Chapter 6: Bimbo Binge
The cold linoleum bit into Josh’s bare feet. Midnight. The fridge hummed like a trapped insect, its stark white light cutting a square out of the kitchen’s darkness. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air, the crumbs scattered near the sink, and Josh himself, hunched over the open freezer door.
He didn’t remember walking here. One moment he’d been staring at the ceiling in his sweat-soaked bed, the phantom scent of his father’s sickly perfume mingling with the ever-present Bust Max musk in his nostrils, the image of those massive silicone breasts strapped to hairy flesh burned onto his retinas. The next, he was here, rummaging.
His hand closed around the cold, waxy cardboard of a tub. Chocolate fudge swirl. He didn’t hesitate. The plastic lid peeled back with a brittle snap. He plunged a large serving spoon deep into the dense, frozen cream. It resisted, then yielded with a thick thunk. He didn’t bother with a bowl. He lifted the spoon, a heavy, glistening mound balanced precariously. It was too much. He leaned forward, opened his mouth wide, and shoved it in.
Cold shock. Then overwhelming sweetness. Thick, rich, cloying. He didn’t taste it, not really. He consumed it. Greedily, messily. Ice cream smeared across his chin, dripped onto the worn fabric of his thin t-shirt. He took another scoop, even bigger. Shoved it in. Chewed with frantic, open-mouthed urgency. Swallowed hard, the cold lump sliding down his throat like a stone.
His body felt alien. Bloated. His t-shirt stretched tight across a belly that wasn’t flat anymore. It was a soft, slack curve, pushing against the waistband of his sweatpants. And resting on top of this new softness, pressing into the fabric, were the weights. His breasts. The left, swollen and heavy since the incident at Dad's, throbbed dully. The right, catching up, felt fuller, hotter than usual tonight. They sat high on his chest, heavy C-cups now, their rounded, undeniable shapes prominent even under the loose shirt. The tips were hard little points against the cotton. He could feel the weight pulling, the constant, low ache a counterpoint to the frantic cold sweetness filling his gut.
Scoop. Shove. Chew. Swallow. The rhythm was hypnotic. Punishing. He needed the fullness. The distraction. Anything to drown out the images: the silicone curves, the rage on his father’s face, his own shameful climax splattered on the carpet. The utter confusion about who he was, what his body was becoming.
As he plunged the spoon in for another mountain of ice cream, a wave of dizziness hit him. Not nausea. A cognitive lurch. The white light of the fridge blurred. The hum deepened, distorted.
He wasn’t standing in his kitchen. He was sitting at a plastic kiddie table. Sunlight streamed through a window. Birthday decorations? Streamers. The smell wasn't ice cream… it was sugar. Pure, overwhelming sugar. Frosting. Pink frosting.
A small hand, sticky with the stuff, held a plastic spoon heaped high with lurid pink goo. Evelynii’s hand. She was maybe seven, pigtails bouncing, her eyes wide with malicious glee. Her own chest was flat, of course, a child’s. But her grin… it held a disturbing, adult knowingness.
"Open wide, Joshie!" she chirped, her voice high and bright, yet underneath, a dark current hummed. "Big bite! You gotta get big."
He saw himself, small Josh, maybe six. Chubby cheeks flushed. His mouth opened obediently, eyes fixed on the pink mountain on the spoon. Not with childish delight, but with a strange, slack-jawed hunger. He leaned forward.
"Good boy," Evelynii crooned, shoving the spoonful past his lips. The frosting was sickly sweet, greasy, coating his tongue, his teeth. He gagged slightly but swallowed thickly. "So greedy," she giggled, a sound like breaking glass. "Gonna make you so fat and juicy, Joshie. So soft and big."
She scooped another obscene glob from a bowl shaped like a cartoon character. "Look at you," she whispered, leaning closer, her breath smelling like candy. "Already getting little titties. Feel 'em."
Small Josh’s hands, sticky with frosting, lifted from the table. Not to push her away. They rose slowly, trembling, and cupped his own bare chest. Even at six, beneath the baby fat, there was a distinct, soft swelling. Puffy nipples on small mounds of flesh. He moaned softly around the mouthful of frosting, a sound of confused pleasure, his small fingers kneading the tender buds.
