The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

On Saturday Ateera enjoyed the quiet, until she cut herself.

She’d lived in the alternative. True, she knew many families that decamped from Damascus and embraced expansive American living styles. Large, rambling houses speckled with very few family members. Big rooms cluttered with possessions, but not noise. Ateera had visited those houses. Mansions in Ypsilanti with a tasteful Syrian overlay. She’d had quiet cups of tea, in such houses.

Her own upbringing had been less sedate. She’d shared a room with two sisters, and while one was her twin, the other was five years older and proud of it. So there’d been hairspray, cosmetics, lots of clothes—saucy undergarments and sober Michigan Arab overgarments—and music. Her Mom had made seven noisy children, of whom she was the only silent and withdrawn one. Even her twin, admittedly fraternal, had a big mouth. The house was usually full of uncles, cousins, visitors, that to many was probably a jolly joie-de-vivre but was mostly just noise, to Ateera.

Among many other things everyone who came over had expectations of her. Ironically, to be quiet. To be interchangeable in a hijab with her sister, so that they could say, pleased, that they could barely tell them apart.

She’d served a lot of tea, something even her close friends, good muslim girls from good families, considered a little archaic and embarrassing.

And then she’d left. Ateera had found a job and a very, very quiet apartment. Brood Lane, ten apartments in two floors clustered around an open and empty courtyard. Ateera had unpacked her few belongings and just sat on the floor for an hour, staring at the many beige aspects of her new life. Enjoying them.

Blood spilled all over the beige quartz countertop.

“Oh, FUCK!” Ateera swore, appalled. It was a bad cut.

She’d been feeling—odd.

She’d slept poorly. The apartment next to hers, A-1, was rented out short-term to whoever. Almost every time this was to business travelers who wanted something less depressing for a week.

This time a woman had moved in—and so much woman.

An incredible amount of woman.

Although American-born and raised, this girl left Ateera feeling very—foreign. This was a blonde in jean cutoff shorts with wide lips, with a proud American ass, and a body that spread from sea to shining sea. And there was the matter of her tits. Only America produced tits like that. Playful and enormous, their purpose not to nourish little babies, or even to be sexy, but just to be huge for the sake of being huge. Ateera wanted to watch the new resident walk through a doorway. And on top of all that she was pregnant. Just another bulge on a body full of them.

New resident brought men home. Ateera had listened to male grunts each night. Not even very happy ones, but it was clear from that and occasional happy girl moans that her new neighbor was getting fucked a lot.

All this should have been gross. Ateera had avoided sexuality most of her life because it was fraught with danger. Either she’d end up at the Nikah with some parentally-approved man with a mustache, or she’d disappoint every single family member, and ancestors, and God, with some guy named Tyler she met on a dating app. Definitely it was going to take something special to wake up her well-hidden libido.

Certainly not just listening to a man growl, on the other side of a wall. Right? She’d woken up feeling flushed and warm, the sound of male ardor still in her ears, and a shower had just made it worse. Maybe it was being naked, or something like that, but the water had sluiced across her body and left all its warmth between her legs. Turning on the TV, to change noises, had not helped. She’d decided to cook.

Now she’d cut her palm open, a lot.

“Fuck. Fuck!” It was a lot of blood, and she was not that big. Ateera jammed a rag on it and considered her options. Her employer health insurance was more deductible than insurance. There had to be a way to handle this by herself, right?

She felt—light-headed. Her Mom had e-mailed her a story, just one, about a woman dying alone, and having her cats eat her eyeballs, since no one knew to check on her. She’d included the message “did you get a cat?”

No cat.

With no other options, Ateera opened the door. Every single neighbor’s door was shut, hard, excepting just one. She’d had a feeling it would be open. A scent wafted out the door, and even despite the throbbing in her hand Ateera hesitated before it.

It smelled—biological.

“Hello?” she said. “Neighbor?”

The neighbor slouched to the door, boobs somehow tied off with a red linen shirt. They were even bigger up close. Her face brightened as she saw Ateera, which was encouraging. A lot of Americans couldn’t manage much more than a skeptical scowl when they saw the hijab.

A hijab she—wasn’t wearing. Ateera abruptly felt even more naked than the half-concealed bimbo slut. “I cut my hand, real bad, I was wondering if you had—like a really, really big bandaid?” Ateera said. “I’m, um, Ateera.”

“Ateera,” the woman said, in a new-to-my-mouth way. She looked at Ateera’s hand. The kitchen towel was wet and crimson. “I’m Terri and oh no your HAND! How will you touch people?”

“With my... other hand?” Ateera said, frowning. This was definitely a rental unit, so why did it feel so... lived in? No. It smelled lived-in, like Terri had been dropping old underpants in it for her entire life. Ateera sniffed, uncertain. What was that... scent?

Her body was telling her she was in someone’s... lair.

Terri was always certain of herself, and medical treatment was no exception. She unwrapped the towel. The gash was centered on Ateera’s palm, and was still welling up bright blood. “Okay. Hold on. I’ve got the perfect shirt for this. It’s burgundy.

Her current shirt was... burgundy. Ateera opened her mouth, and didn’t have time to say anything before Terri whipped it off. It was remarkably fast, considering how much tit was in the shirt. Just like that Terri was barechested in front of the slight Dearborn native. Ateera was confronted with by-far the biggest boobs she had ever seen, including rare online sightseeing. The veins alone were eye-popping, and her nipples were the size of Ateera’s wrist, or maybe even ankles.

Terri spit on Ateera’s palm.

“Wait—why—” Ateera said, increasingly confused. An enormous gob of spit mixed in with the pool of blood. “Why did you—”

“Oh, it has healing properties. Lots of properties!” Terri said. She had such a calm, mothering affect that Ateera found herself nodding. “You might also find yourself—well, anyway!” She twisted her still-warm shirt around and around, encasing Ateera’s hand in a red club.

“You SPIT on my—” Ateera stopped. The wound had stopped hurting. “I can’t imagine that was sterile.”

