Chapter 2: The Unexpected Visitor
The doorbell was an electric shock in the quiet apartment. Amy froze, the spoon halfway to her mouth, a dribble of yogurt on her chin. Tyler had been gone for hours, the supply truck fiasco stretching into overtime. The afternoon light was flat and gray through the kitchen window.
The bell rang again, insistent.
She padded to the door, the thick terrycloth robe the only thing that fit her anymore without constricting. She’d given up on clothes for the day, the weight of her own body a constant, thrilling presence. She peered through the peephole.
Sam’s distorted face, all big eyes and a mischievous grin, filled the glass. Amy’s heart did a clumsy stumble. She hadn’t seen Sam in weeks. Not since before. Not since the A-cup.
She unlocked the door, pulling the robe tighter, the belt cinched as far as it would go. It barely met in the middle.
“Hey, hermit, I was in the neighborhood and—whoa.”
Sam’s chatter died as the door swung open. Her gaze, usually so quick and laughing, locked onto Amy’s chest. The robe’s plush fabric strained over the dramatic curves, leaving a deep V of exposed, pale skin. Sam’s mouth, painted a bold crimson today, actually fell open.
Amy felt a flush climb her neck. “Hey, Sam.”
“Hey?” Sam breathed, her eyes wide. “Amy. What the hell?” She stepped inside without being invited, her movements slow, captivated. She was a head taller, athletic in her tight jeans and simple black tee, her own generous chest suddenly seeming almost ordinary in comparison. “You got… you got work done? You never said!”
“I didn’t,” Amy said, closing the door and leaning against it. The lie was automatic, thin.
Sam’s eyes flickered over Amy’s face, then back down. The curiosity wasn’t judgmental. It was ravenous. “Bullshit. Nothing natural does that. I mean… look at them.” She took a step closer, and Amy caught a faint scent of her perfume—something spicy and expensive, cutting through the apartment’s stale lavender. “Can I…?”
Amy nodded, a small, jerky motion. She let the robe fall open.
Sam’s breath hitched. Her hand rose, hovered, then cupped the undercurve of Amy’s right breast. Her touch was different from Tyler’s. Cooler, more assessing. A connoisseur’s touch. Her thumb brushed a nipple, and Amy gasped, the response immediate and violent.
“Jesus,” Sam whispered, her own cheeks flushing. “They’re real. The sensitivity?”
“Through the roof,” Amy admitted, her voice shaky.
Sam’s hand lingered, then withdrew slowly. She looked Amy in the eye, her playful mask gone, replaced by a stark, naked hunger. “I have to tell you something. And you’re going to think I’m a freak.”
“Try me.”
“I have a thing. A fetish, I guess.For… expansion. For growth. Seeing it, feeling it.” Sam’s words came out in a rush. “I’ve followed forums, stories, art. It’s my secret sauce. And this…” She gestured vaguely at Amy’s body. “This is like a miracle. How?”
The medicine cabinet in the bathroom seemed to pulse in Amy’s mind. The three new jars, delivered in plain brown boxes, were hidden there now. The empty one was in the kitchen trash, buried under coffee grounds.
“A cream,” Amy said, the words feeling dangerous and exhilarating.“Experimental. Tyler applies it. Every night.”
Sam’s eyes lit up. “He knows?”
“He helps.”
A slow, wicked smile spread across Sam’s face. “And where is the foreman today?”
“Stuck at work.”
The silence between them thickened, charged. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound.
“He’s very thorough,” Sam said, her voice dropping. “But I bet I could do a better job.”
Amy’s throat was dry. “The bathroom’s brighter. Better light.”
They moved down the hall without another word. The fluorescent light in the bathroom buzzed to life, harsh and revealing. Amy saw herself fully in the big mirror over the sink—a slender ghost with impossible, monumental curves. Sam stood behind her, a tall, dark-haired shadow, her reflection blazing with intent.
Amy took the new jar from behind the moisturizers. The glass was cold. She handed it to Sam.
Sam unscrewed the lid, sniffed the contents. Her nose wrinkled at the clinical smell, but her eyes gleamed. “How much?”
“Enough to cover. Everything.”
Amy let the robe fall to the floor. The cold air pricked her skin, her nipples hardening to aching points. She leaned back against the cool porcelain sink, bracing herself.
Sam’s hands were not like Tyler’s. They were smoother, more deliberate, less worshipful and more… investigative. She started at the collarbone, but her circles were wider, her fingers tracing the outer swell with something like greed. She worked in silence, her focus absolute, coating the vast expanse of skin. She used her palms to smear it across the tops, her thumbs digging into the soft inner slopes with a pressure that made Amy whimper.
“Incredible,” Sam murmured, more to herself than to Amy. “The density. The heat.”
She moved lower, kneeling on the bathmat to get underneath. Her face was level with Amy’s stomach. Amy looked down, watching the top of Sam’s head, the intense concentration. Sam’s hands supported the crushing weight from below, her fingers splayed wide. It was an intimate, servile position that felt anything but submissive.
