Chapter 5: The Morning After
The ache woke her. It wasn’t the dull, full throb she’d grown used to, but a sharp, pins-and-needles sensation that seemed to originate deep within the tissue of her breasts and radiate out to her nipples, which were tight, pointed pebbles against the soft cotton of her sleep shirt. Anith’s eyes flew open in the grey dawn light.
She sat up, and the movement sent a heavy, unfamiliar sway across her chest. A jolt of adrenaline, pure and electric, shot through her. She scrambled out of the sagging bed, her feet tangling in an empty bag of cheese puffs, and stumbled to the cracked mirror.
Her reflection was a stranger. The sleep shirt, once loose, was now taut across the bust. The fabric strained over two distinct, swollen mounds. She ripped the shirt over her head and stood there in her bra, breathing hard. The simple cotton bra she’d worn to bed was a prisoner of war. The cups were brutally overfilled, her flesh spilling out at the tops and sides, the center gore lifted an inch off her sternum. The straps dug angry red trenches into her shoulders.
A wild, disbelieving laugh choked out of her. It was working. Something was working.
But which one? The question cut through the euphoria like a shard of glass. Was it Carl’s bitter, chemical loads? The fenugreek and blessed thistle pills littering her nightstand like confetti? The two-hour sessions with the whirring, sucking pump? The gallon of whole milk she’d forced herself to drink yesterday? Eve’s voice slithered through her memory: Getting fatter will make your boobs bigger.
She looked down at her body. Her stomach, soft and rounded, pushed against the waistband of her pajama shorts. Her hips had new, gentle curves. She wasn’t just growing breasts; she was expanding. The realization was a ice bath. Was this the price? To become this… this thing for Josh?
Her hands, trembling, went to the bra clasp. It gave with a sigh of relief. The bra fell away.
Anith stared.
They were undeniable. Full, heavy D-cups, maybe more. The areolas were darker, wider, the nipples persistently erect and so sensitive that the cool air of the room made them throb. She cupped them, hefting the weight in her palms. A shocking bolt of pleasure-pain shot straight to her clit. She gasped, pinching a nipple between thumb and forefinger, twisting slightly. The pain was bright, clarifying. A low moan escaped her. It felt fucking good. It felt like progress.
She needed to tell someone. She needed to know what to do next. She snatched her phone from the charger, the screen blinding in the dim room. She called Eve.
It rang five times before a groggy, irritated voice answered. “What the fuck, Anith? It’s six A.M.”
“They’re growing,” Anith blurted, her voice slurred with sleep and awe. “Like, really growing. I can’t even fit my bra. But which one fucking worked, Eve? Was it him? The… the stuff from Carl? Or the pills? I need to know which one so I can do more of it.” Her words tumbled out in a frantic stream. She pinched her nipple again, harder, her eyes glued to her reflection as she did it. A dark, perverse pride swelled in her chest, matching the physical expansion.
Eve sighed, the sound scratchy over the line. “Who cares? It’s all working in concert, you dumb cow. The pills, the protein, the cum. It’s a holistic approach. You think farmers give a shit which specific grain made the cow fat? They just keep shoveling feed. Now shut up and go measure. And eat something. You sound weak.”
The call disconnected. Anith stood there, the phone clutched to her chest, which only intensified the ache. Holistic. The word made it sound almost healthy, intentional. She dropped the phone and rummaged in a drawer for a soft measuring tape. She wrapped it around the fullest part of her bust, leaning over to let her tits hang freely. The numbers blurred. 38 inches. Last week it was 34. A four-inch gain in seven days. A sound, half-sob, half-laugh, hiccuped out of her.
Then, like a ghost stepping through a wall, Josh’s face appeared in her mind. Not the Josh who’d left, with his disappointed frown, but the Josh from before, who would cup her modest B-cups in his hands and sigh contentedly. ‘They’re perfect. Just a handful.’ She saw his expression if he saw her now. Would it be disgust? Or would it be a stunned, hungry awe?
“I can’t just be a whore for tits,” she whispered to her reflection, the first hot tears spilling over. “I love Josh.” The confessionrr was pathetic, a wilted flower in the sewer of her current existence. She cried, her massive new tits shaking with the force of her sobs. She was sucking strangers off in bathroom stalls, drinking concoctions that made her piss smell funny, getting fat on purpose… for a man who hadn’t sent a single text. The tits he loved were so much bigger than this, but were they even her tits anymore?
The crying jag left her empty and raw. The emptiness in her gut was a physical hole. The solution was reflex now. She waddled to the kitchen, her bare feet sticking to patches of spilled protein powder. She ignored the healthy yogurt, the eggs. She went for the heavy cream. She poured a tall glass, then dumped in a scoop of weight-gainer powder, the chalky vanilla scent turning her stomach. She chugged it, the thick, cloying liquid coating her throat. Substrate. Carl’s word. She needed substrate.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Carl. Eve gave me your #. Progress report?
