Chapter 3: The Inflation Spell
The cleanup had been less about restoration and more about gruesome archaeology. They’d used old towels from the communal bathroom, sacrificed to opacity. The room now smelled of damp cotton, semen, and the lingering bite of magic. Graves stood in the center of it all, scratching notes in her leather-bound book with a chewed pencil.
“Subject demonstrates what appears to be a limitless seminal reservoir, tied directly to thaumaturgic charge. Ejaculation is less a biological function and more a pressure-release valve for excess animation energy. Fascinating.”
Victor, now clean, sat observing her. He had learned to be still, to make his massive presence small. His gaze dropped to her chest, to the black lace bra stretched taut over modest curves, still damp in one spot from a stray splash.
Graves noticed his attention. She looked down at herself, then at his lap, where his soft cock already looked like a disembodied forearm. Proportionality. The word stuck in her head, a petty, vain itch beneath the grand academic curiosity. She was a doll next to a monument.
“Okay,” she said, closing the book with a snap. “Side experiment. Transmutative augmentation. Minor corporeal adjustment. The texts say it’s temporary. A few hours, maybe.”
“Adjustment,” Victor repeated, his mismatched eyes watchful.
“Just a little symmetry,” she murmured, mostly to herself. She pulled a slim, leather-wrapped kit from under her bed. A stolen suture needle, a vial of powdered amethyst, a candle made from rendered goat fat. She lit the candle, its flame burning a sickly green. With the needle, she pricked the tip of her finger, letting a single dark bead of blood well up. She mixed it with the amethyst dust on her palm, whispering the words from the Liber Mutandis. The air in the room tightened, static lifting the fine hairs on her arms.
The warmth started in her sternum, a deep, internal blossoming. It wasn’t painful. It was a profound, full ache, like a deep breath held too long. She looked down. Her small, pert breasts began to swell against the black lace cups. The fabric strained, the delicate stitching complaining with tiny pops. The sensation was intensely focused, a rushing tidal pull of flesh and fat, magic making reality of want.
Her bra gave up. The front clasp snapped open with a sharp ping.
Graves gasped as her new breasts spilled free, heavy and full. They were easily three times their original size, heavy DD cups that swayed with their own new weight. Her nipples, a dusty rose, had darkened and hardened into tight peaks, sensitive to the cool air. She cupped them in her hands, hefting the impossible softness. They were warm, the skin stretched silky-smooth. A perfect, obscene counterpart.
“Fuck yeah,” she breathed, a grin spreading across her face. She shook her shoulders slightly, feeling the delicious, unfamiliar weight swing and bounce.
Victor stared. His cock, which had lain flaccid against his thigh, gave a distinct throb. A bead of clear pre-cum leaked from the tip. The green witch-light began to pulse gently in his lower abdomen.
“The energy feedback is immediate,” Graves noted, her voice husky. She let her hands drop, the new weight of her tits a constant, thrilling anchor. She stripped off her sticky panties, standing naked except for her fishnets and boots. The cool air kissed her wetness. She was already soaked, her cunt aching with a hollow need that her academic curiosity could no longer mask.
She knelt before him, the rough floorboards biting into her knees. “Let’s test the interface.”
She leaned forward, taking his thickening shaft in both hands. It was already half-hard, a daunting girth. She pressed her breasts together, enveloping his cock in a valley of soft, warm flesh. The contrast was staggering: her pale, yielding skin against the tough, stitched cordage of him. She spat into her cleavage, the saliva mixing with the pre-cum already smearing from his tip, creating a slick, glistening medium.
Then she began to move.
She slid her tits up and down his length, her eyes locked on the point where the broad, purple head pushed past her cleavage. The sound was obscenely wet, a rhythmic, squelching slide that echoed in the quiet room. Her nipples, dragged against the underside of his shaft, sent jolts of sharp pleasure directly to her clit. She could feel him growing harder, thicker, the green light beneath his skin intensifying, casting a sickly glow on her glistening chest.
“You like the new architecture, big guy?” she panted, her playful tone belying the raw hunger on her face.
“They are… substantial,” Victor rumbled, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. His hips began a shallow, involuntary thrust, fucking the tight channel of her breasts.
“Substantial,” she giggled, the sound breathless and wild. “Yeah. Substantial enough for this monster.”
She increased her pace, her arms and chest muscles burning. His balls, heavy in their sack, began to swell and tighten, drawing up. The feedback loop was in full effect: her arousal fed his, his magical response fed hers, a closed circuit of escalating need. The air crackled. The candle flame sputtered and leapt.
She could see his control fraying. His breaths came in sharp, gravelly grunts. The head of his cock, a slick, dark plum, emerged with each upward stroke, and she began to flick her tongue against it, tasting the bitter salt.
“Gonna blow again?” she taunted, her voice a filthy whisper. “Gonna paint these new tits, Victor? Show me what that valve can do.”
He didn’t answer with words. A deep tremor ran through him. His hand shot out, not to stop her, but to cradle the back of her head, his thick fingers tangling in her silver pigtails. It was an anchor, a claim.
The first jet took her by surprise. It wasn't the wild artillery barrage of before. It was a controlled, horizontal blast that hit her right in the throat, warm and shockingly thick. She gasped, the giggle turning into a choked sound of surprise.
The second spurt splashed across her collarbone. The third, and the fourth, painted her breasts in stripes of pearlescent white, hot and sticky as glue. It kept coming, a relentless, pulsing fountain that coated her new flesh, dripping in thick ropes into her lap, onto the floor. The smell, animal and electric, filled her nose.
She held him there, buried between her cum-slicked tits, until the last shudder passed through him. She was a plastered, glazing masterpiece of her own design.
Slowly, he released her hair. She leaned back on her haunches, breathless, looking down at the glistening, dripping mess covering her chest, her stomach. She ran a finger through it on her breast, lifting it to her lips.
WHAT A MESS GRAVES GIGGLED