"See?" Evelynii breathed, her eyes glowing with triumph. "They want to grow. They need it. More frosting, fatty. Grow those tits nice and fat for me." She shoved another spoonful into his waiting mouth.
THUNK.
The sound of the spoon hitting the bottom of the near-empty ice cream tub jerked Josh back. He gasped, cold air scraping his throat. He was slumped against the open fridge door, the white light blinding. His free hand wasn’t cupping a child’s chest. It was buried under his adult t-shirt, fingers roughly kneading his own swollen left breast, pinching the hard, aching nipple. His other hand still clutched the spoon, sticky with melted chocolate.
The memory – was it a memory? – clung like the frosting taste he could still almost feel. It felt horrifyingly real. The sticky sweetness, Evelynii’s predatory glee, the sensation of his own small hands on his… his breasts.
Panic, sharp and hot, sliced through the sugar haze. He looked down. His sweatpants were tented obscenely. The sight of his father’s harnessed breasts, the visceral shock, the shame, it had morphed into this twisted need. His cock was rock hard, straining against the fabric, responding to the phantom feel of Evelynii’s hands, her voice, the forced feeding, the image of his own small, developing chest.
"No," he whispered, voice thick with ice cream and horror. "Not real. Wasn’t real." But the ache in his tits was real. The bloated fullness in his belly was real. The desperate, shameful erection was painfully real.
He dropped the spoon. It clattered onto the linoleum, scattering chocolate drops. His hand, the one that had been mauling his breast, slid down his swollen belly. It dipped under the elastic waistband of his sweatpants. His fingers, clumsy and urgent, found his cock. Hot, hard, slick with pre-cum. He groaned, a sound torn between disgust and unbearable need.
He leaned his forehead against the cold fridge door, its hum vibrating through his skull. His other hand slid back under his shirt, fingers circling the swollen areola of his left breast, pinching the nipple hard. The pain-pleasure shot straight to his groin. He started jerking himself, rough, fast strokes, his hips thrusting mindlessly against the fridge door.
The images collided: Evelynii’s childhood face twisted in that knowing grin, the pink frosting glistening on the spoon. "Grow those tits nice and fat for me." His father’s hairy chest straining against the silicone curves. The sheer, impossible weight of them. His own reflection earlier, one breast swollen beyond the other. Increase my bust.
"Oh fuck… fuck…" he panted, spit and melted ice cream slick on his chin. His strokes became brutal. He pictured Evelynii’s small hand, sticky-sweet, not feeding him, but reaching under his shirt now, grabbing his adult breast, squeezing hard, commanding it to swell. Pictured her other hand wrapping around his cock, jerking him with that same malicious glee. "Make it grow…" he gasped, lost in the horrific fantasy. "Fucking… make me fat… make ‘em huge… yeah… Evelynii…"
He came with a strangled cry, back arching away from the fridge. Hot jets of cum spurted over his fingers, splashing onto the cold linoleum, mixing with the spilled ice cream. He shuddered violently, gasping, his legs trembling. The kitchen was silent except for his ragged breathing and the fridge’s relentless hum.
Slowly, trembling, he pulled his sticky hand from his pants. He looked down at the mess on the floor. Semen. Melted chocolate ice cream. He looked at his hand, glistening. He lifted it, trembling, and touched his lips. Salt. Bitter.
He slid down the fridge door, collapsing onto the floor amidst the mess. The cold seeped through his sweatpants. He pulled his knees up, resting his head on them. His breasts, heavy and sore, pressed against his thighs. His belly, stretched full of ice cream, cramped slightly.
The phantom taste of birthday frosting was gone. Only the cloying ghost of chocolate remained. But the memory… the feeling of Evelynii shoving that spoon into his mouth, the feel of his own small, chubby fingers on those nascent buds… it sat in his mind, solid and undeniable. More real, in that moment, than anything else. He traced the outline of his left breast through the thin shirt. The shape felt familiar under his touch. Too familiar. Like his fingers remembered a path they’d traced long before tonight. The realization was a cold blade sliding between his ribs.
