Chapter 2: Dolores Demands a Proper Fitting
The doorbell rang at ten forty-seven, which meant Dolores was seven minutes early and already suspicious.
Ben froze with his coffee mug halfway to his mouth, the tarp from the museum bunched around his shoulders like a shameful cape. He'd spent the morning in a fog of disbelief, wandering his apartment in a daze, trying to figure out how to exist with two heavy, aching weights strapped to his chest. Every movement sent a strange ripple through them—a jiggle, a sway, a foreign sensation that made his stomach clench and his face burn.
He hadn't called Priya yet. He hadn't called anyone. He'd just sat on his couch, staring at nothing, occasionally touching the soft, warm mounds that had grown from his body like some kind of cosmic punishment.
"Benjamin! I know you're in there. Your car's in the lot."
Dolores. His sister. His sharp-eyed, no-nonsense, grammar-correcting older sister who visited every Sunday and noticed absolutely everything.
Ben looked down at himself. He was wearing an old sweatshirt—the loosest thing he owned—and even that was stretched tight across the impossible curves of his chest. The fabric pulled at the neckline, threatening to expose the deep cleavage that had formed overnight.
"Just a minute!" he called, his voice cracking.
He scrambled off the couch and headed for his bedroom, but the doorbell rang again, followed by the unmistakable sound of a key in the lock. Of course she had a key. She'd insisted on it after his appendix surgery five years ago, and he'd never had the spine to take it back.
"Benjamin, I've brought you those muffins you like, the ones from the bakery on Chestnut, and I expect you to be grateful even though you clearly forgot to call me back last night, which is rude, but I'm choosing to overlook it because—"
Dolores stopped in the doorway.
Her eyes traveled from his face, down to his chest, and back up again. The plate of muffins tilted in her hands, then righted itself.
"Good God, Benjamin," she said. "What have you done to yourself?"
"I can explain."
"Can you?" She set the plate on the kitchen counter with deliberate care, then folded her arms. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've either gained fifty pounds in your chest overnight or you've been keeping something very significant from me."
"It's a long story."
"I have time." She pulled out a chair and sat, her posture ramrod straight, the way she'd sat in every parent-teacher conference for thirty years. "Start talking."
Ben stood in the middle of his living room, the tarp fallen to the floor, his stretched sweatshirt doing nothing to hide the massive, sagging breasts that hung from his ribs. He felt like a specimen under a microscope.
"I went to the museum," he said. "Yesterday. I fell asleep in a storage room. And when I woke up—"
"Let me guess. You woke up with a chest that would make Dolly Parton jealous."
"Something like that."
Dolores's expression didn't change. "And you didn't think to call me?"
"I didn't know what to say!"
"You could have said, 'Dolores, I've sprouted a pair of enormous breasts overnight, please come and help me figure out what's happening.' That would have been a start."
Ben sank onto the couch, his shoulders slumping. The movement sent a fresh wave of sensation through his chest—the heavy things swaying, settling, pressing against his sweater. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin.
"I was going to call someone," he said. "A woman from the museum. She's helping me."
"A woman?" Dolores's eyebrows rose. "What woman?"
"Her name's Priya. She's a curator. She thinks it's some kind of curse."
"A curse." Dolores repeated the word as if tasting something sour. "My brother, cursed with breasts."
"I know how it sounds."
"You don't sound like you know how it sounds. You sound like a man making excuses." She stood and crossed the room, her sensible heels clicking on the hardwood. "Stand up."
"What?"
"Stand up. Let me see what we're dealing with."
Ben stood, his face burning. Dolores circled him like a general inspecting troops, her eyes narrowed.
"They're not going away on their own, are they?"
"I don't think so."
"Then we need to take care of them." She poked one with her index finger, and Ben yelped. "Sensitive?"
"Yes!"
"Then they need proper support. You can't go walking around with those things hanging like sacks of flour. You'll ruin your back." She grabbed her purse. "Grab your coat. We're going to the department store."
"Absolutely not."
"Benjamin Agnew, you are forty-nine years old and you are not going to argue with me about this. You need a bra. A proper one. And since you clearly don't know the first thing about buying one, I'm going to help you."
