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Puffy! by Devin Dickie
🕑 Added 2025-12-15 09:24:12 +0000 UTCPuffy!
Written by Devin Dickie
© 2019-2055 QoSBookclub
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact us by sending us a DM
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
***DEVIN DICKIE NOTE***
All characters are OVER 18 years of AGE! This is a bullying fantasy and not real. The acts in the following written work are only consensual sexual choices and fantasy humiliation scenarios.
Bullying is NOT OKAY and If you or someone you know is being bullied, please alert the authorities.
Oh, man, where do I even start with this nightmare? I'm Sam, or at least that's what they called me back in senior year at Ridgeview High, that crumbling brick hellhole in the suburbs of Atlanta where the air always smelled like sweat, cheap cafeteria grease, and teenage desperation. I was 18, scrawny as a twig—5'9" on a good day, maybe 140 pounds soaking wet—with this mop of sandy hair that never stayed combed and a face that screamed "easy target." But let's get real: the real punchline was my body. Gynecomastia hit me like a truck in puberty, leaving me with these soft, puffy man-tits that jiggled under my shirts, nipples always swollen and sensitive, poking out like they had a mind of their own. I'd hide them under baggy hoodies, but in the Georgia heat, that was a losing battle. Kids called me "Sammy Soft-Tits" behind my back—or to my face if they were bold. And this wasn't my first rodeo with humiliation; back in freshman year, a group of jocks had cornered me in the locker room after gym, stripped me down, and forced me into a girl's PE uniform they swiped from the lost and found. They paraded me around as "Samantha," laughing their asses off while I cried and my damn nipples hardened from the shame and the draft. I never reported it—too embarrassed—and it set the tone for my high school hell. By senior year, I'd learned to keep my head down, but fate, that cruel bitch, had other plans. Enter Tyresse.
Tyresse Washington was the monster under every nerd's bed. Also 18, but he looked like he was pushing 25—built like a goddamn tank, at least 6'4" and 280 pounds of mostly fat layered over muscle from years on the football line. His skin was deep ebony, glistening with sweat even in winter, and he had this thick neck that merged into shoulders like boulders, arms that could crush beer cans (or skulls) without effort, and a belly that hung over his belt but didn't slow him down. His face was all hard angles: broad nose, full lips twisted in perpetual smirks, dreads tied back under a faded bandana, and eyes that bored into you like drills. He was too big, too intimidating for most girls—rumors swirled he scared off dates with his sheer size and rough demeanor, like he'd break them without meaning to. But on the field, he was a beast, pancaking quarterbacks and earning scholarships. Off it? Pure sadist. For some reason, in our last six months of senior year—from January to June—he zeroed in on me like I was his personal plaything. It started small, escalated to twisted, and culminated in that boiler room horror show that still gives me nightmares. Why me? Maybe because I accidentally bumped his locker once, spilling his protein shake. Or maybe because he saw the way my tits poked through my shirt in gym and decided I was "fun." Whatever. It was six months of hell, 10 different torments that built like a storm, each one chipping away at my dignity, focusing on my sensitive spots—literally and figuratively—until he had me dressed as a cheerleader, his hand on my dick, whispering filth while I squirmed.
If you're reading this, laugh or cringe—I don't care. It's therapy.
It kicked off in January, right after winter break, when the halls were still buzzing with New Year's resolutions nobody kept. I was in the locker room after mandatory PE— Coach's idea of "senior fitness"—changing out of my sweaty gym clothes. My gynecomastia was acting up that day; the cold air made my nipples puff up like pink gumdrops, sensitive as hell, rubbing against my shirt with every move. I was alone, or so I thought, when the door slammed open. Tyresse lumbered in, fresh from weight training, his massive frame filling the space, sweat-soaked tank clinging to his gut and pecs, the smell of him—musky, overpowering—hitting like a wave. "Yo, Soft-Tits," he boomed, voice echoing off the tiles. I froze, pants halfway up, my scrawny dick shrinking in fear. He cornered me against the lockers, his belly pressing into my chest, squishing my man-boobs painfully. "Heard you think you're hot shit, bumpin' my stuff." Before I could stammer an apology, he grabbed my nipples through my shirt—rough, callused fingers pinching hard, twisting like he was tuning a radio. Pain shot through me, electric and humiliating, my knees buckling as I yelped like a girl. "These things real? Feel like bitch tits." He laughed, deep and rumbling, twisting harder until tears welled up. It lasted maybe a minute, but felt eternal—him invading my space, his breath hot on my face, my body betraying me with unwanted twitches down below. He let go with a shove, leaving me red and throbbing. "Stay outta my way, pussy."