The cold blade twisted. He couldn't shake the vividness: Evelynii’s sticky fingers, the greasy frosting, the terrifyingly familiar shape of those nascent mounds beneath his own small hands. It felt less like memory, more like… revelation. A truth buried deep, violently unearthed. His adult fingers, sticky with ice cream and drying cum, still traced the swollen curve of his left breast through the thin cotton. The ache pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a constant, heavy reminder.
"Wasn't real," he whispered again, the words tasting like lies on his tongue. But his body remembered the phantom sweetness, the pressure of the spoon. The way his child-self moaned. Groaning, he pushed himself up from the sticky floor, his movements sluggish, hampered by the unfamiliar weight dragging his center of gravity forward. His sweatpants clung damply.
The mess on the linoleum – semen mixing with melted chocolate – shimmered obscenely in the fridge light. Shame washed over him, hot and prickling, but it was instantly drowned by a deeper, gnawing need. He felt hollow despite the bloated fullness in his gut. Empty where it mattered. He needed… confirmation. Proof of what was happening to him, proof that the impossible weight on his chest wasn't just some shared delusion. He needed to be seen.
The doorbell rang. The harsh electronic buzz jolted through the silent kitchen like an electric shock. Midnight? His heart hammered against his ribs. He fumbled for his phone, the screen blinding him. A delivery notification blinked: Order Delivered: 2x Large Pepperoni, Soda. He hadn't ordered pizza. He never ordered pizza. Yet the notification was plain as day. Did he? The haze of ice cream and disturbing memories clouded everything. Had he sleep-ordered? Was this part of the… rewriting?
Lurching towards the front door, he adjusted his t-shirt, pulling it down over the distinct swell of his chest. It felt futile. The fabric stretched taut. He peered through the peephole. A young guy, maybe nineteen, stood under the porch light holding two pizza boxes, looking bored and vaguely irritated. Josh hesitated. The ache in his breasts intensified, a deep, demanding throb. See me.
He unlocked the door, cracking it open. The cool night air hit his face. "Uh, Josh?" the guy mumbled, barely looking up from his phone. "Forty-two fifty."
"Yeah," Josh rasped, his voice thick. He didn’t move to get money. He stood there, the dim light from the hallway spilling onto his frame. The guy finally glanced up, his bored expression flickering. His eyes snagged instantly, not on Josh’s face, but lower. They widened slightly, lingered on the unmistakable contours pushing against the thin shirt. Josh saw the confusion, then the dawning, uncomfortable recognition. The guy’s gaze snapped back to Josh’s face, then darted down again, disbelief warring with something else. Interest? Josh’s cock twitched traitorously in his damp sweatpants.
"Uh… payment?" the guy prompted, shifting his weight.
Josh didn't care about the pizza. He needed this stranger’s eyes on him. Needed the validation in that stunned look. Keeping the door mostly closed, obscuring his lower body, he deliberately leaned forward slightly, letting the porch light catch the full curve of his chest. "Sorry," he said, the word meaningless. "Forgot my wallet. Back pocket."
He turned slightly, presenting his hip. He saw the driver’s gaze track the movement, drawn inexorably back to the swell beneath the shirt. Josh reached back, his hand patting the seat of his sweatpants. It was a clumsy, obvious gesture. The driver’s breath hitched audibly. His eyes weren’t on the pocket. They were locked onto Josh’s chest. The silence stretched, thick with tension and the smell of hot cheese and pepperoni.
"The fuck you got under there?" the driver finally blurted, his voice husky. He took an involuntary half-step closer, one hand still clutching the pizza boxes, the other hanging loose at his side. "Those… real?" He didn't sound disgusted. He sounded fascinated. Hungry.
Before Josh could answer, couldn't even form words, the driver’s free hand shot out. Not for payment. His rough fingers grazed the thin cotton covering Josh’s left breast. Josh gasped, a sharp intake of breath. The driver didn’t stop. He palmed the swollen flesh roughly, his fingers digging in, seeking the shape beneath the fabric. The ache flared into a sharp, electric jolt of sensation that shot straight to Josh’s groin.
"Jesus," the driver breathed, squeezing hard. His thumb found Josh’s nipple through the shirt, rubbing it into a stiff peak. "Fucking hell. They are real." He dropped the pizza boxes onto the porch with a thud. They landed askew, ignored. His other hand joined the first, both now groping Josh’s chest through the thin material, kneading the heavy flesh, thumbs circling and pinching the hardened nubs. "Big fuckers. Feeling heavy?" The guy’s voice was thick with arousal now, his own crotch visibly stirring in his delivery uniform pants.