Then Sam’s gaze shifted.Downward.
Amy’s shaft, thick and semi-erect from the prolonged attention, lay against her thigh.
Sam didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask. Her cream-slick hand wrapped around it.
The sensation was a lightning bolt. Tyler’s touch was familiar, a loved map. This was foreign territory, electrifying. Sam’s grip was firmer, more confident. She pumped slowly, watching the flesh respond in her hand. Her other hand continued to knead a breast, the twin sensations short-circuiting Amy’s thoughts.
“Sam,” Amy choked out.
“I know,” Sam replied, her voice husky. She leaned forward, her breath hot, and took the head into her mouth.
The world dissolved into white noise. Amy’s hands flew to Sam’s head, not to push away, but to hold on as the skilled, wet heat of Sam’s mouth worked over her. It was too much. The frantic build-up from the massage, the taboo of it, Sam’s obvious, hungry expertise—it coalesced into a pinnacle Amy had never approached. Her climax ripped through her, a raw, silent scream trapped in her throat, her body arching violently away from the sink.
When the last tremor subsided, Amy slumped, her vision swimming. Sam pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph on her face.
They stayed like that for a long minute, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead. The smell of cream and sex hung heavy in the small room.
Sam finally stood, her knees cracking. She placed the jar carefully on the vanity. “So,” she said, her casual tone a bizarre contrast to what had just happened. “Three more of these, you said?”
Amy could only nod, her body still humming.
“Good.” Sam washed her hands at the sink, the water roaring in the silence. She dried them on a towel, then turned, leaning against the counter. She looked at Amy’s spent, gleaming body, then met her eyes in the mirror. A playful smirk returned to her lips, but her eyes were serious. “You know, I’ve always wondered what that stuff would feel like on me. Just for fun.”
Amy stared at Sam’s reflection, at the perfect, athletic chest under the black cotton tee. That old, sharp pang of jealousy was gone, melted away and replaced by a new, powerful urge. The humming in her veins focused, intensified.
She looked at the jar, then at Sam.
“Take your shirt off,” Amy said, her voice not her own.
Sam’s smirk didn’t falter. She held Amy’s gaze in the mirror for one more beat, a silent challenge accepted. Then her hands went to the hem of her black t-shirt.
The fabric peeled up, revealing a smooth, toned stomach, then a practical black bra. Sam shrugged the shirt off, letting it drop to the tiled floor. Her breasts were ample, natural, spilling slightly from the cups. They were glorious, and for a hot, shameful second, Amy’s old insecurity flared. Sam’s were still bigger. The thought was a petty, sharp sting beneath the afterglow.
Amy pushed the feeling down, smothered it with a surge of possession. She reached for the jar.
“So, the student becomes the master?” Sam asked, her tone light, but her eyes were dark and watching.
“Something like that,” Amy said. She scooped a generous dollop of cream. It was cooler than Sam’s skin.
She started at Sam’s collarbone, mirroring the path Sam had taken on her. Her own hands felt clumsy, smaller. She worked the cream into Sam’s skin, feeling the solid muscle beneath, the different texture. There was less to cover, a fact that irked her even as her fingers traced the familiar curves.
“They’re perfect,” Amy murmured, the jealousy giving her words a strange, heated edge.
“They’re okay,” Sam said, watching Amy’s hands. “But they’re just… there. Yours are an event.”
Amy coated the outer swell, her thumbs brushing the sides of Sam’s breasts. The reaction was subtler than her own, a slight hardening of the nipple, a quickened breath. It was grounding. This was Sam’s body, but Amy was commanding it, marking it with the same substance that had remade her.
She smoothed cream over the tops, her palms full. “Tell me about the fetish,” Amy said, her voice low. “What’s the hottest part?”
Sam leaned back into Amy’s touch, her head tilting.“The transformation. The surrender to it. It’s the ultimate taboo, right? Changing your body on purpose into something… excessive.” She sighed as Amy’s fingers circled a nipple. “Watching the skin stretch. Feeling the new weight develop. The looks you get.”
“And what sounds hottest?” Amy pressed, moving to the other breast.“For you. For me.”
“For you?” Sam laughed, a soft, throaty sound. “Everything. I want to watch you outgrow this apartment. I want to see you have to turn sideways to get through doors. I want to watch Tyler try to lift you.” She shifted, her back pressing against Amy’s front. “For me?The sensitivity. That overwhelming, constant awareness. And the submission. Letting something else decide your new shape.”
Amy’s hands stilled. The cream was mostly absorbed, leaving a faint sheen. She looked at their reflection—the impossible redhead and the athletic brunette, a tableau of shared deviance.
“You want to use it,” Amy stated.
“I want you to use it on me,” Sam corrected, turning her head to look at Amy. Her expression was open, vulnerable for the first time. “Just a little. Just to feel what it’s like.”