Terri slapped her bulging, fertile tummy. She seemed affronted. “STERILE? You’re lucky I don’t know what that word means anymore. You’ll be fine, baby. You did good, coming here. I swear, all these neighbors would rather die than knock on a door. SO quiet around here, isn’t it?”

“I think people come here for the quiet,” Ateera said. With her palm apparently addressed—although now she was single-handed—she was able to pay more attention to the mounds of girl in front of her. Terri was still nonchalantly topless. She stared at the woman’s boobs. How did the muscles work? Did she have backaches for days?

“I never come quiet,” Terri said, shaking her head. “Listen, I’m throwing a big barbeque tomorrow. To liven this place up and transfo—uhh—anyway. You bring... hmm.. you can’t cook with that hand. You bring yourself. You want a drink while you’re here? I just made a fresh batch.”

She indicated, by shifting her posture so her nipples pointed, a glass carafe on the kitchen counter.

“What is it?” Ateera said.

“Its for sharing,” Terri said, brightly.

Ateera heard/felt a dull throb.

It took Ateera some time to recognize the noise as a human noise. The same masculine growl she’d been fidgeting with last night. Perhaps because she didn’t quite hear it with her ears. It seemed to vibrate, in her chair, up her legs, and between her thighs. Terri smiled, and, before Ateera’s eyes, the dark skin of her teats tightened and tautened.

“Sorry, we woke the man up. I’ll go say hi on him. Be RIGHT back in five minutes or an hour or so, okay? You stick around if you want! I want people to keep their doors open! I want EVERYTHING to be open!”

She stood up. Terri’s tits wobbled. But with purpose, like they knew how to bobble in the hottest possible way. When she turned around, a lot of side boob was still visible.

Ateera eyed the open front door. The logical thing to do would be to seek actual medical attention, including a strong antibiotic for the mess of germs spit into her open wound. She was not in this city to be friendly with huge American breasts, or the girls attached to them.

The male growl became a harsher, louder one, mixed with a distinctive feminine giggle. A low tingle went from Ateera’s injured hand, down her spine, and between her legs.

Maybe Terri was right, to be friendly, Ateera thought. It wasn’t like she was anti-friendly. She’d just needed a break from a family structure where she was firmly at the bottom, where a ladder could be traced with each person on a rung, and herself at the ground. But—she was not opposed to something different, something more... egalitarian.

Where she was just one of many in a sweaty, cooing pile.

Ateera blinked. What was that?

She cautiously approached the carafe. Terri was a formidable scent, but the glass defined the rest of the room. Was this—milk? It was a cloudy, milky white, and room temperature against her uninjured hand. Room temperature alone should’ve been a taboo, but she was close enough to really enjoy the fumes pouring out of it. Salty and sweet. Creamy. Those were more tastes than scents, but they were clear as day in her nose. Her mouth watered, and her palm started to throb again. Not in a bad way, necessarily.

Ateera awkwardly poured herself a glass. And one for Terri, as well. She knew how to pour drinks, at least. To be polite she needed to wait but—there were two matched moans from the bedroom, now. It was hard to tell them apart. Terri had a throaty husk, and both voices were primal. Ateera tipped the cup to her lips.

Perhaps it was some kind of oat milk.

It wasn’t. It was salty-sweet creamy good. And thick, very thick. Ateera tipped it down her throat, and swished it around her gums. She’d never tasted anything that good before. And just like Terri it was uncomplicated Americana, unspiced except for the essentials of fat and salt and sweet. It was amazing. It coated her lips.

Ateera poured herself another cup. She could almost tell what was happening in the bedroom from the sequences of noises. Terri made it simple, squeaking out an obvious rhythm. Would she, herself, ever be that at ease in a bedroom? Or that comfortable around anyone? She wasn’t even comfortable alone in her own room, much less showing her tits to some man for his enjoyment.

She should really leave. She was listening to her neighbor fuck, in the very next room. And why?

But she’d been invited to stay. And the taste.... the taste was very good. Even the noises were... good.

A third cup. The carafe was getting low. She was very satiated, her stomach very full, but it didn’t matter. She would find room. Terri definitely was, from the way she was moaning and happy-screeching. Ateera’s legs scooched apart. Of course she liked moving out, living alone.

But... then what? Friends? Situationships? Lovers? What was her PLAN?

Lots of lovers?

Her throat was completely coated with the cream, and her nose was heavy with salt. She could smell it in her sinuses. Ateera found herself slouched in her chair. Her injured hand was twitching in time with Terri’s noises, and her tongue was out. Where—where was her hijab? She wasn’t being a proper young woman. She was being a human female. Humans had desires. It was fine that she was feeling a dribble between her legs.

And that was the last glass. She’d drank nearly a gallon of the mystery juice. Oopsy! And Terri’s glass, as well. It was rude, but Terri seemed happy to share. She’d left home to never have to share, ever again, but... maybe it was nice, to share. Maybe she could share, too. Sharing was part of her cultural heritage too. Discouraged and giggled about at sleepovers and fetishized but still embedded, deep within her consciousness.

There was a word for it.

They were famous for it.

Harem.

Ateera groaned, and forced herself to stand up. She sloshed. Her body was too confused to process the scene. She needed to—leave. Go. Lie down, recover. Touch herself, with her good hand. Or anyone’s hand. She stumbled out the front door, body burning pleasantly.

Eventually, about an hour later, Terri ambled out. She’d completely forgotten about her guest. Good dick did that to a girl.

The empty cups and carafe brought back foggy memories of a shy house guest. Right.

And she’d—drunk an entire batch. It was intended to be secreted in small doses during parties. An entire bottle...

Terri was almost never at a loss. These days even childbirth was just a matter of cocking her hips and angling her legs. But—an entire bottle—her mouth hung open, stupid.

Among other things, she was gonna have to tie Hassan up again.

On Sunday someone had put flyers up for the BBQ, and they were very strange. They just said ‘BBQ’ in a curly, feminine hand, on pink paper. They weren’t photocopied. This was obvious because ‘BBQ’ was often misspelled, the ‘Q’ floating from the front to the middle to the back. They weren’t taped, either, they were stuck to surfaces with something gummy and adhesive, that smelled good.

