Chapter 17: Elasticity Test
The sterile calm of the breast clinic felt like a lie. Soft, recessed lighting, abstract pastel swirls on the walls, the faint scent of lavender and disinfectant – it all projected serenity, a stark counterpoint to the riot inside Orihime’s chest. She perched on the edge of the plush examination chair, fingers twisting in the soft fabric of the designer gown they’d given her. It tied at the neck, leaving her back open, the heavy, unfamiliar weight of her own breasts resting unnaturally against her ribs. Pseudocyesis. The word still echoed, hollow and mocking. Her body, a traitorous landscape of false signals, felt heavier than ever.
Dr. Arisawa entered, a sleek tablet in hand. She was immaculate – sharp bob, tailored white coat, eyes that missed nothing. “Kurosaki-san,” she acknowledged, her voice smooth as the polished chrome fixtures. “Your file mentions significant recent changes. Discomfort?” She paused, her gaze sweeping over Orihime’s exposed upper body, lingering on the pronounced swell beneath the thin gown material.
“Uh, yes,” Orihime stammered, the casualness of the doctor’s assessment making her flush. “They’re… much heavier. Sore. And they… sag.” The word felt crude, embarrassing. “They didn’t used to…” She trailed off, remembering the office whispers, Yamada’s lingering stares, Tajiri’s rough, filthy hands groping the weight. The falseness of the pregnancy only amplified the physical reality.
Dr. Arisawa nodded, tapping her tablet. “Hormonal fluctuations, particularly from significant stress or… intense physical stimuli,” she said, her tone devoid of judgment, yet the implication hung heavy in the lavender-scented air, “can cause rapid, destabilizing changes in breast tissue density and ligament integrity.” She moved closer, her presence cool and efficient. “May I?”
Her touch was professional, clinical, but precise. Cool fingers palpated the dense, swollen flesh, assessing the texture, the way the weight pulled downward. She traced the darkened areolas, the sensitive peaks that stiffened instantly under the impersonal contact – a confusing mix of fear and that persistent, unwanted thrum of arousal that Tajiri’s grunting presence always seemed to ignite. Orihime held her breath, focusing on a spot on the wall, trying to divorce her mind from the sensation of being handled.
“Significant glandular engorgement,” Dr. Arisawa murmured, more to herself than Orihime. “Skin elasticity is… compromised.” She lifted the full, heavy weight of one breast slightly, letting it drop back. It jiggled, settling lower than before. Orihime flinched. “The suspensory ligaments are clearly overstretched. This is causing the dragging sensation, the discomfort you describe. It also accelerates further ptosis – the sagging.” She stepped back, her expression thoughtful. “Cosmetic intervention would typically focus on reduction or lift surgery. However…” She tapped her tablet again, pulling up an image. “Given your youth and the recent onset, I’d recommend considering a newer, less invasive approach first. Collagen induction therapy. Injectable.”
Orihime blinked. “Injections? Like… fillers?” Vague images of plumped lips flashed in her mind.
“Similar principle, different formulation and target,” Dr. Arisawa corrected smoothly. “We inject specialized collagen-stimulating compounds directly into the supportive structures beneath the skin and around the ligaments. It triggers your body’s own healing response, prompting it to generate new, denser collagen fibers. Essentially, it rebuilds the internal scaffolding.” She pointed to the smooth, lifted silhouette on her tablet screen. “The goal is increased firmness, improved skin tone, and a subtle lift. Restoring structural integrity without major surgery. Recovery is minimal.”
Hope, fragile and unexpected, flickered in Orihime. Firmness. Lift. Less of this aching heaviness, this constant pull. Looking less… used. “It sounds… good? How do you know… if it will work? For me?”
Dr. Arisawa gave a small, tight smile. “Effectiveness hinges heavily on the skin’s innate elasticity and regenerative capacity. We need to test your tissue’s response potential first.” She turned to a gleaming cabinet mounted on the wall. “A brief, non-invasive assessment.”