"Dolores—"
"No arguments. I'm driving."
The department store was a cathedral of consumerism, all gleaming floors and bright lights and the faint smell of perfume mixed with new carpet. Ben followed his sister through the cosmetics department, past the handbags and accessories, his shoulders hunched, his tarp wrapped around him like a shield.
"How did you even have that in your closet?" Dolores asked, eyeing the tarp.
"It's from the museum."
"You stole a tarp from a museum?"
"I borrowed it. It's not—" He stopped. "It's a long story."
"It always is." She stopped in front of a sign that read Intimate Apparel. "Here we are."
The lingerie department was all soft lighting and padded hangers, a feminine sanctuary that made Ben want to turn and run in the opposite direction. A saleswoman approached, her smile bright and practiced.
"Can I help you find anything today?"
Dolores took charge. "My brother needs a fitting."
The saleswoman's smile didn't falter, but her eyes flickered with something—surprise, confusion, professional discretion. "Of course. Right this way."
The fitting room was a small, mirrored box at the back of the department. The saleswoman introduced herself as Ruth, a woman in her sixties with reading glasses on a beaded chain and the air of someone who had measured every imaginable shape and size in thirty years of doing this job.
"I'll need to see the situation," Ruth said. "To get an accurate measurement."
Ben looked at Dolores. Dolores looked back, unflinching.
"I'll be right here," Dolores said. "Pretend I'm not."
The tarp came off first. The sweatshirt followed, leaving Ben in his undershirt, which was stretched so tight that it looked like it was painted on. Ruth's expression didn't change, but her eyes widened slightly behind her glasses.
"Let's get the tape measure," she said.
The process was mortifying. Ruth measured around his ribcage, then around the fullest part of his chest, then around again to double-check. The tape pressed against his skin, cool and clinical. Ben stared at the ceiling, counting the ceiling tiles, trying not to think about what was happening.
"Where are the nipples?" Ruth asked.
"What?"
"Your areolas. The nipple placement. It's important for sizing."
Ben looked down. The two heavy mounds hung from his chest, their undersides touching his upper belly. And there, dead center on each sagging globe, were his areolas—large and pink and suddenly very, very obvious.
"Um," he said. "Middle."
"Middle," Ruth repeated. "That's unusual. Most tissue would have them higher up."
"Nothing about this is usual."
Dolores snorted from her chair. "Understatement of the century."
Ruth measured the areolas, measured the drop, measured the width of each breast. She wrote something on a small pad and handed it to Dolores.
"Fifty-inch band," Dolores read out loud. "K cup?"
"J cup," Ruth corrected. "In this brand, at least. Bra sizing is... inconsistent." She turned back to Ben. "You're going to need a full-coverage style. Wide band. Underwire. Maybe a minimizer."
"A minimizer?"
"It reduces the appearance. Makes them look smaller."
"No." The word came out before Ben could stop it. "I don't want that."
Ruth blinked. Dolores raised an eyebrow.
"I just—" Ben fumbled, his face hot. "I don't want them to look smaller. I want them to look... like they are."
"Good God, Benjamin," Dolores said. "You like them."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." She leaned back in her chair, a strange expression on her face—part amusement, part something softer. "You're not just tolerating the situation. You're... embracing it."
Ben looked down at his chest. At the heavy, full breasts that had grown from his body. At the areolas sitting dead center on each sagging globe, so different from what he'd expected, so different from what biology would dictate, so utterly and completely his.
They were bizarre. They were impossible. They were exactly what he'd always dreamed of, in his deepest, most secret moments.
"I don't know what I feel," he said. "But I don't want to hide."
Ruth nodded slowly. "Then let's find something that fits properly. Something that celebrates what you have."
The first bra was a disaster. Too tight in the band, too shallow in the cup, the underwire digging into his ribs in a way that made him want to cry. The second was better but still wrong, the cups gaping at the sides, the straps sliding off his shoulders.
The third was a black lace thing that looked like it belonged on a pin-up model. When Ruth fastened it and Ben looked in the mirror, he didn't recognize himself.