Ateera hadn’t seen any of them. She’d spent an entire day indoors, feeling very, very strange.

Hungry—that was the dominant feeling. An enormous and worrying hunger that had driven her to eat every foodstuff in her apartment. With weakening self-control she’d barely managed to stick to a breakfast-lunch-dinner order, eating every single cereal item in the morning before moving on to lunch. Her body screamed at her for more nutrition, and was unpicky about how she got it. She’d licked a tub of hummus clean. She’d eaten a bottle of olives with her hands, and then, feeling thirsty, drank the juice. At noon she’d made a dozen hardboiled eggs, and with all her willpower, had managed to save two for later.

The need for nourishment was all-consuming, and Ateera found herself surfacing only at odd moments, usually embarrassing ones. When she was sticking her entire head into an emptied tub of ice cream, in order to lick once more at crevices. And when she was close, alarmingly close, to eating a spoonful of baking soda. Possibly her second spoonful.

Ateera had concluded that her palm was infected. She had a strange type of fever that demanded feeding. Vague, dreamlike, she did recall ‘feed a fever’ as advice, and surrendered herself to it.

A big problem was the need to do anything one-handed, and with her offhand, to boot. Her dominant hand was wrapped in a sticky red shirt, and Ateera couldn’t quite seem to bring herself to unwrap it. It felt okay, with some painful twinges. The thought of her dominant hand made her giggle, and tingle. She was using her submissive hand.

Ateera watched TV. Anime. Her family had treated it as cartoons, normal fare for the baby daughter. After some indecision she’d found herself absorbing episode after episode of Rent-A-Girlfriend, and especially Quintessential Quintuplets. Bouncy, curvy girls with just enough personality differences to please the male lead. The protagonist. The man. The harem-master.

Her boobs felt stretched and hot. She wore a long grey dress, and it was drenched with her sweat. Ateera glanced down, between episodes, and saw a cleavage line of sweat on the fabric. How strange, she thought, vaguely.

And then she smelled—meat.

Meat had never been a draw to Ateera. But all those past reactions were now flushed out of her, and she was barely aware of ever being a different person, when it came to protein. Now the reaction was powerful and visceral, a full-body need keyed to the bloody scent. She needed meat in her. She needed to soak her mouth in it. She pulled herself off the couch, surrounded by crumbs that were suddenly lesser and insufficient. Mere carbs, when what she required was a savory flush in her mouth, as juicy as possible. It took willpower for her to adjust her dress, wrap her hair, and she went without shoes or slippers as a result.

The QBB was upstairs, on the rooftop, next to the saddest rooftop pool in the entire city. The builders had been unclear if it was a jacuzzi or a pool, and it was neither. Too big to heat, too small to swim. It was also completely surrounded by a forbidding black-metal fence, and was a stew of old leaves.

Ateera was last to arrive. Her fellow residents were there—eight people, including her. They were uncomfortably mingling around a gargantuan grill that Ateera had never seen before. It was long enough to cook a steer, standing or lying down, and brand new. A man with a deep black beard was stationed in front of it, with Terri and Terri’s tits right next to him. She seemed to be gently teaching him proper grill behavior. The girls all had similar vibes to Ateera—deeply minted singles with vague plans for the future. Ateera ignored them—meat, meat, meat—and picked up a styrofoam plate. A side table had big pitchers of pink lemonade and a jug of milk.

“Ateera!” Terri said, waving. She walked behind her new grillmaster, rubbing her boobs on his back. “Oh! You can walk still! Okay, gosh, enjoy that while you can. You want some meat, I bet?”

“Unh—” what was WRONG with her? She should at least be able to have a conversation. Terri took off a big apron that read “LET ME SMOKE YOUR SAUSAGE”, so her boobs could breathe more. Ateera swallowed down anticipatory spit. “Yes—hi—I’m sorry—thanks again for the—” she waved her injured clubhand.

“Oh, I go through dozens of shirts a week,” Terri said. She shook her apron. “I might switch to these permanently, you have so much breathing room on the sides! Do you want some sausages? I usually do!”

Ateera had already drank down a lot of tit-growing sludge juice, and watched a brain-melting spiral layered underneath anime episodes, and even her shower that morning had coated her in horny-inducing hormones. But she was still ultimately a good girl who had never once broken curfew, who kept all her teenage rebellion safely in a diary, and—

She swallowed down spit. They looked so tender and succulent. She could picture the meat juice dripping down her chin, and—her imagination kicked in—fueling her, plumping her up, leaving behind a little boring body. No—she was—

She was a GOOD MUSLIM GIRL, she told herself, forcing it through the meaty haze.

“Sorry, they’re pork, right?” Ateera heard herself say. She managed an apologetic laugh.

Terri’s hands flew to her mouth, and her sideboob wobbled. “Oh NO!” she gasped. “I—see, I eat anything in my mouth, I just chomp and chomp unless its suck and suck and—I didn’t even THINK...”

“It’s fine!” Ateera said. She bobbled backwards. A lifetime of training warred with an onslaught of chemicals and hormones demanding protein.

She sat backwards, onto a plastic deck chair from the 1990s. It creaked underneath her, and in the meat-driven confusion she wondered, vaguely—did she gain some weight?

The barbeque was starting to heat up, the girls in line for meat, and holding their plates with both hands. She didn’t know any of their names. Except—there was one girl off the side, holding the saddest possible tray of deviled eggs. With just the slightest dust of paprika. It was midwestern get-together cooking at its most mayonnaise, but Ateera’s eyes glommed on to it. Her body knew there were essential fats in there.

An image popped forwards, fleeting—getting her ready for the future—of herself with wheelbarrow tits, surrounded by well-wishers.

“Can I try one?” she said, pitching her overheated body towards the food.

“Oh! Yes!” the girl smiled, relieved. “I’m Julia!” Julia had naturally dark eyes with natural dark shadows underneath, and had an aura of cigarettes. “I was about to throw them over the side of the building. It’s tough, bringing sides, isn’t it?”

