Chapter 17: Mark's breath hitches as Josh applies glossy pink lipstick to his pouting lips, their reflection showing two buxom sissies with dripping cocks - when Josh 'accidentally' knees Mark's swollen balls, they collapse against the mirror in a tangle of stockings and giggles, their makeup running as Serena's voice purrs 'Such clumsy girls... now show Daddy those pretty tears.'
The sound of the salesgirl’s retreating footsteps was swallowed by the thick curtain and the frantic beat of their hearts. The knock had been a splash of cold reality, but it evaporated instantly in the heat between them. The dressing room was a world of its own, a mirrored cube that reflected their distortion back at them in endless, terrifying repetition.
“Fuck, Josh,” Mark breathed, his voice husky. His hands, which had frozen on the zipper, now slid down, palming the swell of Josh’s ass through the tight red fabric. The dress was a second skin, straining over their combined bulk, the neckline a precarious barrier holding back a tide of soft, pale flesh.
Josh whimpered, pressing back into the touch, his own cock a hard ridge against Mark’s thigh. “Do these heels make our asses look fat?” he whispered, the words slurred and airy.
Mark let out a choked laugh that was half desire, half despair. He spun Josh around to face him. Josh’s lips were smeared with the cheap, cherry-red lipstick they’d found on a display, a messy, vivid wound on his face. Mark didn’t care. He crushed his mouth against Josh’s, the kiss sloppy and desperate, all teeth and clashing tongues. He could taste the waxy lipstick, the faint, metallic hint of the milk from yesterday, and something else, something sweetly artificial that was purely Josh.
Their cocks, trapped and aching, rubbed together through the layers of dress and underwear, a frustrating, maddening friction. Mark broke the kiss, panting. “Need to feel you,” he grunted, his fingers fumbling with the hem of the dress, hiking it up. His own dress, a black number he’d grabbed as a joke, felt like a prison.
He got the red fabric up to Josh’s waist, revealing the lacy boyshorts beneath, already damp at the front. Mark shoved his own dress up, freeing his erection. The air in the booth was cool on his heated skin.
“Turn around,” Mark commanded, his voice low and rough. “Look at us.”
Josh obeyed, his movements fluid, unthinking. He faced the mirror, his hands braced against the wall, his ass pushed back toward Mark. Their eyes met in the reflection—Josh’s wide and glazed, Mark’s dark with a possessive hunger he no longer fought.
Mark spat into his palm, slicking himself, not taking his eyes off their shared image. He positioned himself at Josh’s entrance, pressing against the tight ring of muscle. Josh gasped, his head falling forward.
“Look,” Mark growled, pushing forward slowly, inexorably. “Look at what we are.”
Josh’s eyes were locked on their reflection, on the way Mark’s body covered his, on the obscene sight of his own red-clad body being taken. His breasts, heavy and full, swayed with the initial thrust, and a soft, choked moan escaped him.
Mark buried himself to the hilt, a groan tearing from his own throat. It was so tight, so impossibly hot. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that made the flimsy walls of the booth shudder. Each thrust pushed Josh against the wall, his breasts flattening against the cool mirror, smearing the glass.
“You like this, don’t you?” Mark grunted, his hands gripping Josh’s hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. “You like having these fat tits and getting fucked like this.”
“Yes,” Josh hissed, the word a prayer. “God, yes, Mark. Don’t stop.”
The pace quickened, becoming harder, more frantic. The sounds were filthy, animalistic: the slap of skin on skin, the creak of the booth, their ragged, grunting breaths. Mark watched his own face in the mirror, contorted in a mask of pleasure and something like rage. He watched Josh’s expression dissolve, his mouth hanging open, a string of saliva connecting his lips.
“Gonna cum,” Josh choked out, his body tightening around Mark. “My tits… they feel so full…”
That was all it took. The mention of that strange, lactating fullness was a trigger. Mark’s control shattered. He drove into Josh one last, brutal time, his own orgasm erupting from him with a guttural shout, his seed pumping deep inside. Josh cried out, his own release spurting onto the mirror and wall, his body convulsing around Mark’s.
They slumped together, a tangled, sweaty mess of dresses and spent desire, leaning against the smeared glass for support. The harsh fluorescent light buzzed overhead. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing.
Then, from the other side of the curtain, a new voice, low and curious. “You girls okay in there? Sounded like you were having quite the time.”
Mark’s blood ran cold. You girls. He looked at their reflection—the smeared lipstick, the dresses, the heavy, swaying chests. The person outside saw only what was on the surface.
Josh, still dazed, turned his head toward the curtain. “We’re… we’re just trying on clothes,” he called out, his voice unnaturally high, a perfect, flutey mimicry of a woman’s. It was effortless.
“Well, hurry it up,” the voice said, a hint of a laugh in it. “Some of us actually want to buy something.”
They listened to the footsteps walk away. Mark slowly pulled out, the reality of what they’d done, what they were becoming, crashing down on him. He looked at the mess on the wall, on the mirror. He looked at Josh, who was now fussing with his hair in the reflection, a small, distant smile on his ruined lips.
“We need to get out of here,” Mark said, his voice flat.
Josh just nodded, still looking in the mirror. “We need better bras,” he murmured, tracing the neckline of the dress with a finger. “These ones don’t fit right anymore.” He said it with the absolute, mundane certainty of someone stating the time. The seeds were sprouting, indeed. And they were both rooted in the same cursed soil.