The cabinet door swung open silently. Orihime’s breath caught. Inside wasn’t just gauze and cotton swabs. Neatly arranged on a tray lay an array of instruments that looked more like medieval torture devices than medical tools. Gleaming steel clamps of various sizes, some with textured grips, others with smooth, curved jaws. Beside them lay a set of clear plastic suction cups, ranging from small domes to larger, bell-shaped ones, connected by thin tubes to a small, silent pump unit. They looked cold, impersonal, terrifying.
“We’ll gauge capillary refill, dermal tension, and retraction speed,” Dr. Arisawa explained, selecting a pair of medium-sized clamps with smooth, rounded tips. The metal glinted under the soft lights. “The suction simulates the localised pressure effect of the injected compound.”
Orihime’s heart hammered against her ribs. Clamps. Suction cups. Her nipples, already peaked from the cool air and the doctor’s earlier touch, tightened further, a painful, almost electric jolt shooting through them. Fear coiled icy in her stomach, tightening her throat. Tajiri’s rough hands, pinching, squeezing… But beneath it, a treacherous warmth pooled low in her belly, a familiar ache awakening. The clinical sterility of the instruments, the doctor’s absolute control, the sheer violation of the unknown – it resonated with a dark, hidden frequency inside her, amplified by weeks of Tajiri’s possession and the hormonal maelstrom of her false pregnancy. Excitement warred with dread, making her skin prickle.
“Relax your shoulders, Kurosaki-san,” Dr. Arisawa instructed, her voice calm, as she snapped on fresh, pale blue gloves. The snick was unnervingly loud. She picked up the clamps. “This is simply diagnostic. Hold still, please.”
The cool metal touched the tender skin at the outer curve of Orihime’s left breast. Orihime gasped, flinching back instinctively, but the chair offered no retreat. Dr. Arisawa applied gentle, firm pressure. The clamp clicked softly, securing a small fold of skin and underlying tissue. A dull pressure-pain bloomed, then settled into a persistent, alien ache. Before Orihime could fully register it, the doctor had moved to the right breast, repeating the process with chilling efficiency. Two points of cold, pinching discomfort now anchored her heavy flesh.
Next, Dr. Arisawa reached for a suction cup – a medium-sized, bell-shaped dome. She positioned it precisely over Orihime’s left nipple and areola. The cool plastic contact made Orihime whimper. The doctor activated the pump. A low hum filled the room, almost inaudible. Then, a sudden, insistent pressure. The plastic dome sucked inward, pulling the sensitive nipple and dark areola taut, stretching the tender skin. Orihime cried out, a small, choked sound. The sensation was intense, a deep, encompassing tug deep inside her breast tissue, a bizarre inversion of Tajiri’s crude suction. It wasn’t just pain; it was a profound, internal pressure that resonated with the persistent ache in her pelvis. Her back arched slightly off the chair, not in resistance, but from the sheer, overwhelming strangeness of it.
“Good capillary refill,” Dr. Arisawa noted, observing the skin trapped in the clamp jaws. “Slight blanching, quick return. Resilient tissue.” She moved the suction cup to the right breast. The cold plastic descended. The hum. The sudden, deep pull. Orihime squeezed her eyes shut, fingers digging into the armrests. The clamped sites throbbed dully. The suction felt invasive, violating, yet… her traitorous body responded. Heat radiated from her core. Her breath hitched. The fear was still there, cold and sharp, but beneath it, riding the wave of intense sensation, a dangerous pulse of arousal flared, hot and insistent. Her body, conditioned by weeks of Tajiri’s relentless use and confused by its own false pregnancy, interpreted the clinical violation as a perverse form of stimulus. She felt exposed, tested, stretched – physically and mentally – in a way that mirrored the relentless pressure of her life.
Dr. Arisawa watched the suctioned nipple intently, the stretched areola darkening further under the pull. “Interesting elasticity,” she murmured, her professional detachment unbroken. “The tissue shows significant distension capacity.” She glanced at Orihime’s flushed face, the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath the clamps and suction. “The procedure can be… quite stimulating for some nerve endings. A secondary effect.” She made a note on her tablet, her expression impassive. “We have enough data for now.”
