Chapter 17: Paddling the Little Cow
The pink cream felt cold and slick between Josh’s fingers, a sticky residue of the desperate attempt to soothe the relentless ache. He stared at his reflection in the grimy stall door – the flushed face, the tear tracks drying on his cheeks, the undeniable swell beneath his ruined t-shirt. Josette. The name echoed in his skull, a ghost from a past that felt horrifyingly real. The phantom lace, his father’s rough hands adjusting the straps on his ten-year-old chest… it clung, sticky as the cream.
He wiped his hands on his jeans, the movement jerky. He needed air. Needed to get out of this suffocating bathroom that smelled of disinfectant and his own panic. He snatched his phone off the floor, the screen dark now, Seraphina’s voice blessedly silent. Or so he thought.
Stumbling out into the hallway, the familiar hum of the campus library felt jarringly normal. Students hunched over laptops, pages turned, soft murmurs exchanged. Normalcy. He craved it like a drowning man craves air. Maybe… maybe he could push it all down. Maybe it was just stress. Some weird hormonal thing. Maybe Daddy never… No. He shoved the thought away, a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him. The phantom pressure of the bra strap dug into his shoulder.
He found a secluded carrel in a shadowed corner, sinking into a creaky chair, trying to focus on the open textbook. Introduction to Psychology. The irony tasted bitter. Words blurred. His focus kept drifting to the persistent, low throb in his chest. A familiar throb. Not just the ache of growth, but something else… an echo of pressure. Squeezing.
Thwack!
The sound was sharp, sudden, snapping him out of the present. The library dissolved, replaced by the overwhelming smell of chlorine, sweat, and dust. Sweaty linoleum under worn sneakers. The harsh, echoing acoustics of the middle school gymnasium. Sixth grade. Gym class. Dread coiled instantly in his belly.
He was standing near the bleachers, trying to be invisible in his baggy gym shorts and thin cotton t-shirt. But they’d noticed. Matt Carson and his cronies, the kings of the locker room jungle. Josh remembered the shirt. Grey. Soft. Too thin.
"Hey, Udder Boy!" Matt’s voice, loud and mocking, cut through the din of bouncing basketballs and shouted instructions. Laughter erupted nearby. Josh froze, the textbook in his hands in the present momentarily feeling like the cold metal of the bleacher railing he’d gripped.
Matt sauntered over, flanked by Derek and Liam. Grins split their faces, predatory. "Checkin' out the merchandise?" Matt jeered, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Josh’s chest. Derek snickered. "Looks like lunchtime came early for him. Got his own milk bags."
Josh tried to step back, but the bleachers blocked him. "Leave me alone," he mumbled, the words thick and useless.
"Aw, don't be shy, Udder Boy," Matt sneered, his hand darting out impossibly fast. Rough, calloused fingers, still damp from the water fountain, grabbed Josh’s left breast through the thin fabric, squeezing hard. Josh gasped, a strangled sound, as much from the shocking invasion as the sudden, sharp jolt of sensation that rocketed through him. It wasn’t just pain. It was… electric. Fizzing.
"Whoa, feels like real padding in there!" Matt crowed, giving another hard squeeze. Josh’s knees wobbled. "You stuffin' your bra, Josie?" Derek reached out, fingers pinching Josh’s right nipple through the shirt, twisting slightly. The pain was bright, immediate, but beneath it, under the wave of hot humiliation burning his face, a treacherous heat bloomed low in his belly. His breath hitched.
"Feels weird," Derek laughed, giving the nipple another cruel tweak. "Like… rubbery."
"Maybe he likes it!" Liam chimed in, shoving Josh’s shoulder, making him stumble. Matt kept squeezing, the pressure rhythmic, possessive. Josh stood frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. The rough hands, the crude laughter, the stares of other kids turning their way – it was pure, searing shame. Yet, under Matt’s persistent kneading, the flesh beneath the cruel fingers felt… alive. Awake. The electric tingle spread, merging with the low throb. His own body was betraying him, hardening, responding to the unwanted touch with a pulse of its own. His small nipple, beneath Derek’s pinching fingers, was rigid, sensitive, sending confusing signals straight to his core. He felt a traitorous hardness in his gym shorts.
