The moment she shoves you into her cleavage, the heat hits like a furnace. The fabric is much tighter than it looked; you’re squeezed between two massive, slick walls of flesh that shift and grind with every movement she makes. Breathing is hard — the air inside is thick and smells of coconut sunscreen and salt.
She turns to grab a raft and the motion slams you sideways. Your ribs creak under the sudden pressure. Her heart thuds like a war drum just behind the wall of skin, each beat vibrating through your whole body. You gasp but the sound vanishes into the smothering warmth.
Outside, she’s all business. “Alright, four riders at a time! Keep your hands inside the raft!” she calls, her cheerful voice booming over the crowd. She bends forward and the shift of her breasts grinds you downward, the slick skin sliding over your face and chest. It’s like being caught in a slow, living avalanche.
You try to wriggle but the friction scrapes at your tiny limbs. The pressure doubles as she twists, bracing a heavy raft with both hands. The movement squeezes you so tight you see stars. She absentmindedly pats her top to make sure the “toy” is still there, jarring you against her sternum like a punch from a mattress.
Your lungs burn. Sweat and sunscreen drip over you, slicking your clothes, making everything slippery. The sound of her heartbeat fills your skull. Every step is a new impact; every lean or bend compresses you further. She has no idea the “doll” she tucked away is alive and being battered by her body.
By the time she straightens up to wave the next group forward, you’re gasping for air, your body sore and bruised from the relentless pressure. You know you can’t last long like this — if she keeps working and jostling rafts while you’re wedged here, you’ll be crushed or suffocated before she even notices.
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