That was Torment One: the Locker Pinch. Simple, direct, setting the tone. I avoided him for days, but he found ways.
By late January, things escalated to Torment Two: the Hallway Wedgie-Wrestle. The school halls were packed between classes, kids shoving past like cattle. I was heading to AP Calc, backpack heavy with books, when Tyresse appeared out of nowhere, his massive hand clamping my shoulder like a vice. "Where you goin', Sammy?" He spun me around, his gut bumping my back, and before I could react, he hooked his fingers into my underwear—plain white briefs, nothing special—and yanked up hard. The fabric dug into my ass crack, riding up painfully, but he didn't stop there. He lifted me off the ground by the waistband, my feet kicking futilely, my shirt riding up to expose my soft belly and those puffy nipples rubbing against the cotton. Laughter erupted from the crowd—phones out, snapping pics—as he shook me like a ragdoll, the wedgie tearing slightly. "Look at this bitch squirm!" My nipples, already sensitive from the cold, hardened from the friction and shame, poking out visibly. He dropped me after what felt like forever, my balls aching, underwear ruined. "Next time, it'll be atomic." I scurried away, adjusting myself in a bathroom stall, tears mixing with the humiliation. Why didn't I fight back? He was twice my size, and deep down, that freshman "Samantha" incident had wired me for submission.
February brought snow flurries and Torment Three: the Snowball Nipple Assault. We had an unexpected snow day turned half-day, kids pelting each other in the parking lot after school. I was trying to sneak to my beat-up Honda when Tyresse and his football cronies spotted me. "Hey, target practice!" He scooped a handful of slushy snow, packing it tight, and hurled it at my chest—bullseye on my left tit. The cold shocked me, soaking through my jacket, making my nipple contract painfully, like a frozen pea under skin. But he wasn't done; he charged, tackling me into a snowbank, his weight pinning me—280 pounds of fat and muscle crushing my lungs. Straddling me, he shoved handfuls of snow under my shirt, directly onto my gynecomastia-swollen chest, rubbing it in rough circles. "Feel that, Soft-Tits? Your nips love the cold—look at 'em stand up!" Indeed, they did, puffing to their full, embarrassing size, hypersensitive to his grinding palms. Kids circled, cheering; I gasped, the cold burning, my dick confusing pain for something else and twitching traitorously. He finally rolled off, leaving me shivering and marked. "Stay frosty, bitch." I drove home with numb tits and a bruised ego, remembering how in sophomore year, a similar prank had left me as "Samantha" for a day in my mind.
Mid-February, Valentine's Day bullshit amplified Torment Four: the Forced Love Note. The school had this anonymous note system for crushes, but Tyresse twisted it. He cornered me in the library during study hall, his bulk blocking the exit, dreads swinging as he leaned in. "Write this down, Sammy." He dictated a filthy "love letter" to himself—from me—detailing how I "admired his big black body" and "wanted to suck his stories out." No, wait—that came later. This one was tamer but humiliating: "Dear Tyresse, your muscles make my tits tingle. Be my Valentine? Love, Samantha." He made me sign it with a heart, then watched as I slipped it into the box. The next day, during assembly, they read "funny" ones aloud—mine included, with my real name "accidentally" attached. Laughter roared; Tyresse grinned from the bleachers, mouthing "Twist 'em" at me. In the chaos, he pulled me behind the stage curtains, pinching my nipples again—harder this time, rolling them between fingers until I whimpered. "That's for the note, pussy. Your tits are my toys now." The sensitivity made my knees weak, a weird heat building despite the pain. It wasn't the first forced "feminine" act; echoes of freshman year lingered.
March madness hit with Torment Five: the Gym Class Strip-Tease. PE was co-ed that semester, girls in shorts showing legs, me trying to hide my chest under a loose tee. Tyresse, exempt from most activities due to "football training," lurked on the sidelines. During dodgeball, he "accidentally" tripped me, then "helped" by yanking my shirt up over my head—exposing my gynecomastia to the class. "Oops, look at these puppies!" My tits jiggled free, nipples puffing in the air-conditioned gym, pink and prominent against my pale skin. Girls giggled, guys hooted; I struggled to pull it down, but he held it, forcing me to "dance" for release—shaking my hips like a stripper while he twisted a nipple for encouragement. "Shake those titties, Samantha!" The name hit like a gut punch, dredging up old memories. Finally, he let go; I fled to the showers, soaping my sore chest, the soap making them slick and even more sensitive. That night, alone, I touched them experimentally, hating how it felt good.