“Unhhh,” Ateera was past making conversation. She popped one in her mouth. She was getting more experienced at chewing and swallowing. And they were pretty good—pickled with notes of shallot and mustard. Warming. She ate another.

“They’re—they’re great,” Ateera said. She reached for a third, and could only barely hold back until Julia nodded. “Oh god. They’re so good. Its- I can’t cook for myself, I hurt my hand, so—”

“Its nice to see everyone,” Julia said, looking especially at the man at the grill. She didn’t seem put out by Ateera gobbling in front of her. She even held the tray up higher. “REALLY nice, huh? It gets—a little—lonely—and—good lord, look at that girl’s TITS.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Ateera agreed. She picked up eggs. What was wrong with her? Why was she so—focused? And when she wasn’t single-minded on nutrition the word ‘tits’ sent her down a different path, where Terri’s boobs filled her mind’s eye. She was so hungry, for food, for friends, for big juicy suckable—

There was a finger in her mouth.

Ateera froze. Julia had picked up one egg, and instead of taking it, like a normal person, she’d just glommed her desperate mouth on the girl’s finger.

And not just that, she’d licked it.

It tasted like polish and hand soap and a little bit like cigarettes. However, part of her thought, it wasn’t pork. It was fine.

“S-sorry! I’m feeling a little—off!” Ateera managed.

She’d humiliated herself. She didn’t deserve to hang out with everyone else. She looked at the crowd—women gathered, supplicating, at a big burly man and his mountain of meat. It was the way things should be. He was providing. And she was just an outsider sucking on eggs and fingers.

Ateera fled, after giving the tray a last look, to make sure she’d polished them off.

On Monday Ateera went back to work, with bigger tits.

They were much bigger.

Ordinarily the Calving special blend of fertility drugs induced a selective type of amnesia, about boundless physical changes. It was an ingenious system that let a girl use her remaining rationality up on rationalizing. All sorts of excuses about retaining water, or premenstrual changes, or fairy dust sprinkles, in service of explaining away big boobs and raw, aching nipples.

On Ateera it was too fast, too much. When she hefted them, before work, they sloshed in her hands. They were really big. She’d lost her torso, and already lost track of her feet.

But she’d been doused liberally in fuck juice and watched a lot of special programming, and, most of all, she was very bright. The smartest girls did the best job explaining away their hefty, sexy new bodies. They used up all their brains, coming up with reasons.

Ateera went with—puberty.

She hadn’t really gone through it, stifled by well-meaning parents and her own sexless upbringing. Even her estrogen had been choked off. Now she was eating well. Or maybe it was a byproduct of fever, or some sort of hallucination, the way her boobs rolled around in her palms. She threw on a very long, very conservative dress and tried not to think about it. Or how her thighs rubbed together. Or the way she’d woken up, drenched in what was partially sweat, and partially something... else.

“I am really appreciating this, Marcus,” she said, waving her busted hand. “I was all set to type one handed. Maybe hit the spacebar with this one.” she wiggled her hand. She hadn’t even thought about taking the shirt-bandage off. It didn’t hurt any longer.

In fact, the hand felt kinda good.

Marcus was assistant head of IT. “Support services are here to support,” he said, grinning. “You girls are the ones making money. We’re a cost pit.”

“That’s soooo short-sighted,” Ateera said. She huffed, and found herself making eye contact with Marcus, a lot. He was an anomaly on a female-dominated floor, a full six foot three and dark chocolate black. He walked the lanes of their office, his bald head gleaming under the harsh lights, bringing IT help to the many little women in their cubes. “You’re like a—like a—what’s the thing that’s like a really important pin?”

“A—lynchpin?” Marcus said, amused. He made deep eye contact with her, again. Ateera drank deeply from his eyes, and then felt—odd—about it.

A new voice was telling her that men need a full visual display from a girl. Their eyes should boldly sweep around, examining her tits and ass. It was not a very feminist voice, but Ateera was having a hard time quieting it. Marcus had very high quality eyes. They deserved to stare at her boobs. Now that she was in puberty again, or whatever.

“Yes.. right!” She giggled. “Sorry, my hand isn’t the only thing struggling. Also my, um, my brain, I guess? Anyway Marcus you should be like, Floor Boss. Officially. None of this, humble servant of the wires stuff.”

“Floor Boss,” Marcus straightened, which was a treat for Ateera’s growing body. She was joining him, she vaguely felt. Getting a body HE deserved, a rich collection of fun curves for his big hands to enjoy. She crossed her legs, under her dress. Why was she so randy for IT support staff? Even if he was Floor Boss.

What kind of staff DID he have?

“Floor boss,” Ateera said, nodding. “Yeah. Or Floor Lord or something.”

“Floor Lord. People coming to my office for once,” Marcus said. He grinned at her, with white teeth. Again he made eye contact, and now Ateera felt ashamed of it. She could feel her breasts underneath her shift, still working their way through the biggest breakfast she’d ever had in her life. He’d enjoy looking at them, now soft and globular. It was the least she could do for all his help. “I’ll think about that,” he promised. “Thanks, Ateera.”

She took a long lunch break. The idea was to get her head in the game, clear some of the naughty thoughts out of it, and also to eat. It had been such a strange few days. But away from her apartment, the glaze of TV, the calming sound of harem anime, she’d felt more—uneasy. Why had she spent an entire morning redesigning their office hierarchy to benefit Marcus?

It had gone far beyond idle fantasy. There were twelve people in the office. Ramona and Giselle could be in charge of feeding him, probably big thick steaks for a man of his stature. Maria, the tallest girl in the office, could be his fitness trainer, or something. Most importantly their assistant manager, Alice, would spend her days crouched in a too small chair shunted at his feet, taking any notes he might require. Her long blonde hair touching the floor. Marcus could do much more IT support work with an entire team of girls at his beck and call.

She’d lost herself again. Ateera considered slapping herself. Her body was an inferno underneath her dress. Marcus would arrive at the start of the day, in a full suit, and the girls would line up on either side as he passed. When he did, they’d bow.

