Chapter 20: Nocturnal Visits
The sticky warmth between his legs had cooled into a clammy mess. Josh peeled his face from the pillow, the scent of bleach and childhood dust thick in his nostrils. The pulsing neon and Evelynii’s cloying perfume were gone, replaced by the familiar dimness of his old room. Posters of faded rock bands and a dinosaur chart blurred on the walls. His small, threadbare teddy bear, Mr. Snuffles, lay slumped against the headboard, one button eye staring blankly.
He pushed himself up, wincing. His chest felt… enormous. Heavy. Like two sacks of warm water sloshing against his ribcage. He looked down. The faded band t-shirt he’d fallen asleep in was stretched obscenely tight. It wasn't muscle. It was round, soft flesh, pushing the worn cotton to its limits, the fabric straining over distinct, jutting nipples that felt hypersensitive. He remembered Evelynii’s sticky finger tracing their outline. Remembered the humiliating climax she’d wrung from him. Remembered… something else? A phantom taste of cheap protein powder? Mike’s tear-streaked face? His father’s buttons popping?
He lifted his hands, trembling. They hovered over the swollen mounds beneath his shirt. The sheer weight was terrifying. He pressed tentatively. The flesh gave deeply, soft and yielding, yet dense. A jolt of sharp sensation shot from his nipple straight to his groin. He gasped, snatching his hands away. What is happening to me?
The ache was constant now, a deep, insistent throb. He swung his legs off the bed, the movement causing his chest to wobble heavily. He stood, feeling off-balance, the new center of gravity pulling him forward slightly. He shuffled towards the small en suite bathroom attached to his childhood room, the cool linoleum gritty under his bare feet. He needed to see. Needed to know how bad it was.
The overhead light flickered on, harsh and unforgiving. Josh stood before the mirror over the sink. He didn’t recognize the reflection. The face was his, pale and shadowed with exhaustion, but below the neck… He lifted the hem of the t-shirt slowly, the fabric dragging over his sensitized skin.
They were huge. Easily D-cups, maybe larger. Pale, veined globes hanging heavily from his chest. His nipples were dark pink, swollen and puffy, standing out prominently. They looked… used. The sight made him feel queasy, yet a traitorous thrum of heat pulsed low in his belly. He stared, transfixed by the sheer wrongness of it. His hands rose again, compelled, tracing the heavy curves. The skin was smooth, hot. The pressure of his own fingers sent conflicting signals – discomfort and a strange, unwanted echo of pleasure. He squeezed one experimentally. It felt impossibly full. Soft yet firm. His breath hitched.
Pop.
The sound wasn't loud, but it echoed in the tiled room. A tiny bead of milky white fluid welled up from the tip of his right nipple. Josh watched in frozen horror as it swelled, trembled, then slowly rolled down the curve of his breast, leaving a faint, glistening trail on his skin. No. Panic clawed at his throat. Milk? His? The absurdity warred with the visceral terror. He pressed a finger to the leaking nipple, trying to stem the flow. It was warm. The touch sent another jolt through him, sharp and electric. A second droplet formed beside his finger.
He stumbled back from the mirror, letting his shirt fall, hiding the obscene sight. He leaned against the cold bathroom door, breathing hard. The scent of his own milk, faintly sweet and cloying, mixed with the dusty air. His head swam. Evelynii was a nightmare, but this… this was real. Anchored in his childhood bathroom. His body. Betraying him utterly.
He needed air. Needed to escape the claustrophobia of the room, the sight, the smell. He fumbled with the bedroom door handle, his fingers clumsy. The hallway outside was dark, silent. The house slept. He padded towards the kitchen, drawn by the memory of cold water. Maybe it would shock him awake. Maybe this was still some twisted extension of the dream.
The kitchen tiles were icy. He filled a glass at the sink, the tap gurgling loudly in the stillness. He gulped the water, spilling some down his chin, wetting the neckline of his stretched shirt. It felt cold against his flushed skin. He set the glass down too hard, the clatter making him jump.
Click.
The kitchen light snapped on. Josh froze, heart hammering against his ribs. He turned slowly.
Aunt Lydia stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light. She wore a flimsy silk robe, loosely tied. It gaped open, revealing the vast expanse of her bare breasts – enormous, heavy, veined melons that hung low on her torso, swaying slightly with her breath. Her nipples were large and dark, already stiffened. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and possessive, locked onto him. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face.
"Well, well," she murmured, her voice a low, throaty purr that cut through the silence. "Look what the cat dragged in. Up late, little nephew?" She took a step inside, the robe parting further. The scent of her – warm skin, musky perfume, something faintly sour beneath – filled the small space. "Couldn't sleep? Feeling… restless?"
Josh backed up until his hips hit the edge of the counter. "Aunt Lydia… I… I was just getting water." His voice sounded thin, reedy.
"Oh, I know that feeling," she said, moving closer. Her breasts swayed hypnotically. "Hot nights. Strange dreams. Things… stirring." Her gaze dropped pointedly to his chest, where the wet t-shirt clung, clearly outlining the swollen mounds beneath. Her smile widened. "My, my. Look at you. Blossoming." She reached out a plump hand, fingers brushing the damp cotton over his left nipple. He flinched violently, a whimper escaping him. The touch burned. "Sensitive, huh? Poor baby." Her hand slid down his side, settling possessively on his hip. "Just like your cousin Mikey used to get. Remember Mikey, Joshie?"
