Chapter 11: Conflicted Pleasure
The pills were cold lead in his gut. Evelynii’s stiletto nudged his head down again, the sharp point digging into his scalp. "Lick, Joshie," she commanded, the phone’s light blinding him. "Clean Mommy’s good boy." The sticky mess on his belly – milk, tears, his own bitter cum – smelled cloying and shameful. A primal revulsion warred with the terrifying, hollow ache deep within his swollen, leaking breasts. Feed, the ache seemed to pulse. Feed the hunger. His tongue, against his will, darted out. It touched the cooling pool. Sweet milk. Salty semen. The taste was abhorrent. Yet, as his tongue lapped weakly, tracing the curve of his own soft belly, a sickening warmth bloomed in his groin. His cock, spent moments ago, gave a feeble twitch. Evelynii’s delighted squeal pierced his skull. "He loves it! See? He loves his own mess!" The phone buzzed with notifications. He kept licking, tears mixing with the filth, the ache in his chest momentarily soothed by each humiliating swallow. Darkness swallowed him mid-lick, the taste still thick on his tongue.
He woke gasping, tangled in sweaty sheets. His room. Faded blue walls plastered with peeling band posters. Cluttered desk overflowing with tech junk and empty energy drink cans. Sanctuary. It felt alien. The dream… the memory… Derek’s cold eyes, the violating stretch of the dildo, Evelynii’s mocking praise… it clung like a rancid film. But beneath it, deeper, was the locker room dream. Brett’s grunts. The sting of the bench. Evelynii’s high-pitched cheer. Real? It felt real. More real than the band posters he suddenly couldn’t name.
He sat up. The movement sent a heavy, familiar sway through his upper body. He looked down. Beneath his old, stretched-thin Nirvana tee, the distinct outline of full, round breasts pushed against the fabric. D-cups. Maybe bigger now. His nipples were hard peaks, sensitive even through the cotton. They felt heavy, full. Ache. The deep, empty ache was back, radiating from his core to the tips. He pressed a hand to one. Fuck. It was hot. Swollen. He could feel the dense tissue, the taut skin. Milk? He remembered the spray. The taste. His cock hardened instantly, thick and demanding against the worn fabric of his boxers.
"No," he whispered, the word raw. "Not again. Stop." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to summon the image of his old self. Flat chest. Lean muscle. The guy who dated… who had he dated? Sarah? Jen? The names dissolved like smoke. All he saw was Evelynii’s pouty, glossy lips saying ‘Bimbo Boy’. All he felt was the phantom grip of Brett’s hands on his hips. His own hand moved. He couldn’t stop it. It slid under the t-shirt, fingers seeking the hot, heavy flesh of his left breast. His thumb found the stiff nipple. A jolt of pure, electric sensation shot straight to his groin. He gasped, arching his back. His cock pulsed, leaking pre-cum into his boxers.
"Fuck," he hissed, shame burning his face. But his fingers didn’t stop. They kneaded the pliant flesh, circling the areola, pinching the rigid nipple. It felt… necessary. Like scratching an unbearable itch deep inside. Images bombarded him. The locker room bench, cold and hard against his cheek. The smell of sweat and cheap cologne. Brett’s thick cock, slamming into him. The impossible, mortifying bounce of his own smaller, but undeniably there, breasts with each thrust. Evelynii, younger but already sharp with that vacant, hungry look, chanting “Take it, Joshie! Take that big cock! Make those little titties bounce for us!”
His other hand yanked his boxers down. His cock sprang free, glistening. He gripped it hard, too hard, pumping with rough, desperate strokes. He focused on the image in his head: Brett, huge and sweaty, fucking him doggystyle. His own reflection in a locker door – flushed face, eyes wide with shock and something else, lips parted, small but pert breasts jiggling frantically. Evelynii clapping.
"I'm not a fag," he choked out, the denial a ragged sob torn from his throat. His fist pistoned on his cock. "I'm not, I'm not, I'm NOT!" But his other hand mauled his breast, fingers twisting the nipple, sending waves of perverse pleasure-pain crashing through him. The ache deepened, a demanding void. He imagined Brett’s big hands groping those bouncing tits, squeezing milk from them. He saw Derek’s clinical eyes assessing his swollen flesh. "Fuck you! Fuck all of you!" he screamed at the empty room.
