A brassiere – more a harness than a bra. Fetish ware surely, but not of a kind that I recognized. Knowing the rules, I squeezed into it, twisting...it around and mashing my breasts until I recognized how this was to be worn. Shimmying about, eventually I pulled first one, and then the other, breast through the openings – not so much designed to lift (in fact, it provided no lift whatsoever) as to restrain the chest but accentuated the breasts. My hoops, one in each nipple, were already. At his insistence she completed an easy lope round the oval as a warm-up, the dog at her heels, smiling with her, barely breathing. A few stretches and they were called to the marshalling area. She hugged her partner and left, nerves jangling.Over to the truck at the east first, where the young bloke insisted she wear the specific top for the race. An ugly navy hessian sack of a thing. "What size, love?" Ten."He searched through the jumbled tangle of shirts and produced a size twenty-four."You. More

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