft rope.

“I don’t make it hurt. I don’t want pain. I only want enough.”

“They’re beautiful,” Professor Cohen said, allowing herself to massage the breasts. “Do you share this with anyone else in your life?”

Farah nodded. “My roommate. She’s my only friend on campus.”

“How much does your roommate know?”

The professor’s eyes shifted back and forth between the student’s eyes and the student’s exposed chest area. She dug her fingers deeper into the student’s breasts. How she wanted to touch those precious nipples.

“My roommate saw this by accident,” Farah admitted, enjoying the sensations of a teacher playing with her tits. “I thought I had privacy and she came to our dorm room early. I was horrified, she was shocked. But she was curious. And so I taught her. It made us closer.”

Professor Cohen gulped. “Do you two…”

As an educational professional, she couldn’t bring herself to finish that sentence.

“We’re still figuring things out,” Farah replied. “I know it’s unlikely, but is there any possible chance that you can teach us? An American woman of your age must have more experience than us university girls.”

The professor felt her mind spinning at the notion that she’d mentor two university students in the art of lesbian sex, or whatever it was they were looking for. The thought seemed ludicrous. Professor Cohen was no expert. Far from it. But at the very least, she had some bedroom maneuvers.

As forbidden as the thought seemed, she was equally as intrigued. Looking at the student’s hard nipples, then the student’s eyes, this seemed like a wet dream. The professor’s pussy was moist with all of the immoral possibilities.

“I can’t,” the professor said, doing the ‘right’ thing.

Undeterred, Farah used her hands to pull Professor Cohen’s hands fully onto her breasts, meshing the teacher’s palms against erect nipples. The blunt contact took the teacher’s breath away.

The professor gasped. “You feel nice.”

“Will you keep my dirty secrets, professor?”

Professor Cohen nodded, still holding the breasts. “Yes, absolutely. This is safe with me, forever.”

“Come to my dorm room when the time is right. I want to explain everything to my roommate first and I know she will agree. Then I will email you the information. Please, please, please, Professor Cohen, I want you to come, okay?”

Before the teacher had a chance to respond, the student took a step back and slowly pulled her sweater down, which removed the teacher’s hand from those supple breasts.

With the bound breasts carefully tucked away and the jacket closed, the student left the lab, leaving Professor Cohen in a state of sexual confusion.


The encounter led to many nights of masturbation for the university teacher. Through it all, classes had continued as usual and her relationship with the student seemed confined to straightforward explanations in the lab.

Nothing out of the ordinary presented itself. Nothing unusual happened. It was straight teacher/student talk and they both succeeded in avoiding any unnecessary suspicions.

Part of her was sad that their secret adventure hadn’t continued. Another part of her continued masturbating in the privacy of her bedroom at night, giving herself orgasms over the memory of those bound breasts, along with the thought of Farah masturbating herself in that form.

A giddy sensation returned when she checked her email one evening.

Professor Cohen,

How are you? It’s been a busy period for me, and through it all, I’ve managed to FINALLY convince my roommate (and only friend) to go a little further. Well, I hope we’re considered friends, too.

Please come to my dorm? Can you message me back and we’ll figure out a good time?



The closing hit a sweet spot. ‘Love.’ Students rarely used that as an ending signature for an email, and if they did, it was certainly by accident. This felt a little more real, even if unintentional.

After some back and forth messaging, they agreed on the time and date.

Now here she was, walking into the student dormitory for the first time in many, many years. She left her things in her office and went to the dorm empty handed.

She also stood out like a sore thumb. Where young university girls were casually walking around in pajamas, track pants, and old tshirts, Professor Cohen was still in her formal teaching wear of a buttoned-up blouse, skirt, and platform shoes. She was still in between classes, having an hour of extra time to spend here.

A few of her present and former students had recognized her and said ‘hello.’ There were a few brief chats and inquires as to why she was there. All she replied was that she was invited to a meeting for the science club. A lie that she was certain none of the students would follow up on.

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