Chapter 5: C, Maybe D Student
The stainless steel of the Home Ec kitchen was always cold, but Jesse found he liked the contrast it provided. His new skin, the skin that stretched so full and sensitive over the softening contours of his body, flushed so easily with heat. Leaning against the cool countertop while waiting for the convection oven to preheat was a small, simple pleasure.
Jessie found himself liking Home Ec more than he might have guessed. The initial dread of being switched, the ghost of his bio-chem textbooks haunting him for a week, had evaporated like steam from a reduction sauce. Here, things were tangible. Immediate. A cake rose or it didn’t. A sauce thickened or remained thin. Success was measured in grams and milliliters, in the golden-brown crust of a perfectly baked gougère. It was measured in the way his new sweaters fit a little tighter across the chest every week.
His lab partner, Lana Chen, was a fixture of this new simplicity. She was a tiny, birdlike thing with watchful dark eyes that rarely met his directly. At first, she’d been all business, measuring flour with a neurotic precision he’d once found annoying. Now, he watched her watching him. He caught her gaze lingering on the shelf of his chest, on the way his hips now curved against the fabric of his chef’s trousers—a new, elastic-waisted pair Megan had bought him, praising how they accommodated his “developing silhouette.”
Over two months, the B-cup bra from the rooftop had been relegated to a drawer, a relic of a smaller past. He was solidly into a D now. The weight was constant, a gravitational pull that anchored him in his body in a way no abstract equation ever had. His walk had changed to accommodate it, a slight, rolling sway in his hips he wasn’t entirely conscious of.
Today’s module was artisanal breads. Professor Gillespie droned on about hydration percentages and gluten windows, but Jesse’s focus was on the heavy ceramic mixing bowl in front of him. He’d chosen a tight, scoop-necked top in a soft, peach cotton. It was a color Megan said brought out the flush in his skin. He knew, without having to look down, that the neckline showed the soft, upper swell of his breasts.
“Your yeast slurry is ready, Jesse,” Lana said, her voice barely above a whisper. She was holding the small bowl of frothy liquid, her eyes fixed on his hands as he poured the bread flour into the larger basin.
“Thanks, Lan,” he said, his voice taking on a lighter, airier tone he’d been practicing. He made a show of accepting it, his fingers brushing hers deliberately. She flinched, a tiny, fascinating movement.
He dumped the yeast into the flour well and started mixing with his hands. It was a physical, demanding process. He leaned forward over the counter, digging his fingers deep into the sticky mass. As he worked, he let his back arch slightly, allowing the heavy, full weight of his chest to pull against the thin cotton of his top. He knew the position made them hang, the shape of them clear and undeniable beneath the fabric.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Lana freeze, a measuring spoon suspended over her notebook. Her breath hitched. He could feel her stare like a physical touch on his skin.
“This is, like, so much work for your arms,” Jesse giggled, exaggerating the strain in his voice. He gave a little bounce as he kneaded, making the motion travel through his upper body. “I swear, my… everything is so sore lately.”
Lana didn’t answer. She just stared, her lips slightly parted. The confusion in her eyes was a drug to him. It wasn’t just shock or disgust; it was a captivated, hungry bewilderment. He was becoming something she couldn’t understand, something that existed outside her own skinny, careful world.
He kept kneading, the dough becoming smooth and elastic under his hands. He shifted his stance, turning slightly towards her. The movement made one rounded, cotton-clad breast press against the cool stainless steel edge of the counter. He let out a soft, sighing breath, not entirely faked—the pressure felt good, a blunt counterpoint to the persistent ache.
“Do you… need help?” Lana finally managed, her voice strained.
“Maybe?” he said, tilting his head, letting a strand of his now-carefully styled hair fall across his face. “It’s just, my tits get in the way so bad sometimes. They’re so heavy now. You’re so lucky you don’t have to deal with this, Lana.”
The crude word, the casual obscenity in the sterile kitchen, hung in the air. He saw her flush a deep, scarlet red. She didn’t look away.
“I’m not lucky,” she breathed, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it.
The rest of the class period passed in a blur of heat and rising dough. Jesse felt powerful in a slow, syrupy way. He’d commandeered Lana’s attention completely. She fumbled with her notes, knocked over a salt cellar, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. When they were finally dismissed, the others filed out, chatting. Jesse lingered, wiping down his station with an exaggerated slowness. Lana lingered too, pretending to reorganize her utensils.
The kitchen was empty, the only sound the hum of the industrial fridge. Jesse walked over to the proofing cabinet, where their loaves sat under damp cloths, rising. He stood close to her, so close he could smell the faint, clean scent of her shampoo.