His orgasm hit like a train wreck. Violent, convulsive. "Nnnggghhhh! FUCK!" Thick ropes of cum erupted, splattering hot and sticky across his heaving chest, over the breast his hand was still viciously kneading. White streaks painted the stretched Nirvana logo, glistened on the swollen curve of flesh. The spasms ripped through him, forcing thin streams of milk to spray from both nipples, mixing with the semen, dripping onto his trembling thighs and the tangled sheets. He collapsed back, panting, slick with sweat, milk, and cum. Utterly spent. Broken. The phrase ‘good little cocksucker’ echoed in the silence. He sobbed, the sound muffled by the pillow. "Not a fag... not..."
Exhaustion pulled him under before the tears dried. The dream didn’t wait. It slammed into him, vivid, visceral, rewriting the past with brutal clarity.
The locker room air was thick with steam, cheap body spray, and adolescent sweat. Josh was bent bare-assed over a cold, slatted wooden bench, his cheek pressed against the damp wood. He was sixteen. His chest wasn't flat. Two small, firm mounds, maybe A-cups, jutted out, their pink nipples hard pebbles in the humid air. They bounced visibly with each frantic breath he took.
Behind him, Brett "The Hammer" Henderson, star linebacker, massive thighs straining, pounded into him. Brett’s thick, uncut cock pistoned in and out of Josh’s tight hole with wet, slapping sounds. It burned, stretched him impossibly wide. "Fuck yeah, slut," Brett grunted, his voice thick with exertion and cheap beer. He slammed his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, making Josh cry out, his small breasts jiggling violently. "Take that dick, titty-boy. Bet your little tits love it."
They did. That was the horrifying part. The friction, the stretch, the sheer dominance – it sent waves of traitorous heat through his core, making his own cock, trapped beneath him against the bench, throb painfully. Milk, thin and sweet, beaded at the tips of his nipples.
"Look at him go, Brett!" Evelynii squealed from beside them. She wasn’t the flat-chested best friend anymore. Even at sixteen in this rewritten memory, she had exaggerated, high-set C-cups straining against a tiny pink crop top, glossy lips, heavy eye makeup. She held her phone up, filming. "Get a close-up of his tits bouncing! Oh my god, they’re leaking! So hot!" She zoomed in on Josh’s jiggling breasts, the droplets of milk catching the fluorescent light.
"E-Evie… stop…" Josh whimpered, the plea muffled against the bench. Another brutal thrust stole his breath.
"Shut the fuck up, tit-fag," Brett snarled, grabbing a handful of Josh’s hair and yanking his head back. "You love this. Look at your fuckin' nips." He reached around with his other hand, thick fingers roughly pinching Josh’s left nipple and twisting. Josh screamed, a high-pitched sound of pain and shocking, overwhelming pleasure. His cock jerked, spilling pre-cum onto the bench. Milk squirted in a thin arc from the tortured nipple. "See? Fuckin' slut-milker." Brett laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. "Bet you wanna suck me off after I fill your faggy ass, don't ya?"
"Y-yes, Brett," Josh heard himself moan, the words pouring out in a voice he didn’t recognize – higher, breathier. "Please… let me suck it… milk it…" The humiliation was molten lava, yet the need was undeniable. The ache in his breasts screamed for more. For Brett’s mouth. For his cum.
Brett roared, slamming into him with renewed fury. "Gonna pump you so full you leak out both fuckin' holes, tit-boy!" Evelynii’s laughter and the wet, rhythmic slapping filled Josh’s world as the dream memory surged towards its violent, degrading climax. He woke just before the release, bolting upright in his own bed, his breath ragged gasps, his body slick with cold sweat.
His hand flew to his chest. They felt larger. Fuller. Hotter. The milk-ache was a deep throb. He looked down. His cum from earlier was drying in sticky streaks across skin that seemed softer, paler. The faintest shimmer of moisture, not sweat, glistened on the dark pink areolas of his now undeniably larger breasts. The Nirvana tee was stretched even tighter. The poster of the band on the wall seemed faded, irrelevant. The memory of the locker room bench, Brett’s cock, Evelynii’s gleeful filming… it wasn’t a dream. It felt like yesterday. A shudder wracked him. He pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around his changed body, rocking slightly. The silent room offered no answers, only the insistent, terrifying thrum of the hunger deep within his swollen flesh. What was left of Josh was drowning.