Party for the Girls!

I took the Girls in for a photo shoot. A naked photo shoot. They weren't too excited about it, given it involved smashing them between two metal plates, twice each. Poor Girls. I guess we had as much fun with it as we could, but there's a reason my gyn has to threaten to take away my hormones before I'll make a mammography appointment. As breast-smashings go, this wasn't the worst I've experienced. In fact, if the Girls had enjoyed themselves more, it could almost have been a party.

The scene is set in a small torture dungeon mammography lab in a military hospital near me. I have been issued and, after removing everything from the waist up, I have donned the requisite front-opening cotton gown.

Not my nipple.*

Sarg: (tearing a couple of tiny pieces of paper from a larger roll) Here. Stick these on your nipples. The party doesn't start until you put on your pasties.
Me: (sticking two little metal bumps on each of my nipples) These are cute. If I'd known we were having a party, I would have brought some chips and dip.
Sarg: As long as you're wearing your pasties, nobody cares about chips.
Me: True that. But I'd rather wear tassels. Do you have any red ones? With feathers, if you have them. I really like feathers.
Sarg: Sorry. I'd prefer tassles too, but the radiologist likes plain pasties and he's paying for the party. Here, cozy up to the machine.
Me: What's a party without a machine, right?
Sarg: Every party needs one. Sorry. My hands are going to be cold.

I cozy up and she slips my breast onto the bottom plate of the ACME breast smasher. Her hands are indeed cold.

Me: Doesn't the Air Force provide any wine or beer for this party?
Sarg: They should give us champagne, but so far I haven't been able to talk them into it. I'm going to get as much of your tissue in here as I can. (She pulls my back muscles to the front, skin and all, and lowers the top plate to hold it all into place. She then runs behind a screen....I assume this is so I won't grab her hair and force her to let me out of her sadistic vice.)
Me: (letting out my breath as she raises the plate.) That definitely deserves more than a pair of pasties.
Sarg: I tried to get liquor-filled chocolates in here, but I guess they were afraid I would eat them all.
Me: I'd come in and party with you more often if you had booze and chocolate. The Air Force really doesn't know how to throw a good party.
Sarg: (turning her attention to the torture of my left breast) You look great in those pasties though. That's a good start.
Me: (looking down at my girl, smashed into a 25-inch diameter circle, roughly 1/2" thick.) Yeah, I'm the life of the party. You'd better run further than that little booth if my breast looks like that when it comes out of the machine. I stopped crossing my eyes for that very reason.
Sarg: (running behind the screen again.) That's why I wish I could give you champagne. But really, I only need to run if I let you out of the machine.
Me: Good point. I am your captive audience in pasties. Just so you know, I expect my pasties to point out proudly, not down toward the ground, when I leave here today.
Sarg:  Done with this set. Now we get to party standing up.
Me:  That usually only happens when the dance floor gets crowded.....
Sarg: Here, let me get as much of your back fat up to the front and into this machine as I can. Yes, you'll have stretch marks on your back when you're done, but it's better than getting cancer and not knowing it. Wrap your arm around this bar and make sure this metal corner is stuck as far into your armpit as it will go without puncturing a lung.
Sarg: This is probably going to be a little uncomfortable.
Me: I'll bet somebody could invent a more comfortable way to do this if men had to get their dangly parts smashed into this machine.
Sarg: I had to give a "special" mammogram to a man once as a favor to one of the radiologists.
Me: I wish I could have seen that....if it was the part I imagine it was. I don't suppose he had to wear a pastie....
Sarg: It was that part. I just tried not to look.
Me: He's probably in his garage right now, inventing a new machine that will still require a woman to wear pasties, but won't mutilate the Girls....or the little guy, in his case.
Sarg: OK, party's over. You can keep the pasties as a souvenir.
Me: I'll wear them every time I go out dancing. I wonder if they'll go through a metal detector.
Sarg: You go to parties that have metal detectors?
Me: And machines. Don't even try to imagine. See ya next year.

*Nipple/pastie photos available only on the Reticulated Porn premium blogsite, a bargain at only $39.95/month.