Chapter 12: Josh whimpers as the copier jams again, his stiff nipples rubbing against the warm machine while Mark 'helps' from behind, his hard cock pressing into Josh's ass—neither noticing their secretary's shocked expression as their whispered 'big bra cups' mantra fills the breakroom.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a trapped insect, their stark white glare bleaching the color from everything. Josh slumped in his cubicle chair, the worn fabric groaning under his weight. His head throbbed in time with the hum of his computer. He’d been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes, the numbers swimming before his eyes.
A dull, persistent ache had taken root deep in his chest, a heavy, full sensation that made it hard to draw a complete breath. He subtly adjusted his posture, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement only made the soft weight of his breasts shift uncomfortably against the inside of his button-down shirt. The top two buttons were undone, a necessity now. The fabric felt like sandpaper against his nipples, which were permanently hard, sensitive pebbles.
Across the partition, Mark’s chair creaked. Josh could feel his roommate’s gaze, a hot, tangible thing on the back of his neck. He didn’t need to look to know Mark was staring, his own body probably humming with the same strange, insistent energy.
“Need to make copies,” Josh mumbled, more to himself than anyone, pushing his chair back. The act of standing sent a fresh wave of dizziness through him. The room tilted, the gray carpeted floor seeming to swell and recede. For a split second, the partitions looked less like fabric-covered walls and more like fleshy, pink membranes, pulsing softly. He blinked, and the vision was gone.
He gathered a stack of reports, his hands unsteady. The walk to the copier felt like a mile. Each step sent a faint, telling jiggle through his upper body, a movement that was becoming as natural as breathing. He could feel a damp spot forming on his shirt, right over his left nipple. The leaking had started again, a slow, insistent seepage he couldn’t control.
The copier room was a small, windowless closet. The machine whirred and churned, a beast digesting paper. Josh leaned over to place the original on the glass, his body bending at the waist. The position pulled his shirt taut across his back and shoulders, but loosened it over his chest. For a moment, he felt a relief from the constriction.
Then he saw it. His reflection in the dark glass of the copier lid. His unbuttoned collar gaped open, revealing the smooth, swollen curve of a breast, paler than the rest of his skin. And there, in the center, his nipple, dark and wet, glistening under the stark light. A single, milky drop welled at the tip, trembled, and fell, landing on the glass with a tiny, soundless splat.
“Fuck,” he whispered, his breath fogging the reflection.
He didn’t hear Mark come in. He only felt the presence behind him, the body heat, the scent of cheap aftershave and male sweat. A hard, thick pressure pressed against his ass. Mark’s cock, straining against his slacks.
“Look at that,” Mark’s voice was a low, hungry rumble in his ear. One of Mark’s hands snaked around his waist, palm splaying possessively over Josh’s stomach before sliding up to cup a heavy breast through the shirt. Josh gasped, his hips bucking back instinctively against Mark’s groin. “You’re making a mess, you fucking cow.”
The crude word sent a shock of shame and pure, undiluted arousal straight to Josh’s groin. His own cock hardened, trapped and aching in his trousers.
Mark’s other hand went to the fly of Josh’s pants, fumbling with the button and zipper. “Bend over,” he grunted, his voice thick. “Over the machine.”
Josh obeyed, his mind hazy, his body moving on an instinct that felt both new and ancient. He braced his hands on the warm copier, his ass in the air, his leaking breasts hanging heavy and full. The cold laminate of the machine pressed against his cheek.
He heard the rip of a foil packet, the rustle of clothing. Then Mark was there, his hands gripping Josh’s hips, his cock, slick and huge, pressing against his entrance. There was no gentle preamble, no slow build. Mark drove into him in one brutal, claiming thrust.
Josh cried out, the sound swallowed by the groaning copier. The pain was sharp and bright, a searing stretch that quickly melted into a deep, grinding pleasure. Mark set a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming forward, his balls slapping against Josh’s ass with each drive.
“Yeah, take it,” Mark panted, one hand moving from Josh’s hip to fist in his hair, yanking his head back. “Your tits are jiggling. I can see them. So fucking big.”
Josh’s world narrowed to the sensations: the raw friction inside him, the ache of his overfull breasts, the wet spot cooling on his shirt. He was a collection of nerve endings, all screaming for release. He reached a hand down to touch himself, but Mark smacked it away.
“No. You cum from this. From me fucking you. From your tits getting fat and full.”
The words were a command, a key turning in a lock deep inside Josh’s mind. His orgasm began not in his cock, but as a deep, convulsive tightening in his core, a wave of sensation that radiated outwards, making his breasts throb and his toes curl. He came with a choked, silent scream, his seed spattering against the inside of his trousers and the copier’s base.
Mark grunted, his body stiffening, his thrusts becoming shallow, jerky pulses as he emptied himself inside the condom. He stayed there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, his weight a solid pressure on Josh’s back.
The copier finished its cycle and fell silent. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the drip-drip-drip from Josh’s nipple onto the glass.
Mark pulled out, tucking himself away. He looked down at the smeared, milky drop on the copier glass, then at Josh, still bent over, spent and trembling. He reached out and swiped a finger through the fluid, bringing it to his lips.
“Tastes sweet,” he said, his voice casual, as if commenting on the weather. He turned and left, the door swinging shut behind him.
Josh slowly pushed himself upright. His legs felt like water. He looked at the glass, at the small, opaque puddle he’d left there. He fumbled for a tissue from the box on the shelf and wiped it clean, his movements slow, robotic. The ache in his breasts had subsided, replaced by a profound, post-orgasmic heaviness. They felt larger. Softer. More real.
He tucked himself back into his pants, the fabric sticky and uncomfortable. He didn’t look in the copier lid again. He didn’t need to. He could feel the truth of it in the weight on his chest, in the slow, steady leak that was already beginning again, a constant, physical reminder of what he was becoming. He buttoned his shirt, his fingers fumbling, failing to fully contain what was now undeniably there.