Mikey. The name was a jolt. Images flashed: a football jersey stretched tight over burgeoning curves, tears in the locker room, humiliation. But the memory was slippery, fading even as he grasped for it. Evelynii’s voice seemed to whisper beneath Aunt Lydia’s: You wanted him ruined.
"Mikey…" Josh mumbled, confusion clouding his eyes.
"He needed help too," Lydia breathed, stepping into his space. Her massive breasts pressed against his own swollen chest, the heat radiating from her soft flesh intense. The weight was suffocating. "Needed Auntie to… soothe him. Just like I’m gonna soothe you." Her other hand came up, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look into her eyes. They held a predatory gleam. "You’re looking a little tense, Josh. All knotted up. Auntie can fix that."
Before he could react, she shoved him hard. He stumbled backwards, his ass hitting the kitchen table. Dishes rattled. She was on him instantly, her bulk pinning him against the wooden edge. One massive breast swung forward, pressing against his mouth, hot skin and the salty tang of her sweat filling his nostrils. He tried to turn his head, sputter, but she clamped her hand behind his head, forcing his face into the yielding flesh.
"Mmph! Aunt Lydia! St-stop!" His protests were muffled, drowned by her breast. It was soft, suffocating. He could barely breathe. The heavy scent of her skin overwhelmed him. He felt her other hand yank at the waistband of his pajama pants.
"Shhhh, shhh, good boy," she crooned, her voice vibrating through the flesh smothering his face. "Just relax for Auntie. Let Auntie make it better. You’re so pent up. I can feel it." Her fingers found his cock. It was already half-hard, a treacherous response to the terrifying intimacy, the overwhelming sensations. She wrapped her hand around it. Her grip was strong, practiced. "Oh, yes," she hissed. "There he is. Needy little thing." She started to stroke, rough and demanding, her thumb grinding against the sensitive head already slick with precum. "Just like Mikey. So desperate. So easy."
Josh writhed, trapped. The heat of her body, the crushing softness against his face, the relentless friction on his cock – it was a sensory overload. Shame warred with the unwanted pleasure coiling tighter in his gut. He could feel her nipple, hard as a pebble, pressing near his eye. He tried to buck her off, but she just pressed harder, her weight pinning his hips, her hand working him with ruthless efficiency. Her breath came in hot gusts against the top of his head.
"Good boys don't fight Auntie," she whispered, her voice thick with lust. "Good boys let Auntie drain that nasty tension right out. Good boys cum for Auntie's tits." Her strokes became faster, harder, almost painful. Her fingers squeezed the base of his cock tightly. "That's it. Feel it building? Feel that hot pressure? Gonna let it go for me? Gonna paint Auntie's fingers with your sticky cream?"
He couldn't stop it. The pressure was volcanic, fueled by terror, violation, and the brutal stimulation. He arched his back, a strangled cry escaping around the flesh plugging his mouth. His cock pulsed violently in her fist, thick jets of cum spurting out, splattering her hand, his stomach, the leg of his pajama pants trapped around his thighs. Tremors wracked him, a mixture of agonizing release and soul-crushing humiliation. Aunt Lydia milked him through it, her grip unrelenting until he sagged, limp and gasping, against the table.
She finally released his head. He sucked in a ragged breath, the cool air stinging his spit-slick face. She pulled her hand away, examining the glistening spend coating her fingers. She brought them to her lips slowly, her eyes locked on his, and deliberately licked them clean, a slow, obscene drag of her tongue. "Mmm," she hummed. "Sweet. Just like Mikey’s."
She stepped back, retying her robe loosely, her breasts still threatening to spill free. She looked down at him, sprawled and trembling on the table, his own swollen chest heaving, the wet patch on his shirt clinging obscenely. Her smile was triumphant, possessive. "Feel better now, Joshie-boy? Auntie always knows how to take care of her special nephews." She reached out and gave one of his swollen breasts a rough, proprietary squeeze, making him cry out. "You just keep growing those pretty titties, darling. We’re gonna have so much more fun." She winked, a grotesque parody of affection, and turned, her heavy footsteps padding softly back down the dark hallway.
Josh lay there, shivering in the aftermath. The smell of sex and her musk hung thick in the air, mixed with the faint, sweet scent of his own milk, which had started leaking again, warm trails trickling down his sides beneath the ruined shirt. Mr. Snuffles’ single button eye seemed to stare accusingly from the bedroom doorway. He tried to grasp the memory of Mike, of his father, of Evelynii, but they were dissolving like smoke, replaced by the searing imprint of Aunt Lydia’s crushing weight, her demanding hand, and the terrifying, heavy reality of the breasts straining against his own chest. The ache was deeper now. Settled. Familiar. The question What is happening? was fading, replaced by a numb dread of what came next, and the chilling certainty that Aunt Lydia wasn't finished with him. Not by a long shot. He touched his leaking nipple, the touch sending another unwanted shiver through his exhausted body. He was changing. And the memories of who he used to be were vanishing faster than the drying streaks on his skin.