With efficient movements, she released the suction pump. The pressure vanished instantly, leaving Orihime’s nipple tingling, hypersensitive, the areola flushed a deep, angry crimson. The clamps clicked open. The released skin bloomed red before slowly fading. Orihime slumped back, trembling, sweat beading on her upper lip despite the clinic’s cool air. Her breasts felt raw, alive with a confusing mix of residual ache and a deep, unsettling thrum. The heavy weight remained, but now punctuated by the memory of metal and suction.
Dr. Arisawa peeled off her gloves. “Your regenerative potential appears viable, Kurosaki-san. The collagen induction therapy should yield noticeable results. We can schedule the first session. A series is recommended.” She tapped her tablet, looking at Orihime expectantly. The sleek clinic, the tasteful art, the hum of technology – all felt like a thin veneer over the visceral, pulsing reality of Orihime’s body, clamped, sucked, tested, and betraying her with its own heated response. The promise of firmness felt like another burden. She nodded mutely, unable to speak, the ghostly pressure of the instruments imprinted on her skin, echoing Tajiri’s demands and her body’s relentless, confusing hunger.
The clinic's heavy glass door hissed shut behind Orihime, muffling the sterile calm. Sunlight hit her like a physical blow after the dimmed interior, making her squint. The phantom grip of the clamps still bit into her tender flesh, a stark counterpoint to the lingering, deep thrum the suction had awakened deep within her swollen breasts. She clutched the paper bag containing post-care instructions, her knuckles white. Collagen induction therapy. The words felt alien, clinical, yet the promise of less aching weight was a fragile lifeline. Her steps felt unsteady on the pavement, the city noise a jarring intrusion after the hushed intensity of the examination room. Tajiri’s leering grin flashed unbidden in her mind, his filthy hands claiming what the doctor had just clinically probed. She shuddered, a confusing cocktail of revulsion and that persistent, low burn in her pelvis tightening her stomach.
A sharp, familiar pang lanced through her right shoulder blade. "Ow!" She instinctively adjusted the strap of her bra, digging her fingers beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. It bit deeper, a constant, nagging pressure she'd been ignoring all morning. Too tight. Way too tight. The underwire felt like it was trying to saw through her ribcage. She glanced down surreptitiously. Oh god. The spillage was worse than ever. Pale flesh bulged noticeably over the top edge of the cup, the delicate lace straining visibly against the sheer volume. Her blouse, usually a comfortable fit, pulled taut across her chest, the buttons threatening mutiny. Sweat prickled under her arms. They feel bigger. The horrifying, undeniable thought crystallized. The doctor’s assessment, the terrifying instruments, the promise of future injections… had it already started? Or was it just the aftermath of being clamped and stretched? The ghostly pressure seemed to intensify.
She ducked into the relative quiet of a covered arcade, leaning against cool tile for a moment. Fumbling in her purse, she pulled out her phone. Ichigo’s contact photo smiled back, oblivious. On assignment. Back soon. Same message. Always. Her thumb hovered, the urge to call, to cry, overwhelming. But cry about what? The terrifying suction cups? The clamps? The fact her own body felt like foreign, betraying territory, expanding under unseen pressures both clinical and crude? Or just the burning need he was never here to quench? She slammed the phone back into her bag. Tears stung, hot and humiliating. Tajiri’s grimy face replaced Ichigo’s. Pathetic little wife, his raspy whisper seemed to echo in the arcade’s murmur. Always hungry. Needing filling. She pushed off the wall, gritting her teeth against another stab from the bra strap and the deeper, darker ache it seemed to aggravate. Enough. She needed air that wasn't antiseptic. She needed… space. And bras that didn't feel like instruments of torture.
Turning a corner, the familiar frosted glass front of 'Silhouette Lingerie' gleamed under recessed spotlights. It was expensive, intimidating, but they carried her old size. Or… what used to be her size. Orihime hesitated by the window display of impossibly elegant lace and satin. The mannequins possessed a serene, unburdened perfection her own body could never achieve. She touched her throat, feeling the rapid pulse beneath her skin. Her breasts felt impossibly heavy, tender, the stretched skin from the suction cups still tingling. The clinic’s assessment had been invasive, revealing, leaving her raw. But the practical problem was immediate: her clothes didn’t fit. The constriction was unbearable. Taking a shaky breath, smelling the faint scent of expensive fabric and floral air freshener drifting out, she pushed the door open. A delicate bell chimed.