The bra lifted his breasts high on his chest, transforming them from sagging weights into something almost... beautiful. The lace framed the areolas, highlighting them, drawing the eye. The band hugged his ribcage, providing support that made his back sing with relief. The straps sat wide on his shoulders, distributing the weight.
"Oh," he said.
"Better?" Ruth asked.
"Better."
"The lace might chafe during prolonged wear," Ruth said. "But for how you're wearing them now—" She gestured at the way Ben was turning in front of the mirror, examining himself from different angles. "—it seems appropriate."
Dolores stood and joined him at the mirror. In the reflection, she looked older than he remembered, the lines around her eyes deeper, but her expression was gentle in a way he hadn't seen since childhood.
"You look good," she said. "Different. But good."
"I feel strange."
"You feel like yourself for the first time in forty-nine years. That's not strange. That's overdue." She patted his arm. "Now, let's talk about how we're going to fix this curse before the rest of you catches up."
Ben looked at the mirror. At the black lace and the full breasts and the strange, conflicted expression on his own face.
He didn't know if he wanted this to stop.
And for the first time, he admitted to himself that maybe that was the real problem.
They bought three bras—the black lace, a nude full-coverage style, and a soft cotton sleep bra. Ruth gave Ben a pamphlet on breast care and a look that was equal parts professional and curious.
"Your situation is unusual," she said. "If you need any further fittings, I'm here Tuesday through Saturday."
"Thank you," Ben said. He meant it.
In the car, Dolores drove in silence for a while. The city slid past the windows—gray buildings, bare trees, the occasional stroller-pusher bundled against the cold. Ben sat in the passenger seat, wearing the nude bra under his sweatshirt, the weight redistributed in a way that made his back feel almost normal.
"Who is this curator?" Dolores asked finally. "The one who thinks you're cursed."
"Priya Raman. She works at the museum."
"And she's helping you? For free?"
"She's studying the curse. I'm her research subject."
"Hmm." Dolores's tone was noncommittal. "Does she know about your... current situation?"
"She's seen it."
"And she didn't run away screaming?"
"Not exactly." Ben thought of Priya's clinical curiosity, her professional detachment, the way she'd looked at him like he was a fascinating puzzle. "She was... interested."
"Interested." Dolores's lips twitched. "In you or in the curse?"
Ben didn't answer. He didn't know.
When they pulled into his apartment complex, Dolores turned off the engine but didn't move.
"Call me tomorrow," she said. "Every day until this is resolved. I want to know what's happening."
"I will."
"And Benjamin?"
"What?"
She reached over and squeezed his hand. "I don't understand what's happening to you. And I don't believe in curses. But I believe in you. And if this is who you're supposed to be—" She gestured vaguely at his chest. "Then maybe that's not the worst thing in the world."
Ben's throat tightened. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just call your curator. Find out how to fix this. Or don't fix it. I don't care anymore." She grabbed her purse. "But whatever you decide, be honest about it. To yourself first, and to everyone else second. That's the only way you're going to survive whatever comes next."
She got out of the car and walked to her own vehicle without looking back. Ben sat in the passenger seat, the new bras in a shopping bag beside him, the weight of his new body pressing against his ribs.
He was still sitting there when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out and saw Priya's name on the screen.
"Hello?"
"Ben. I've been thinking." Her voice was crisp and businesslike. "About what you said. About no one ever seeing you."
"Yes?"
"I have a proposition. Something that might help with the curse."
"What kind of proposition?"
She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost hesitant.
"I think you need to practice being seen. And I think I should be the one to help you."
Ben's heart hammered against his ribs. "What does that mean?"
"Come to the museum tomorrow. I'll explain everything." Another pause. "And Ben? Bring the lingerie."
The call ended before he could respond. He sat in the car, the phone clutched in his hand, his breasts heavy and full against his chest, and felt something shift inside him—something that was equal parts terror and anticipation.
He had no idea what Priya had planned.
But for the first time in his life, he was curious to find out.