Amy looked at the jar, then at the stark hunger on Sam’s face in the mirror. It mirrored her own, a perfect reflection. The humming in her veins became a decisive drumbeat.
She scooped one last, small bit of cream onto her finger.
“Okay,” Amy said.
She turned Sam gently to face her. She touched the cream to the center of Sam’s chest, just above her sternum. She rubbed it in a single, slow, deliberate circle, a secret contract signed into the skin. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, a sharp inhale catching in her throat.
They stood there in the buzzing silence, a new possibility thickening the air between them, heavy as the scent of the cream.
They stood there in the buzzing silence, a new possibility thickening the air between them, heavy as the scent of the cream. Sam opened her eyes, her gaze locked on Amy’s. “So,” she whispered, her voice raw. “When’s the next dose?”
A slow smile spread across Amy’s face. “Tyler’s got a double tomorrow.”
“Perfect.”
The clandestine administrations became a feverish routine. Tyler’s work schedule, once a lonely inconvenience, now framed their secret meetings. Amy would text Sam a single question mark. Sam would reply with a thumbs-up. The ritual in the bright bathroom became their own.
Amy applied the cream to Sam with a focused, almost clinical precision. She started with Sam’s chest, the small nightly dose absorbed quickly into her skin. But Amy’s own appetite had grown monstrous. After Sam left, she would administer a second, heavier dose to herself, the cream vanishing into her own vast topography.
Her body continued its strange, specific evolution. One evening, as Sam’s skilled mouth worked her over, Amy felt a new, profound fullness beneath her shaft. She glanced down. Two distinct, heavy spheres had descended, a neat sac now swaying with her pulse. Sam noticed immediately, her eyes widening before she took Amy deeper, her throat working around the new, impossible girth.
Afterwards, breathless on the tiles, Sam measured them with her hands. “You’re thicker than Tyler now. Longer, too. By a lot.”
“Don’t tell him,” Amy panted, a thrill crawling up her spine.
“My secret,” Sam purred, her own chest heaving. The single daily dose was working on her, too. Her breasts had begun a steady, lush expansion, filling out her bras with a renewed, firm weight.
One afternoon, their dynamic shifted again. Sam was lying face down on Amy’s bed, her back a smooth landscape. Amy, jar in hand, looked at the curve of Sam’s ass in her cotton shorts. An idea, hot and possessive, struck her.
“Roll over,” Amy said, her voice casual.
Sam complied, flipping onto her stomach with a curious grunt. Amy squeezed a generous line of cream onto her fingers. She didn’t massage it into Sam’s back. She pushed the waistband of Sam’s shorts down and rubbed it directly onto the full, rounded cheeks of her ass.
Sam gasped into the comforter, her hips lifting. “Oh.”
“You wanted sensitivity,” Amy murmured, working the cream in with firm, circular motions. “Let’s see if we can spread it around.”
The next time, Sam returned the favor. She pushed Amy onto her stomach on the bathroom counter, her reflection a mess of red hair and overwhelming curves in the mirror. Sam’s hands, now growing stronger, kneaded the cream into Amy’s own backside, her fingers dipping into the cleft with a bold, teasing pressure that left Amy shuddering.
Yet, the results were perversely unequal. Amy was using over double the amount Sam was, a fact they both knew intimately. But Sam’s body drank in the cream with a terrifying efficiency. Her breasts swelled, not with the firm, high fullness of Amy’s, but with a devastating, natural-looking weight that began to outpace Amy’s own.
The gap between them, once a source of Amy’s insecurity, then her triumph, began to yawn open again. Sam’s new chest was becoming the event.
“I can’t find a sports bra that fits,” Sam laughed one day, heaving two massive, soft breasts in her hands. They swayed with a life of their own. “I tried a jog. Thought I’d black out from the pain.”
A week later, Sam showed up in a tight tank top, her shoulders and arms newly defined. “Started lifting,” she said, flexing a bicep with a grin. “Deadlifts, mostly.For my back. Gotta handle these things.” She cupped herself, the motion now requiring a concerted effort. They were undeniably, heart-stoppingly massive.
Amy watched, a hollow feeling opening in her gut. She saw the glances Sam got at the gym, the awe. Sam wore her new body with an athletic grace Amy’s own sculpted, unnatural form couldn’t match. The cream had given Sam exactly what she’d always had, but magnified to a mythic scale. It had given Amy something else entirely.
That night, with Tyler snoring beside her, Amy crept to the bathroom. She opened the second jar, now half-empty. She stared at her reflection, at the proud, heavy orbs of her chest, at the thick shaft and full sac between her legs—a collage of desire and chemical will. Then she thought of Sam’s effortless, staggering abundance.
She scooped out a triple portion. The cream felt cold, then burning, as she slathered it across her skin, a desperate, silent prayer against the mirror.