No.

Curtsy.

Her pussy squeezed...

It wasn’t helping that she’d gone and bought a juicy and enormous burger for lunch. From the new chain in town, Noah’s Range. It had been a bad decision, especially since they specialized in waitresses with large tits. The air smelled a little like... Terri. She took another huge bite and chased it with a half-dozen fries. She didn’t recall ordering a milkshake, but she had one.

It was halal, right? Probably. She was too distracted to really think about it. It probably was, whatever that meant, whatever that was. She was a good muslim girl, so it probably was....

‘I’ll get you another one of these,” the waitress said, smiling. Picking up an emptied cookies and cream milkshake. Breakfast had been just as bad—she’d gone to McDonald’s and done her best to empty them out. Gone back three times to the counter, shamed-face, trying to pick different register workers to minimize the embarrassment. What was going ON with her?

Meat juice kept interrupting her thoughts. True, she had to concentrate on holding the burger, with just the one hand. The other throbbed whenever she tried to think about caloric intake or oddness or the fact that she could no longer fit into any of her bras. Ateera had told herself she would google ‘second puberty is it possible’, but she didn’t have a hand left to type with.

“Here you go!” the waitress said. She’d brought a blueberry milkshake, this time around. It looked really good. Her uniform was a tiny white skirt that was totally pointless, since it only half covered her butt. She actually wore a pair of black volleyball shorts. So the skirt was just a way of saying, I’m a girl, stare at my rear. Ateera stared at it. She’d spent a lifetime in broadcloth. Boys had rarely even glimpsed her ankles, much less exulted in the plump line of her cleavage.

A bit of meat juice drooled down her chin. Her mind was way too busy to stop it, designing an office uniform Marcus would like. An insane concoction of business plus anime plus white skirt.

She couldn’t decide—put down the burger for the milkshake, or take another big bite? It was so hard to think of anything else. And she had promised herself—she’d do some deep thinking about the heft she could feel pulling on her chest. After the next sip.

“Marcus, I got you something!” Ateera said.

It was tea.

She was getting better and better at rationalizing, as her tits got bigger and bigger.

She’d given them a thorough examination in the changing room mirror at Gap. The way that they were swollen and big did send a scared “holy shit” through her, especially the sight of her nerf-dart nipples. But the way that they were bolted to her chest, underboob high, even without a bra, gave her room to explain them away. They were puffy and swollen because of—infection. Otherwise they’d droop, needing a bra. She’d bounced on the balls of her feet, and watched them jiggle, and also send warm electric shocks to her head.

Having large tits at all was pretty taboo, and showing them off to men was very much taboo, but she was shirt-shopping anyway, just to put them on display. She couldn’t even say that her big beige dress, with the green vine pattern, wouldn’t fit them. It could fit a bear. Ateera purely wanted a shirt with cleavage. The one she picked was cheap, a peach glossy blouse. She unbuttoned the top five buttons, and wore it out. Just from walking down a street she found her back pulling up, her shoulder blades pulling back. Men were noticing her body, the mound of boobs forced together into a long, enticing line. She was being noticed for her body.

It felt so good to put on a show.

She was—rebelling, Ateera told herself. Heck, her entire body was rebelling, breaking out in tits. She kept patting the side of them, their big new heft, in confused disbelief. Her feet really needed to head to a doctor. But it was impossible to think of things like that, because male eyes were looking at her tits. She’d given dazed, dark thoughts to removing the headscarf, as well, only to realize it didn’t matter. No one had to know she had eyes, ever again.

Ultimately this was for Marcus’ approval, and in a warm, horny flash, Ateera had hit on a way to combine being a meek Syrian daughter with being a girl with fat titties. She’d use all the stuff about being subservient to men. It was a good compromise with her upbringing and her new, raging need to have her nipples admired. She picked up a triple-sugared boba teas with the biggest tapioca balls she’d ever seen. It was heavy, and she’d had to use her injured hand to hold it against her breasts. The cold had made her nipples tingle. She’d be a submissive woman! Perfect solution.

“This isn’t me, it’s not,” she’d told her reflection, in the elevator. She was—a slight girl figuring out her place. Trying to work out what the world held for young Muslim women with just a high school education, if she worked hard and never compromised. Now she had bodacious titties, and had lost her cautious, intent expression.

Now it looked—kinda slutty.

“Th.. thanks!” Marcus said. He accepted the tea. She’d served him tea. Ateera’s body rewarded her with a flood of endorphins. She had tried to set boundaries, during the elevator ride. She’d just hand over the tea and walk out. She was NOT going to bend forwards, and definitely not at the waist, so he could admire the solid droop of her boobs.

Ateera found herself bending forward at the waist.

“Fueling your rise to Floor King,” Ateera said. “You need anything else, just ask! From any of us!” Her heart thumped against her rib cage, now hidden underneath her chest. It was—exhilarating. It wasn’t her, but whoever it was, she was living. Flirting with a big hunk, uncaring of his past, his religion, whether or not he had a girlfriend. Just letting biology speak.

He was a boy and she was a girl with big boobs.

For his part, Marcus had been also drinking, eating, and seeing plenty of Phase 6 propaganda. Nothing specific to him, just gentle stuff encouraging him to see and treat women as sex animals. His cock was a little, just a little, bit bigger. He’d been fucking his girlfriend doggy style a lot more. And he was always a man confronted with large expanded tits.

“Jesus, Ateera, you’ve got some big fucking tits,” he said.

This was Phase 7 behavior, and they both recoiled from it. Even though his cock was pumping, and the words made her nipples prick and tingle. Ateera laughed, nervous. Floor King had made his pronouncement.

“T-thanks!” she said, standing straight up. She tried to button the fifth button, at least. What would her family say, seeing her display herself, lewdly, for a big black IT guy? They’d disapprove of her wanting to let him fondle her tits. “Let me know if you need anything else, Marcus!”