He sat in the dark of his apartment with the shopping bag between his feet, the black lace bra still faintly warm from his body heat, and replayed Priya's last two words until they stopped sounding like a dare and started sounding like a promise. He needed two sports bras—one wasn't going to cut it, not with the way his new sweater puppies swung and bounced every time he moved—so he pulled up a website on his phone and ordered a pair of high-impact compression bras in black and navy. Then, because the thought of hiding them under a sweatshirt for the rest of his life made him want to scream, he added three skin-tight bodysuits to the cart, the kind that clung to every curve and left nothing to the imagination. The checkout total made him wince, but the image in his head—his heavy, full breasts outlined in stretch fabric, his areolas visible through the thin material—made his cock twitch against his thigh. He hit confirm, tossed the phone onto the couch, and whispered into the empty room, "Fuck it, Ben, let's see what happens."
The package arrived Tuesday morning, a plain brown box that sat on his doorstep like a dare. Ben hauled it inside, tore through the tape with a kitchen knife, and pulled out the compression bras first—functional, serious, the kind of thing that promised to hold everything in place. Then he lifted out the bodysuits, and his breath caught.
The fabric was thinner than he'd expected, a stretchy jersey that felt cool and slick against his fingers. The one on top was black, with a scooped neckline edged in delicate lace that dipped low enough to show a hint of cleavage. He held it up, imagining it stretched over his chest, the lace framing the heavy swell of his breasts, his areolas pressing against the thin material.
His cock stirred against his thigh.
"Okay," he said out loud, his voice rough. "Let's see if this even fits."
He stripped off his sweatshirt and the plain cotton bra Ruth had sold him—the sleep bra, comfortable but shapeless—and stood in his bedroom in just his boxers, his breasts hanging heavy and full against his ribs. The mirror on his closet door reflected a body he still didn't recognize: a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a soft belly, and two enormous, sagging breasts that dominated his torso.
He picked up the black bodysuit and stepped into it.
The fabric was tight, almost punishing, as he pulled it up over his hips and shoulders. It snapped into place over his chest, and suddenly his breasts were cupped and lifted, pressed close to his body, their shape outlined in stark relief against the stretchy black fabric. The lace neckline dipped low, exposing the tops of his breasts and the deep cleavage between them. His areolas pressed against the material like two dark shadows, visible even through the black.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck, that's..."
He turned in front of the mirror. The bodysuit hugged every curve, every pound of flesh, and for the first time since the curse had started, he didn't want to hide. He looked... good. Strange and impossible, but good. The kind of good that made his heart race and his palms sweat.
He dug through the shopping bag and pulled out the red satin bra he'd bought on impulse—a t-shirt bra, Dolores had called it, though he wasn't sure what made it a t-shirt bra. It was smooth and shiny, the cups lightly padded, the band wide and supportive. He fastened it around his ribs and adjusted the straps, then pulled the bodysuit back on over it.
The effect was almost obscene. The red satin gleamed through the black fabric, visible at the edges of the scooped neckline, a hint of color against the dark. His breasts looked huge, lifted and rounded, the lace trim barely containing them.
He should take it off. He should put on a sweatshirt and go back to pretending this wasn't happening.
Instead, he pulled on a pair of gray slacks and a pair of sensible loafers. He combed his hair. He brushed his teeth. He grabbed his keys and his wallet and his briefcase, and he walked out the door.
The office was on the third floor of a beige building downtown, a shipping company that dealt in freight and logistics and the kind of quiet desperation that came from doing the same thing every day for twenty years. Ben had worked there since he was twenty-nine, and in that time, he'd spoken to maybe half his coworkers, and most of those conversations had been about spreadsheets.
He walked through the front doors at eight fifty-seven, three minutes early for his nine o'clock shift.
The receptionist, a young woman named Kayla who usually barely glanced up from her phone, looked up. Then she looked again. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Morning, Ben," she said, her voice strangled.
"Morning, Kayla." He kept walking.
The elevator was empty, which was a small mercy. He rode it to the third floor, his heart hammering against his ribs, the weight of his breasts shifting with the movement of the car. The bodysuit held everything in place, but he could still feel the mass of them, the way they pressed against the fabric, the way the lace trim scratched gently at his skin.
The elevator doors opened onto the accounting floor.
He stepped out.