“Wanna see something?” he whispered, his bimbo persona dropping into something lower, more conspiratorial.
Before she could answer, he took her small, cold hand in his. He guided it slowly, deliberately, to his own chest. He pressed her palm flat against the soft, full curve of his left breast through the peach cotton.
Lana gasped, a sharp intake of breath. She didn’t pull away. Her fingers flexed, hesitant, then pressed deeper. He could feel her trembling.
“See?” he murmured, leaning his face close to her ear. His brain felt full of warm honey. Thinking was hard, but this—this feeling of her touch, this proof of his effect—was easy. “They’re so full. Megan says they’re perfect. Do you think they’re perfect, Lana?”
He moved her hand, making her knead him gently. A soft moan escaped his lips. It was real. The attention, the forbidden touch, the sheer physical sensation of his own sensitive flesh being handled—it lit him up inside.
Lana was breathing fast, her small chest heaving. Her other hand came up, as if of its own volition, and cupped his other breast. She squeezed, her touch growing bolder, fueled by a desperate curiosity. “They’re… so soft,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“Softer than yours, I bet,” Jesse said, a giggle bubbling up. He backed her gently against the proofing cabinet, the solid steel firm against her back. He pressed his body into hers, letting her feel the full, yielding weight of him. The difference was obscene—his lush, overflowing curves against her sharp, tiny frame.
His own arousal was a thick, insistent pulse between his legs. He ground his hips against her thigh, a slow, rolling motion. “You wanna taste?” he breathed, the idea forming in his languid mind. “Megan tastes them all the time. Says they’re sweet.”
That seemed to break the last of Lana’s restraint. A hungry, pained sound tore from her throat. Her head darted forward and her mouth found his through the cotton, biting at his nipple. The shock of wet heat, of pressure, shot straight to his core.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his head falling back. He fumbled with the hem of his top, yanking it up and over his head. His breasts spilled out, heavy and bare in the cool kitchen air, his nipples dark and painfully hard.
Lana stared, her eyes wide with a kind of terrified lust. Then she dove forward, taking one stiff peak into her mouth. She sucked, hard, like she was starving for it. Her small hands groped and squeezed the other, her fingers digging into the pliant flesh.
The sensation was overwhelming. Jesse braced his hands on the cabinet behind her, his legs turning to liquid. He could feel a damp spot spreading in the front of his loose trousers. “Yeah,” he slurred, “just like that. Suck on ‘em. You like my big tits, don’t you? You wanna be like me?”
Lana didn’t answer with words. She switched to the other nipple, sucking and lapping with a frantic intensity. Her hands were everywhere, gripping his sides, sliding over the new swell of his hips, clutching at the soft flesh of his ass. She was so different from Megan. Megan’s touch was possessive, calculated. This was wild, desperate, fueled by a confusion so deep it had twisted into pure need.
One of her small hands slid down the front of his trousers, past the elastic waistband. Her fingers were cool and searching. They found his cock, slick with his own arousal, and wrapped around it.
Jesse cried out, a high, reedy sound that echoed off the stainless steel. He fucked into her fist, his hips jerking mindlessly. It was messy, awkward, glorious. Lana’s mouth worked on his breast, her other hand still mauling the other, her small fist stroking him with a clumsy, furious rhythm.
“I’m gonna come,” he whimpered, the words barely coherent. “I’m gonna fucking come all over your little hand.”
That seemed to spur her on. She redoubled her efforts, her mouth sucking a bruise into his tender skin, her hand moving faster. The pressure built, a coil tightening deep in his gut, fed by the sheer wrongness and the perfect rightness of it all—being wanted like this, being used for this, being this.
His orgasm ripped through him with a violence that made his legs buckle. He slumped against her, spurting over her fingers and the front of his own trousers in hot, wet pulses. A long, dumb groan shuddered out of him.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The hum of the fridge. The smell of yeast and sex. Lana slowly withdrew her hand, her mouth releasing his nipple with a soft, wet pop. She stared at her own sticky fingers, then up at his face, her expression a car wreck of horror and satiation.
Jesse just smiled, a slow, dopey, contented smile. He pulled his top back on, not bothering to wipe himself clean. The wet spot on his trousers was a badge. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, a messy, smacking kiss. “See?” he whispered, his voice thick and happy. “Home Ec is so much fun.”
He turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving her standing there amidst the stainless steel and the rising bread, the proof of his transformation cooling on her skin. He was already thinking about what he’d tell Megan, and about the extra cream she’d likely add to his dinner smoothie to celebrate his “progress.”