She walked out, and didn’t notice at all him admiring the sway of her ass. It was getting padded and curvy too. Probably infection-puberty-rebellion, of some kind.

On Tuesday Ateera took off work. A lot of the girls in the building seemed to.

She met them all at the exercise session, in Elena’s apartment in A-4. There were a lot of girls there—Julia she had already met, but also Bailey, and Jelena, and Kylie. Elena had put flyers on all their doors, offering a free exercise/weight/yoga/pilates session.

Get-fit was what she needed. The flyer came at a crucial time. Despite spending extra time watching mind-melting hypno-laden videos, and all the calming hormonal infusions generated by her tits, and even more chemical-laced showers, plus everything she was eating was really drugged, her boobs were coming in just too fast to rationalize any other way. They were melon sized. Each of them. They’d already escaped what could be reasonably called normal tits. These were big, big boobs, worthy of magazine covers and instagram shares.

Ateera spent the morning just trying to cope with them, mentally. And she ate a lot. They didn’t hurt at all—they felt really good, especially the red-hot jolts of pleasure her nipples were now mainlining. They felt good even when roughly and clumsily palmed by her still-wrapped up hand. Which is what mainly ended up stroking them, because her right hand was completely occupied between her legs. She’d woken up face down, ass-up, her tits pancaked underneath her, and soaking her sheets.

With just one working hand she had little free time—she had to jill herself, and eat, and stroke her nipples, and that left almost no time for the frantic medical checkup she kept putting off. Or googling ‘boobs three times bigger in three days.’ Ateera was even on the verge of the ultimate panic move—calling her twin—when the flyer showed up on the door. Her pinkening and overheating mind glommed on to it as a solution. She’d exercise the pounds away.

“Yes, I know, I KNOW!” she said, when Elena’s eyes immediately went to her boobs. “I know I know I know. I’ve got some sort of—I mean, it has to be glandular, right? Or an infection? Or puberty? And food keeps just—showing up at the door—and—can you help me?”

Ateera waved her hand, vaguely, like this was almost a normal thing to have happen. Food did keep showing up at the door. She wasn’t sure from where. Inside were very tasty treats with the caloric impact of an entire birthday cake. For breakfast an enormous box of fried chicken wings had shown up, soaked in some sort of buttermilk sauce. She’d inhaled them all, anxiously pawing at her tits with each slurp. It tasted like grease and meat, and she’d washed it down with an oreo milkshake.

Elena was a dark brunette in black atheleisure. She was looking a little boob-heavy herself, accentuated by her lean on her cane.

“I mean...” Elena said, slowly. “Push-ups are out, right? Your hand. And that means no weight work. Hmm.” She reached out without hesitation, and decided to put her hand on the soft underside of Ateera’s boobs. It sent immediate sparks through Ateera’s bewildered and soggy head. She had never been touched like that by anyone, ever. Even at the doctor she’d just pulled down her dress centimeter by centimeter, to give just enough surface area for a stethoscope. And now she was being—fondled. “Hmm. Hmmm. These are....” Elena pushed in on the soft skin. “...really big. Really... big... titties...”

They both stared at them. Ateera couldn’t even see Elena’s hand, or her wrist, for that matter. She had no frame of reference for this, for being nonchalantly touched. It had to be quasi-medical, her mind rationalized. Fitness fondling. Personal trainers no doubt rubbed their client’s boobs all the time.

“And you want them... smaller?” Elena said. She wrinkled her forehead, communicating that 1) there was no way these big boobs were getting much smaller, no matter how many jumping jacks she performed, and 2) why should they be smaller?

“But...it’s... weird. So I thought...” Ateera haplessly picked up one of her outsized tits. She felt defeated. She wasn’t even dressed to workout. She didn’t own any tights. “Okay. Right. I’ll just... go. I bet there’s some doughnuts outside my door now.”

Elena stared at her, and her boobs, her hand still feeling the weight. Finally, finally, she withdrew it. Ateera’s knees trembled. What had just happened?. “No,” Elena said, firmly. “No, we’re busted up buddies, with your hand and my leg. We’re gonna figure out a yoga pose you can do. If nothing else, there’s Cow Pose.”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful!” Ateera said, timid. She stepped inside.

The exercise session was not a success from an exercise standpoint.

Ateera had insisted on some jumping jacks. Just to show that this was some sort of crazy dream, that she kept inflating in the chest, too fast to even process mentally. No doubt some basic calisthenics would rouse her from slumber. She’d wake up in a nice, dry bed, with a normal body, and not this boobed-up always-hungry fully-loaded truck of a female form. And it didn’t hurt that Elena kept putting hands on her, softly and with very gentle hands correcting her form. Which form was a joke of bouncing and wobbling, as soon as she tried one jumping jack.

She almost orgasmed.

The bungie gravitational pull should’ve been unpleasant, and somehow that was translated to an intense physical euphoria. Feeling her boobs stretched had been—amazing.

“Okay, lets take five,” Elena had judged, after watching jumping jack number one. “Or maybe ten.” Ateera was panting, exhausted by the effort. And the persistent hunger was back.

“I’ll just—go,” she said, deeply dispirited again. She needed to go straight to urgent care. Perhaps if a doctor stuck a needle in a boob, it would just pop, and that would be that. Or maybe she’d eat a crate of twinkies.

“No—I mean—” it was Elena’s turn to look discomfited. “Look, I know I’m far from the best physical instructor. People see the leg and they’re like—oh, she’s lucky to be out of the wheelchair—”

“Oh, no!” Ateera said. “Your hands were—they felt—no, I really liked when you touched—I’ll just stay and watch, is that okay?

So she stayed and watched, which got a lot easier when Julia showed up with a big batch of raisin roundees. Which, Ateera justified, were better off in her mouth than one of the actual exercising parties. She would take the blow for them.

But they were also struggling. Not as much as Ateera, who still felt out of breath from her one, titanic jumping jack. The girls were all bloated, and picking at new poundage, and moaning about their curves. Ateera tried her best to motivate them. “You don’t want to get these!” she said, picking up her own mammaries, and presenting them. “Fight them off!”