For a moment, nothing happened. People were at their desks, typing, talking, drinking coffee. The usual morning hum. Then someone looked up. Then someone else. Then someone else.
The hum died.
Ben walked past the cubicles, his sensible loafers clicking on the linoleum, his breasts leading the way. He could feel their eyes on him—on the black bodysuit, on the red satin visible at the neckline, on the impossible curves that swayed with every step.
"Good morning, everyone," he said, because he didn't know what else to say.
A man named Gerald, who worked in accounts receivable, dropped his coffee mug. It shattered on the floor, brown liquid spreading across the tiles.
"Sorry," Gerald said, his voice faint. "I'll—I'll clean that up."
Ben kept walking.
His desk was in the corner, a cluttered space of monitors and paperwork and a sad little plant that had died three years ago and he'd never bothered to throw away. He sat down, the chair creaking under his weight, and booted up his computer.
The silence lasted for approximately six more seconds.
"Ben." It was Susan from payroll, a woman in her fifties with sensible shoes and a no-nonsense attitude. She was standing at the edge of his cubicle, her eyes fixed on his chest. "Is that... a bodysuit?"
"Yes," Ben said.
"It's very... black."
"Thank you."
"And is that a red bra underneath?"
"Yes."
Susan blinked. "Okay. Okay." She turned and walked away, muttering something under her breath that might have been a prayer.
The morning progressed. Ben answered emails. He ran the weekly financial report. He did his best to ignore the way his coworkers kept finding excuses to walk past his desk.
Around ten thirty, a young man from marketing—Tyler, maybe? Ben could never remember names—stopped in front of his cubicle with a coffee in each hand.
"Hey, Ben," Tyler said. "I brought you a latte. Thought you might want one."
"Thank you," Ben said, genuinely surprised. "That's very kind."
"No problem." Tyler's eyes darted to his chest, then away. "I like your, uh, outfit. It's very... confident."
"Thank you."
"No one ever wears anything like that here. It's usually just button-downs and, you know, sad ties." Tyler laughed nervously. "You look great. Really. I mean, not that I'm—I'm not hitting on you or anything. I just think it's cool that you're... being yourself."
Ben took the latte. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in years."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
Tyler nodded and backed away, nearly tripping over his own feet.
By lunch, Ben had received three more compliments, two offers to "talk about anything you need to talk about," and one uncomfortable question about whether he was transitioning that had made him laugh out loud, because what else could he do?
He ate his sandwich at his desk, the bodysuit still tight against his chest, the red satin bra warm against his skin. His breasts felt heavy and full, the weight of them constant and undeniable. And underneath it all, there was a warmth in his belly that had nothing to do with the latte.
He felt seen. Not in the way he'd always feared, not in the way that made him want to disappear. He felt seen in the way he'd always secretly craved—like he mattered, like he was worth looking at.
His phone buzzed. A text from Priya.
"Are you at the office?"
"Yes," he typed back.
"Wearing what we discussed?"
He hesitated. Then he took a selfie—just his torso, the black bodysuit, the red satin visible at the neckline—and sent it.
The response came almost immediately. "Fuck, Ben. That's incredible. Come to the museum after work. I have something to show you."
Ben stared at the screen. His cock was already half-hard, pressing against the inside of his slacks.
"What kind of something?" he typed.
"You'll see. Bring the bodysuit. Bring the bra. And for God's sake, don't wear a sweatshirt."
He set the phone down, took a long breath, and tried to focus on the spreadsheet in front of him. It was impossible. His mind kept drifting to Priya—her sharp eyes, her clinical curiosity, the way she'd looked at him in the museum storage room like he was the most interesting thing she'd ever seen.
At four fifty-five, he shut down his computer, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out of the office.
The stares followed him. The whispers. The compliments, a few of them shouted across the room.
"Looking good, Ben!"
"Love the outfit!"
"Have a great weekend!"
He smiled. He nodded. He walked a little taller, the weight of his breasts pulling at his shoulders in a way that felt almost pleasant now, almost right.
The museum was a twenty-minute walk. The air was cold, the sky gray, but Ben didn't mind. He liked the way the wind pressed against his chest, the way the bodysuit shifted with every step, the way people on the street did double-takes and then looked away, embarrassed.