"Good afternoon!" A young sales assistant, impossibly polished in a sleek black dress, glided over. Her smile was bright, professional, her gaze instantly, discreetly, assessing Orihime’s strained blouse. "Looking for something special today?"
Orihime flushed, crossing her arms self-consciously over her chest, which only emphasized the overflow. "Um, actually," she stammered, her voice smaller than intended, "I think… I think I need… a new size? My bras… they're just…" She trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the uncomfortable pressure digging into her shoulders and ribs. "Too small. Suddenly."
The assistant’s smile didn’t waver. "Of course! Growth spurts happen, even after university." Her tone was light, friendly, expertly neutralizing the awkwardness. "Let's get you measured. We’ll find you something comfortable and beautiful. Follow me?" She gestured towards a plush fitting room area, its velvet curtains promising privacy Orihime desperately craved. Orihime followed, the muffled city sounds fading, replaced by the soft rustle of fabric and the terrifying, liberating prospect of shedding the painful cage she wore. The assistant pulled out a soft, flexible tape measure. "Arms down by your sides, please, relax your shoulders." Her touch was efficient, impersonal. The tape slid snugly beneath Orihime’s straining breasts, then around the fullest part. Orihime held her breath, watching the assistant’s expression. A slight, barely perceptible lift of an eyebrow. A small, thoughtful hum. "Okay," the assistant said briskly, jotting down numbers. "Let me see what we have in stock. I think we’ll need to go up… significantly." She disappeared into the racks.
Alone in the fitting room alcove, Orihime stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She slowly unbuttoned her blouse, wincing as the tight fabric released its grip. Peeling off the old bra felt like shedding a suffocating skin. Red, angry grooves marked her shoulders and ribcage. Her freed breasts settled heavily, the weight a profound, almost shocking pull. They looked larger than ever, the areolas darker, the skin taut and slightly flushed from the clinic’s ministrations. She traced the faint, lingering indentations where the clamps had been. Significant glandular engorgement, the doctor’s voice echoed. Compromised elasticity. She cupped the heavy warmth in her hands, a confusing surge of despair and unwanted awareness flooding her. Tajiri’s seed, the clinic’s machines, her own traitorous hormones – everything conspired to reshape her.
The rustle of the curtain broke her trance. The assistant reappeared, arms laden with lace and satin in shades of ivory, pale pink, and black. Several bras, but the sizes… Orihime’s eyes widened. The numbers on the tags were startling. "We'll start with these," the assistant said confidently, hanging them on the hook. "Try this one first." She handed Orihime a delicate-looking ivory full-cup bra with wide, satin-lined straps. It looked impossibly small. Orihime doubted it would even cover half the swell. But she turned, letting the curtain fall closed, the soft fabric whispering against the rail. Fumbling with the unfamiliar clasp, she finally secured it. She took a deep breath and turned to face the mirror again. Her breath caught. The ivory lace cupped her fully, no spillage, no digging. The wide straps sat comfortably, distributing the immense weight. The lift was gentle, supportive, the shape rounded and contained. It fit. Perfectly. The relief was almost dizzying. She looked… supported. Held. Yet undeniably, overwhelmingly larger. The new size was a stark confirmation of the change the procedure had initiated, a tangible consequence of the clinic’s cold instruments and her body’s bewildering response. She touched the smooth fabric covering her breast, the ache beneath a constant, heavy reminder. The assistant’s voice filtered through the curtain. "How are we doing in there? Found a winner?" Orihime stared at her reflection, at the woman encased in expensive ivory lace, her body irrevocably altered, and swallowed hard. "It… it fits," she called out, her voice thick with a confusing mix of relief, embarrassment, and the relentless, humming hunger that seemed to grow with her.