Josh moaned, the sound ripped from deep inside him. It wasn't pleasure, not pure pleasure. It was relief mixed with a sickening rush of shame and desire. Being touched, acknowledged, confirmed. His body responded violently. His cock strained painfully against the fabric of his sweatpants, leaking pre-cum. He arched his back instinctively, pushing his breasts more firmly into the stranger’s rough hands. "Y-yeah," he choked out. "Heavy."
"Fuckin' A," the driver muttered, his gaze raking over Josh’s face, then back down to his chest. He pushed forward, forcing Josh back into the dim hallway. The door swung shut behind them with a soft click. The driver kicked the fallen pizza boxes aside with his foot, his hands never leaving Josh’s chest. He pushed Josh roughly against the wall. Plaster bit into Josh’s back. The driver’s mouth crashed onto his, clumsy and demanding, all teeth and wet tongue. Josh tasted cheap gum and stale smoke.
The guy’s hands were relentless. He yanked Josh’s t-shirt up, bunching it under his chin, exposing the swollen, pale flesh. Josh’s breasts spilled free, heavy and round, the left slightly larger, the nipples dark and painfully erect. The driver groaned, a deep, guttural sound. "Look at those fuckin' milkers," he breathed, hot against Josh’s neck. He squeezed one, hard, making Josh cry out. "Bet they’d bounce so nice."
He dropped to his knees. His hands grabbed Josh’s ass, pulling his sweatpants and boxers down in one rough yank. Josh’s cock sprang free, thick and glistening. The driver didn’t hesitate. He took the head into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue swirling over the slit. Josh gasped, his head hitting the wall. His hands instinctively flew to his own exposed breasts, fingers digging into the soft flesh, mirroring the rough handling, the ache demanding it.
The driver sucked harder, bobbing his head, one hand pumping the base of Josh’s cock, the other reaching up to roughly knead Josh’s left breast, pinching and twisting the nipple. Josh’s world narrowed to the wet heat around his cock and the deep, painful throb radiating from his chest. He tangled one hand in the driver’s hair, not to push him away, but to force him deeper. His other hand squeezed his own breast violently. "Fuck! Like that… yeah…"
The driver pulled off with a wet pop. "Squeeze 'em," he grunted, looking up at Josh, his eyes dark. "Harder. Lemme see 'em wobble while you cum." He went back down, sucking with brutal intensity.
Josh obeyed, fingers digging deep into his own sensitive flesh, mauling his breasts, pulling at his nipples. The pain was sharp, grounding, feeding the fire in his groin. The driver’s hand worked his cock furiously, his mouth a hot, wet vise. The pressure built, unstoppable, amplified by the rough handling of his own altered body.
"Oh god… OH FUCK!" Josh roared, back arching off the wall. His hips jerked uncontrollably as his orgasm ripped through him. Hot jets of cum spurted into the driver’s mouth. The driver sucked greedily, swallowing, his fingers still punishing Josh’s nipple. Josh’s own hands were glued to his breasts, squeezing convulsively through the intense pulses of release.
Slowly, the driver pulled off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood up, his own erection obvious. He looked at Josh slumped against the wall, shirt rucked up under his chin, sweatpants around his ankles, chest heaving, breasts reddened and marked from his own fingers, cum glistening on his limp cock. The driver sneered, a mix of disgust and lingering arousal. "Freak," he muttered, shaking his head. He grabbed the door handle. "Keep the pizza." The door slammed shut behind him.
Josh slid down the wall, landing heavily on the floor next to the forgotten pizza boxes leaking grease onto the hall mat. He sat there, half-naked, his sweatpants tangled around his ankles. He looked down at his chest. His breasts felt hot, swollen, tender. The skin was flushed. Deep red marks from his own frantic fingers stood out vividly on the pale flesh. A bead of milk, thin and white, slowly welled at the tip of his left nipple and trailed down the heavy curve. He stared at it, unblinking. The cold blade in his ribs twisted deeper. He didn't even flinch when the single drop landed, warm, on his bare thigh.