Priya was waiting for him at the staff entrance, a ring of keys in her hand and a smile that was equal parts welcome and mischief.
"You came," she said.
"I came."
She looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on his chest. "You're wearing the bodysuit."
"I'm wearing the bodysuit."
"And the red bra?"
"Visible at the neckline."
"Good." She turned and unlocked the door. "Come with me."
She led him through the museum's back corridors, past the offices and the conservation labs, until they reached a small room at the end of the hall. Inside was a desk covered in books, a laptop, and a notebook—the same notebook she'd used to document his curse.
Priya closed the door and locked it.
"Okay," she said. "Let's talk about how we're going to break this curse."
Ben sat on the edge of the desk, his breasts pressing against the bodysuit, his heart beating hard. "I thought you said it couldn't be broken."
"I said it couldn't be broken by ignoring it. But there's another way." She stepped closer. "The curse is rooted in desire. In the things you want but won't admit. If we want to break it, we have to satisfy that desire. Completely. Thoroughly. Until there's nothing left for the curse to hold onto."
Ben's mouth went dry. "What are you saying?"
Priya's hand found his knee. She leaned in close, her lips brushing against his ear.
"I'm saying," she whispered, "that I want to help you. I want to touch you. I want to show you what it feels like to be desired." She pulled back, her eyes dark. "But only if you want it. Only if you're ready."
Ben's cock was fully hard now, straining against his slacks. His breasts ached, the nipples tight and sensitive against the fabric of the bodysuit.
"I want it," he said, his voice raw. "I want you to touch me."
Priya smiled. It was not a gentle smile. It was the smile of a woman who had been waiting for this, who had been thinking about it, who had been planning.
"Then take off the bodysuit," she said. "Let me see you."
Ben stood on shaky legs. He pulled the bodysuit over his head, the fabric catching on his breasts for a moment before releasing them. They spilled out, heavy and full, the red satin bra lifting them high on his chest.
"Fuck," Priya breathed. "You're beautiful."
"No, I'm not."
"I'm the curator here, Ben. I know beautiful when I see it." She reached out and cupped one of his breasts, her thumb brushing over the satin-covered nipple. "These are beautiful. You're beautiful. Stop arguing with me."
Ben's breath hitched. "Okay."
Priya unfastened his belt, pulled down his zipper, let his slacks fall to the floor. His boxers were damp with precum, his cock straining against the fabric. She hooked her fingers under the waistband and pulled those down too, then stepped back to look at him.
He stood there, naked except for the red satin bra, his breasts hanging heavy and full, his cock standing at attention.
"On your knees," Priya said.
He obeyed.
She pulled down her own slacks and underwear, revealing a dark patch of hair and the wet, pink lips of her pussy. She was already wet, already swollen, already ready.
"Open your mouth," she said.
He opened it.
She straddled his face, one knee on either side of his head, her thighs pressing against his ears. Her pussy was inches from his mouth, the smell of her filling his nostrils, musky and warm.
"Lick," she said.
He licked.
At first, it was hesitant—a tentative flick of the tongue, unsure of the territory. Then her hand found the back of his head and pressed him closer, and something inside him broke open. He licked with abandon. He sucked on her clit like it was the last thing on earth, like it was the only thing that mattered. He pushed his tongue into her opening, tasting her, devouring her.
"That's it," Priya gasped. "Fuck, Ben. That's it. Right there. Don't stop."
He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. His hands found her ass and pulled her tighter against his face, burying himself in her. His own cock throbbed against his belly, untouched and aching, but he didn't care. He wanted this. He wanted to make her come.
Priya's hips bucked against his mouth. Her hand tightened in his hair. She was panting now, cursing, her thighs trembling against his ears.
"I'm going to come," she said. "Don't fucking stop. Please. Don't stop."
He didn't stop. He licked faster, harder, his tongue flat against her clit. She came with a cry, her body shuddering, her nails digging into his scalp.
For a moment, there was silence. Then she climbed off him, her legs shaky, and pulled him to his feet.
"Bed," she said. "Now."