Her heart hammered against her new, heavy chest. She typed rback, her fingers clumsy. Bigger. Hurts.
The response was immediate. Pain is transformation. Need to maintain hormonal influx. My place. 8 PM. Don’t eat first.
A command. A clinical appointment. She stared at the message, a fresh wave of shame burning her cheeks. Then she looked at the measuring tape coiled on the floor like a snake. She texted back: OK.
The day passed in a fog of obsessive behavior. She pumped for an hour, watching her nipples elongate in the flanges, a few precious, clear drops beading at the tips—not milk, but something. She played the hypnosis tape on a loop; a man’s calm, deep voice talking about “letting go,” “embracing abundance,” “becoming a vessel.” She ate. A whole pizza. A family-sized bag of chips. The shakes. Her stomach distended, a hard, full balloon beneath the soft fat. Every time she passed a mirror, she stopped, lifted her shirt, stared. The expansion was visible by the hour. They were becoming obscene.
At 7:45 PM, she put on the only bra that vaguely fit, a stretchy sports thing that mashed her breasts into a single, looming shelf. She wore a loose dress, but it no longer hid the new geography of her body. She looked pregnant with her own upper half.
Carl’s apartment was in a sterile, impersonal complex that smelled of laminate and disinfectant. He opened the door wearing a lab coat over his jeans. He didn’t smile. “Come in. On the scale first.”
It was a digital bathroom scale in the middle of his living room, next to a small desk covered in vials and a laptop. She stepped on. The number flashed. 168. Up twelve pounds from two weeks ago. He grunted, typing into the laptop. “Good. Substrate accumulation is adequate. Now, the treatment.”
It wasn’t a bedroom. It was a spare room with a medical exam table covered in crackling paper. A bright, clinical light overhead. “Remove your clothes from the waist up and lie down,” he said, his tone devoid of any eroticism. He was a mechanic. She was a broken engine.
She fumbled with the sports bra, her giant tits finally spilling free with a bounce that made her gasp. They felt mammoth, their weight immense when she lay back on the paper. It rustled beneath her. Carl put on latex gloves. The snap was loud in the silent room.
He approached, his eyes analytical. He didn’t touch her with his hands. He leaned in, smelling of antiseptic, and took her left nipple into his mouth.
Anith jerked, a shockwave of sensation blazing through her. It wasn’t loving. It was aggressive, rhythmic suction. He was milking her. A wet, slurping sound filled the room. He switched to the other, his hand coming up to roughly knead the breast he wasn’t mouthing, compressing the tissue. Pleasure, sharp and unwanted, coiled in her gut. Her cunt pulsed, wetness soaking through her panties.
“Responding well to stimulation,” he muttered, pulling off with a pop. He picked up a small bottle and squeezed a clear gel onto his gloved fingers. It was cold. He rubbed it over her nipples and breasts. “Topical accelerator. Enhances absorption.”
Then he unzipped his pants. His cock, semi-hard, bobbed out. He didn’t stroke it to fullness; he simply positioned himself over her face. “Open.”
She did. He fed his cock into her mouth, and she began to suck, a trained reflex now. The chemical taste was stronger, mixed with the bitter gel. He fucked her mouth with the same detached rhythm he’d used on her breasts. In, out. A human syringe.
Her hands crept down between her own legs. She rubbed her clit through her panties, frantically, desperately, as he used her face. The hypocrisy was absolute. She was thinking of Josh, of his approval, while she masturbated on a exam table getting face-fucked by a man who saw her as fertilizer. The two images smashed together, and her orgasm ripped through her, silent and violent, her back arching, her cunt clenching around nothing.
As she convulsed, he came. The bitter flood hit her throat. She swallowed compulsively, greedily, a good cow taking her medicine. He pulled out, wiping his cock on the paper sheet near her shoulder.
“Very good,” he said, making another note on his laptop. “Salivary enzymes combined with the seminal peptides and the topical agent should induce significant cellular hyperplasia. Report any lactation within 48 hours. Schedule for same time Thursday. Increase caloric intake by five hundred. Focus on dairy fats.”
Anith sat up, dazed, her tits swinging, her mouth sour. She dressed in silence. He handed her a small paper cup with two unmarked pills. “Supplements. Take with food.”
She took them, pocketing the cup. At the door, she finally spoke, her voice small. “Will he… will he like them? When they’re… done?”
Carl looked at her for the first time like she was a person, and his expression was one of pure, unvarnished pity. “That,” he said, “is not a biochemical question.” He closed the door.
The walk home was a blur. The pills felt like stones in her pocket. Her breasts felt like they were humming, growing even as she walked. When she finally stumbled into her bedroom, she went straight to the mirror. She saw a glistening white droplet, trembling on the tip of her right nipple. She reached up, touched it, brought her finger to her mouth.
It was sweet.
She sank to the floor, her back against the bed, and watched as a second droplet formed, swelled, and traced a slow, glistening path down the curve of her enormous breast.