It didn’t escape Ateera’s notice that the girls were getting very moist, very fast.

Especially when Elena’s hands started to dig into them, guiding their butts, and boobs, and thighs, into the correct resistance position. When her fingers grazed Jelena’s ass, underneath a straining pair of yoga pants, the girl actually let out a moan-yelp. Bailey, in a headband and volleyball shorts, lasted the longest, actually completing an entire set of forms before collapsing to the ground. Ateera felt like Elena spreading her thighs apart, to assist in the final pose, had something to do with it. The girls, Ateera guessed, were also going through puberty, or something.

It smelled like sweat and girls in there. One by one they joined Ateera in the gallery, downcast.

Ateera did her best to encourage. It was—good to see the other girls. To have something in common with them, even if that thing was failure and also tingly responses to normal fitness instructor caresses. “Lets go Kylie! Lets go Kylie!” she chanted, leading the others. It helped. She wasn’t just the chubbiest girl in the room, unable to do a single exercise of any kind. She was helping. They were all helping.

That part was nice. No little Muslim girl against the world. They were a team of girls, from all parts of the world, watching one of their number work on her butt. Until Elena put her hands against Kylie’s rear, probably for some fitness purpose, which led to Kylie’s legs turning to jelly. That was the last one—she crawled to the rear of the room, where Ateera was just one of many panting, fidgeting girls trying to keep their legs crossed. Some sort of exercise music was blaring, and it had worked its way into Ateera’s posture. She kept pumping her hips, semi-consciously, to the beat.

“Good news, I ate all the cookies,” Ateera told each newcomer. “I took that blow. No need to thank me.”

They were all bloated and warm, at this point. No one was wearing their original bras anymore, although Elena could probably struggle into one, if pushed, at gunpoint. They were all forgetting how to keep their legs crossed, and their tushes were spreading out on the ground, big rumps filling in with thick fertile padding. Even so Ateera was definitely the biggest one in the room, her tits still growing, and she was eating in front of them. She felt a nervous twinge. She had done less than anyone and had not brought snacks.

And she was so big.

So, so big.

“Hello, fatties,” Kylie said, crawling up.

Ateera burst into tears.

It was suddenly too much, coping with her needy, worthless self. She had been on a voyage of self-discovery, but the person she’d been trying to discover was abruptly gone. Now she was a new person, with big tits, who sat around and ate snacks. Julia broke out in sympathy tears, while the other girls looked awkward.

Kylie rolled her eyes. “We’re ALL FAT,” she said, like it made it better.

Ateera decided to stand up, and was in the process of using her tears to break through the warm sexual fuzzies that kept overtaking her. Perhaps inform the girls that this was all a few day’s growth, and something was up, something abnormal. They’d compare notes about late night masturbation and swollen boobs, and how their clits were all red-hot and extra-needy. Together, they’d realize something was really wrong.

Except at that moment a man walked in the door.

Ateera immediately stopped crying.

The subliminal programming she’d been soaking in was mostly about getting her to love her exaggerated femininity, her boundless fertility. But also, very urgently, it enforced and imprinted that men needed to be obeyed if possible, and at least accommodated and served. The tears shut off mid-drip.

“Hey... hi,” the man said. He was bald, and had a short beard. She’d last seen him grilling, biceps exposed, and it triggered hunger from her increasingly limited emotional responses. Hunger and need. “I’m Seth... neighbors.”

A bunch of horny girls gaped at him.

“I heard there was some exercise class?” he hazarded, at the plump women on the floor. He mock flexed a bicep, and every girl there felt the same give between their legs. A vague sense that they’d spread for this man. Bend for him. Present and show. For those farther along, like Ateera, there was no real opposition to letting him spray his seed into her fertile womb, repeatedly.

“Yes!” Elena said. “Yes, yes, yes. Right, yes. We don’t have the... I’m sure you want free weights. You need to lift heavy things, being a boy. A—male. A man.”

The girls watched the man hesitate. The sudden clutch of women was a lot to take in. On some level Ateera knew that—he just needed to smell all of them, for awhile. That was all it would take. He’d smell their need, and enjoy it. “We’re just taking—squat breaks!” she chimed in, waterworks forgotten. “I’m Ateera! I think we met at the BBQ? I was the one scared of pigs. You probably saw me embarrassing myself with the eggs.”

“Seth. I’m Seth.” He turned into the room. “I can’t believe you girls liked my grill work. I forgot to flip half those burgers.”

The girls laughed, in as welcoming a way as they could.

“Come on in, Seth!” Ateera said. ‘We’ll just—” she vaguely glanced around. Still overwrought, Ateera didn’t mean anything by it. But as the largest-breasted woman she had unknowingly earned a lot of authority among other women. Most disputes in Calving were settled in favor of the girl with the most suckable tits. The other girls took it as a rebuke. They weren’t servicing a man yet, even though he had walked in the room a full thirty seconds ago.

“I’ll—make lemonade, right?” Julia said, looking around for a lemon.

“I’ll clean the glass!” Bailey chimed in. Jelena offered to stir. Kylie still looked like she was sucking on a lime, but did arch her back, so that the man could see her boobs.

“Over here, Seth!” Elena said, patting the yoga mat. “Why don’t we start with you doing as many push ups as you want? Just go and go and go, okay? We’ll count ourselves off. I mean, we’ll get off. Count. We’ll number you up. Push ups.”

The girls whirled into action.

Ateera still felt—bad. Bad that she obviously couldn’t help at all, between her overwrought body and busted hand. Bad that she was eating herself into some boobalicious, unglimpsed future. Bad that her body wanted to be touched, and she just had to sit there, unstimulated. But it did smell very good in the room, and Seth had been brainwashed already into knowing perfect push up posture, without ever consciously learning it. He settled in, and it was impossible to feel THAT bad in a room full of girls, serving him, while he sweated and grunted.

Plus, at one hundred push ups he took his shirt off.

On Wednesday morning, almost Tuesday night, Ateera woke up to the smell of smoke.