Spring break loomed, but before it, Torment Six: the Car Wash Waterboarding. The football team had a fundraiser car wash in the school lot; I was "volunteered" by Tyresse to help. Dressed in shorts and tee, hose in hand, he turned it on me instead—blasting cold water at my chest, soaking me transparent. My nipples hardened instantly, outlined like targets, gynecomastia bouncing as I yelped. He grabbed the hose, directing it under my shirt, the pressure torturing my tits like a water jet massage gone wrong. "Clean those dirty nips, boy!" Cars honked; cheerleaders watched, including one whose uniform would haunt me later. Pinned against a SUV, waterboarding my chest, I coughed and sputtered, his free hand pinching through the wet fabric. "Beg for mercy, Samantha." I did, voice breaking. It echoed a junior year prank where I'd been hosed as "her," but this was meaner.
April showers brought Torment Seven: the Rainy Day Rope-Bind. Stuck after school in a downpour, waiting for a ride, Tyresse dragged me to the equipment shed. "Time for fun, Soft-Tits." He used jump ropes to bind my wrists to a shelf, shirt hiked up, exposing my chest to the chilly air. Rain drummed outside as he "tortured" my nipples—flicking, slapping, even lightly biting one, his hot mouth contrasting the cold. Pain mingled with forbidden pleasure; my dick stirred as he whispered, "These tits were made for this." Bound and helpless, I squirmed for 20 minutes, the ropes chafing, my gynecomastia swelling from abuse. "Remember Samantha? She's comin' back." He untied me, leaving marks. Backstory flooded: not just freshman, but a middle school sleepover where cousins dressed me up—first "Samantha" seeds.
May heated up with Torment Eight: the Sauna Steam-Twist. The school gym had a rarely used sauna; Tyresse locked us in during "maintenance." Stripped to towels, steam thick, he forced me onto the bench, his sweaty bulk beside me. "Heat makes 'em sensitive, right?" He poured water on the rocks, steam billowing, then attacked—twisting my nipples in the humid hell, the heat amplifying every pinch like fire. Sweat dripped from his gut onto my chest; I gasped, body slick, my tits reddening. "Tell me a story, pussy—about how Samantha loves big men." I mumbled nonsense; he laughed, his own bulge tenting. It lasted until I nearly passed out, escalating the intimate torture.
June approached, finals looming, Torment Nine: the Study Hall Story-Tease. In a "study group" he forced, library corner, he made me sit close, his thigh pressing mine. No physical yet—but verbal. "Listen up, Sammy." He whispered dirty stories—about "big black dudes railing white bitches," graphic details of cocks stretching pussies, tits bouncing. My nipples hardened just from words, gynecomastia betraying me under my shirt. He noticed, flicking one. "Gettin' hard? Good girl." The tease built anticipation, linking pain to arousal.
Prom week, Torment Ten: the Pre-Finale Prank. He stole a cheerleader uniform—short skirt, tight top—from the locker room, shoving it in my backpack. "Wear it soon, Samantha." In the halls, he "accidentally" spilled paint on my clothes, forcing a quick change in the bathroom—partial dress-up, top stretching over my tits, nipples tenting the fabric. Paraded briefly, humiliated.
All led to the boiler room finale, June graduation eve. School empty, he texted: "Boiler room. Now. Or everyone sees pics." I went, heart pounding. Dark, hot, machines humming. Tyresse waited, uniform in hand. "Strip, Samantha." I did, trembling, my gynecomastia on full display—swollen from months of abuse, nipples erect in fear. He dressed me: skirt barely covering my ass, top tight on my tits, pom-poms in hands. "Cheer for me." I did awkward cheers, jiggling. Then, sat me on his lap, his bulge hard against my ass, hand wrapping my dick—small, hard now. "Time for stories." He stroked slowly, whispering filth: "Once, a big nigga like me found a white sissy with tits... fucked her mouth while she cried..." Graphic—cocks throbbing, pussies creaming, asses stretched. I came shamefully, moaning as "Samantha." Not the first, but the worst. Graduated next day, but scarred forever.
