Chapter 26: Josh moans as the breast forms settle heavily against his chest, his fingers tracing the exaggerated curves in the mirror - his cock strains against the lace panties as he imagines them real, leaking milk while men grope and suckle him like the slut he's becoming.
The package had been hidden at the back of his closet, buried under a pile of old winter sweaters that smelled faintly of mothballs and neglect. His heart hammered against his ribs as he retrieved it, the plain brown cardboard feeling illicit, dangerous. He’d told himself it was just a curiosity, a bit of fun to spice up his solo sessions. But the lie was thin, transparent even to himself.
In the moonless dark of his room, lit only by the faint blue glow of his idle laptop, Josh sat on the edge of his bed. The contents of the package were laid out before him like sacred, profane objects: a simple black lace bra, size 38DD, and the silicone breast forms, unnervingly heavy and cool to the touch.
His hands were shaking. He couldn’t seem to get them to stop. With a fumbling urgency, he pulled off his t-shirt and shrugged off his shorts, sitting naked in the cool air. Then, he reached for the panties he’d bought on a separate, dizzying impulse—a sheer black thong. He stepped into them, the delicate fabric a strange sensation against his skin. His cock, already half-hard with a confused anticipation, strained against the flimsy material.
He picked up the bra, the lace scratchy against his fingertips. He struggled with the clasp for a moment, his male-accustomed fingers clumsy with the tiny hooks. Finally, it fastened. He slipped the straps over his shoulders. The empty cups gaped against his flat, male chest, a mockery of what was to come.
He lifted one of the silicone forms. It was heavier than he’d imagined, a dense, pliable weight. He cupped it in his palm, his thumb stroking over the molded, pinkish nipple. A jolt, faint but unmistakable, went through him. He slid it into the bra cup, the weight settling with a definitive pull on his shoulders. He repeated the process with the other.
The effect was immediate and profound.
The weight made his back arch instinctively, throwing his shoulders back and pushing the false chest forward. He stood up and walked to the full-length mirror on his closet door. A stranger stared back. A top-heavy, bizarre figure with his own familiar face, his lean waist and narrow hips, but from the ribs up, a curvaceous, heavy-breasted woman. The black lace strained to contain the impressive, fake swell.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, his voice hushed.
He turned slightly, watching the way the forms moved with a slight, pendulous delay. He brought his hands up, his real, male hands, and cupped them beneath the weight. He could feel the pressure against his palms, but no sensation on his own skin. It was like operating a complex puppet. He squeezed, the silicone yielding softly.
A memory, not his own, flashed behind his eyes: the brothel, the feeling of his own full, aching breasts being groped and mauled. The phantom sensation of milk let-down, a tingling deep in his tissue.
You miss them already.
The voice was Serena’s, a silken thread woven directly into the fabric of his thoughts. It wasn’t a memory. It was a presence.
A violent shudder wracked his frame. His cock, trapped in the tight confines of the thong, throbbed painfully, leaking a wet, hot spot onto the black fabric. Precum. The shame of it was electric, fueling the fire.
He needed to feel it. Properly.
He pulled a soft, grey cotton t-shirt over his head. As the fabric slid down his body, the coarse texture of the shirt brushed over the fake nipples of the prosthetics.
The sensation was not his own, yet his body reacted as if it were. A shockwave of pure, undiluted pleasure erupted from his chest, a white-hot wire that connected directly to his groin. It wasn't a touch he was feeling through the silicone; it was a touch on him. His knees buckled. A sharp, ragged gasp tore from his throat.
“Fuck! Oh, fuck…”
He stumbled back to the bed, collapsing onto the mattress. His hands flew to his chest, groping himself through the shirt, rubbing the fabric frantically over the unfeeling nipples, his mind supplying the sensation it craved. Each rub sent another jolt to his cock, making it jump and leak more. He was panting, his mind a riot of conflicting images: the porn on his screen, the men in the pink-lit room, the weight on his chest that felt more right with every passing second.
He shoved the thong down his thighs, freeing his erection. It was painfully hard, the head slick and purple. He didn’t need porn. The image in the mirror was his porn. The feeling of the weight pulling on his shoulders was his foreplay.
He spat into his palm and wrapped his hand around his shaft, his grip tight and punishing. He stared at his reflection, at the jiggling, heavy-chested figure he’d become.
“You’re such a fucking slut,” he grunted at his mirror-self, the words filthy and arousing. “Look at you. You love this, don’t you? You love these big, fake tits.”
He pumped his fist, his hips pistoning off the bed. He imagined the shirt was gone. He imagined the silicone was his own flesh, that his fingers were someone else’s—Mark’s, the bearded man’s, anyone’s—pinching and pulling at his sensitive, swollen nipples. He imagined his back being pressed into the mattress, his legs forced apart.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he moaned, his eyes glazing over, losing focus on the reflection. “Fuck me. Use my tits. Just… just take it.”
His orgasm built not as a slow climb, but as a sudden, catastrophic pressure drop. It was the hallucination and reality fusing into one unbearable truth. With a choked cry, he came, his body seizing. Thick strands of cum shot onto his stomach, onto the grey cotton of the t-shirt stretched taut over the false breasts.
He lay there, wrecked and breathing in ragged gulps. The room was silent. The weight on his chest felt different now. Less like a costume, more like an anchor. He couldn’t bring himself to take them off. Not yet.
His hand, moving almost without his consent, rose and his fingertips found one of the fake nipples through the cum-stained shirt. He pressed down.
And deep beneath the silicone, in the very center of his pectoral muscle, he felt a corresponding, dull, and very real ache.