The bed was a narrow cot in the corner of the room—not much, but enough. Priya pushed him onto his back, climbed on top of him, and straddled his hips.
"I want to ride you," she said. "I want to feel these—" She cupped his breasts, squeezing them. "—while I fuck myself on your cock."
"Do it," Ben rasped. "Please. Do it."
She lowered herself onto him.
The sensation was overwhelming. Her cunt was hot and tight and wet, sliding down over his length inch by inch. He groaned, his hands finding her hips, his breasts pressing against her palms as she leaned forward.
"Fuck, you feel good," Priya whispered. "You feel so fucking good."
She started to move. Slow at first, a gentle rocking that sent waves of pleasure through both of them. Then faster, harder, her hips snapping against his, her tits bouncing in rhythm.
"Cum inside me," she said. "I want to feel it. I want to feel you fill me up."
Ben was too close to argue. His hips bucked up to meet hers, his cock driving deep into her with every thrust. His breasts bounced with the movement, heavy and full, the red satin bra straining to contain them.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, Priya. I'm—"
"Come," she said. "Come for me, Ben. Fill me up."
He did.
The orgasm hit him like a freight train, wrenching a shout from his throat, his hips jerking as he spilled himself inside her. Priya rode him through it, her cunt milking every last drop, her hands still squeezing his breasts like they were the most precious things she'd ever touched.
Afterward, they lay tangled on the narrow cot, breathing hard, their skin slick with sweat. Priya's head rested on his chest, her cheek pressed against the soft curve of one breast.
"The curse is still there," she said, her voice muffled.
"I know."
"But maybe—" She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his. "Maybe that's okay. Maybe we don't need to break it. Maybe we just need to... embrace it."
Ben thought about the office, about the shocked compliments, about the way he'd felt walking through those doors with his head held high. He thought about Dolores, about her grudging acceptance, about the way she'd squeezed his hand. He thought about Priya, about the way she'd looked at him when she'd first seen him in the bodysuit.
"Embrace it," he repeated.
"Yeah." Priya smiled, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his breast. "Besides, I've been thinking about this curse. About what it means. What if it's not a curse at all? What if it's... a gift?"
Ben looked down at his chest, at the heavy, sagging, beautiful breasts that had grown from his body.
"A gift," he said again.
"Now that's the first time you've ever said that without sounding miserable." Priya kissed his chest, right on the curve of his breast. "I think we're making progress."
Ben didn't answer. He just lay there, his breasts warm and heavy against Priya's cheek, and let himself, for the first time, believe that maybe—just maybe—the curse wasn't something he needed to fix.
Maybe it was something he needed to live.
The rain came later, drumming against the window as they dressed. Priya handed him the bodysuit, warm from the radiator, and watched him step into it with a quiet satisfaction in her eyes.
"You're wearing it home," she said. Not a question.
"Yeah." Ben pulled it up over his breasts, the fabric clinging to every curve. "I think I am."
"Good." She reached for his tie, already knotted, and draped it around his neck. "One more thing. For the morning commute."
He looked down at the paisley pattern, the dark red silk. "What's this for?"
"Just a touch of color." Priya's fingers lingered on the knot. "You're not hiding anymore, Ben. Don't start now."
He caught her wrist, pressed her palm flat to his chest, let her feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric. "What if I'm not ready?"
"Then fake it." Her eyes met his, steady and warm. "Fake it until you walk into that office and realize nobody's laughing. Nobody's pointing. They're just looking. And some of them—" She smiled. "Some of them are looking because they like what they see."
He didn't have an answer for that. He just pulled on his slacks, slipped his keys into his pocket, and let her walk him to the door. The rain had stopped, leaving the street slick and silver under the streetlights, and Ben stepped out into it with his shoulders back and his breasts leading the way.
The walk home was quiet. A few cars passed. A dog barked. The world didn't end.
He unlocked his apartment, dropped his keys on the counter, and stood in front of the mirror. The bodysuit was still on. The tie was still knotted. His breasts filled the black fabric, heavy and full, the red satin bra a secret underneath.
"Fake it," he whispered to his reflection. "Fake it until you make it."
He made it to Sunday before the next surprise.