Back in the library carrel, Josh’s breath came in ragged gasps. His hands, seemingly of their own volition, had risen. His palms pressed against his chest, right over the growing swell beneath his hoodie. He squeezed. Hard. Mimicking the brutal grip of Matt Carson. The echo of the pain was sharp, a ghostly sting. But beneath it, stronger now, surged the same electric heat, the same low, needy throb he’d felt then. His nipples hardened instantly into painful, sensitive peaks against the fabric of his undershirt, reacting as violently as they had under Derek’s pinching fingers. He squeezed again, kneading the tender flesh. A soft, involuntary moan escaped his lips, immediately choked off by a sob of disgust. He dropped his hands, clenching them into fists on the desk. No. Stop it. That’s sick.
He needed to drown it out. Music. Anything. He jammed his earbuds into his ears, fumbling with his phone. He opened his music app, thumb hovering over a playlist of heavy metal – noise to blast away the noise in his head. He hit play.
Guitars screamed. Drums thundered. He cranked the volume, letting the aggressive sound wash over him, trying to obliterate the gymnasium, the hands, the shameful arousal. He leaned back, closing his eyes, focusing on the distorted chords.
But the throb in his chest didn’t fade. It pulsed in time with the drums. Boom… throb… Boom… throb. He shifted, trying to get comfortable. The ache deepened. It felt… hollow. Needy. Like the cream hadn't been enough. Seraphina’s voice whispered in the back of his mind: More cream, Josette. Fill them up. They need to be full.
He opened his eyes, frustrated. The metal was loud, but it wasn't working. He needed it louder. He reached to increase the volume on his phone.
His thumb paused.
The volume bar on the screen was maxed out. The music should have been deafening. But as he focused past the driving beat, past the screaming vocals… he heard it.
A whisper. Silk brushing against his ear drums. So faint it was almost subliminal.
…remember how they touched you?… how strong their hands felt?… how good it felt to be noticed?… your little titties were so sensitive… they knew you wanted it… needed them to squeeze… fill them up, darling… fill them until they’re heavy…
Seraphina.
Ice water flooded Josh’s veins. He ripped the earbuds out, staring at them as if they were venomous snakes. He jabbed at his phone screen, frantically swiping to pause the music app. The heavy metal cut out instantly.
The library's ambient noise rushed back – pages turning, keyboards clicking, distant chatter.
But the whispering didn’t stop.
It wasn't coming from the earbuds he'd ripped out. It was… inside. In the silence of his own mind, yet perfectly clear. Unmistakable. Seraphina’s honeyed, insidious murmur, threading through his thoughts like smoke.
…Daddy knew what you needed… the bullies knew… your body knows… feel the ache? That’s them calling for attention… for touch… for fullness… you need the cream, Josette… you need to be full… so full…
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone and swelling flesh. It never stopped. The hypnosis. It was always playing. Beneath the music, beneath the silence, a relentless, subterranean current eroding his shores. His hands trembled violently as he clutched the edge of the desk. The hollow ache in his breasts intensified, a physical demand mirroring the voice in his head. It wasn't a memory anymore. It was a command. A need etched into his very nerves.
His gaze darted towards his backpack, lying slumped by the chair leg. Inside, nestled among textbooks and crumpled papers, was the half-empty tube of pink cream. His knuckles were white. The phantom squeeze of Matt Carson’s hand felt like a brand. The whispering grew louder, more insistent, a siren song calling him towards the only relief he knew, towards the promise of fullness, towards surrender. Towards Josette.
He didn't move. He couldn't. Paralyzed by terror and a terrible, burgeoning compulsion, he sat frozen in the bustling library, the silent scream trapped in his throat, Seraphina’s voice the only sound that mattered, echoing endlessly in the hollow space she was carving out within him. The ache deepened. It demanded.