It took some time to wake her up, because she was in the middle of pleasant dreams, and also her body was in the involved process of turning calories into the biggest tits in town. They were in a delicate state, not just adding on padding to two glorious globes, but adding additional nerve endings to make them feel perpetually aroused. Milk ducts and glands were being brought to the fore. Her dreams, also, were very determined and involved, imprinting themselves on her cum-milk-addled mind.

The smoke itself was—faintly pink. It had a sweet tinge to it.

But mostly it was smoke, and by the time she struggled out of unconsciousness, mouth still slurping a dream dick, it was thick around her room.

Even so, Ateera first noticed her breasts.

They’d taken over her torso entirely. She was full of boobs. Her upper half was dominated by them, two silky soft expressions of purest femininity that had quickly become her whole world. She’d had her first dinner with a few of the ladies, all of them giggling and nudging each other, drunk on Seth’s workout sweat. Everyone had just started to feel her up, in the nicest way, admiring the perfect spheres she was developing. They’d kept asking her if big boobs ran in her family. “Ummm. I guess on average they do?” Ateera had hazarded.

Smoke. She had to pay attention to the smoke. It took a moment for her to engage—anything unsexy got handled by a remnant, deprecated part of her brain.

“Oh.” Ateera eventually managed, through the smoke. She stood up, and nearly fell over. Emergency signals had to find a way through her narcotic haze, drugged on drugged water, every meal laced with fertility enhancers. Smoke. There was smoke in her very room, a dark haze. She could hear crackling, nearby.

Even so, she moved, automatically, towards the bathroom. The signs of fire—she’d deal with them. After she saw her tits. She just needed to see what they were, to start the process of what came next. Was there anything there, or left, besides really great boobs? Or was it just all tits and a little ass, now? How good could they feel? Probably really good.

Ateera put her remaining hand on the knob that led to the bathroom. The pain broke her out of a bimbofying reverie. The knob seared.

Calving didn’t like its girls to do things like think of threats. Threats were unfun. But even cows retained some basic ability to flee in emergencies, and that herd mentality came to the forefront. Her sexed up brain reluctantly let her do some thinking. Ateera realized that she was in deep shit. She had no remaining hands in use, and she also had to relearn how to walk, since her center of gravity was now a few feet in front of her.

The situation was dire. Shocked and crisped, her right hand was unable to grasp anything. Her left hand might’ve worked, but it was still wrapped in Terri-cloth, and her right hand couldn’t unwrap it. She was going to die a virgin, stuck transforming halfway between a lonely Michigan girl and a big-titted fuck pump. Well, four-fifths of the way. No man had ever touched her titties, and that struck her as the worst part of it all. Men deserved to touch her titties.

“Ateera!” her front door rattled.

“I’m in here!” she called out. It was a male voice. “I can’t open the door! I’m useless! I’m a fat dummy who can’t use a door!”

“Don’t breathe!” the male voice urged. Ateera automatically accepted this, because a man said it. But her boobs needed a lot of blood flow, all the time. The smoke was rasping her throat. Whoever was on the other side, she would owe him—but then, she owed everyone a lot, didn’t she?

Her door cracked on the first blow.

It wasn’t a thin, cheap door. Brood Lane’s builders had sprung for the real oak. Nonetheless splinters shot off immediately, and a sliver of night appeared in the upper half. The second strike added a jagged bolt to the stressed wood. The third tore the lock from the door.

Moonlit in the doorway, surrounded by rushing smoke, was Seth, holding a crowbar. Smoke billowed past his fierce face, sweat prickling in the heat. It was a face a girl could worship.

It was suddenly very clear to Ateera what had to happen.

Her realization was common to girls prickling and juiced with Calving chemicals. Pastor Flynn himself had written about it, and was particularly proud of it—he considered it a holy moment, a divine one, uniting the girl that was with the whore-to-become. A sort of slutty nirvana, where the hypnoimprinting and persistent hormonal indoctrination went from foreign to native. A bimbo baptism, he liked to call it.

Ateera experienced it as—harem. Seth needed a harem. Not just in the pervy and shallow western sense, half-assed polycules, but in the dignified, biblical use of the word. Sacred, and forbidden. He’d be the patriarch, serviced by a crowd of girls, each with their role. A man who had a flush of women, that he could keep and use and regularly impregnate, was a man of substance. Ateera knew all about all of this. She’d read about it, semi-illicitly, about the perfumed and jeweled chambers of the women’s section.

Of course her own family was from well east of Aleppo, a rural family, and wasn’t exactly from sultanic stock.

But it would serve as the goal for a newly minted slut with fat strokable tits.

Usually the moment was accompanied by a very special type of orgasm, where the girl felt an odd peace, even as she was moaning and shaking and squirting. But with the drugging, the accelerated growth, smoke inhalation, and her own shock from burning her hand, Ateera passed out immediately and never even got to enjoy it.

Julia woke her up by waving a milkshake under her nose. And it worked.

It was the thickest, most strawberry-est milkshake that Ateera had ever smelled, with just enough give to slide. It also smelled—familiar. She put her lips on the oversized straw, and started to suck, before any other part of her was awake.

“Is it good?” Julia said, anxious. “Kira’s recipes are—hit or miss? I’d say? Although even when they miss they—anyway. Do you like it?”

“Mmmm—mmmmmmmmm,” Ateera said. The cold chased away the miasma of smoke in her throat. She struggled to sit up. Her boobs had used the trauma as an opportunity to get even bigger. It was going to be hard to put her arms around them. “Mmmmmmmmmmm.” Dignity was no longer a consideration for a girl like her. She stuck her nose in and slurped.

Ateera was in Julia’s apartment. The scent of smoke had followed the two of them in—Julia was just next door, in A-3—but otherwise the world seemed calmer. There was still a hubbub outside, and a red flashing light washing underneath the door, but no screeching, wailing fire or fire alarms. The apartment itself was half Russian Hermitage Museum and half galley kitchen. There was an actual samovar on a counter, and on the walls was a very large Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks. But what drew the eye were sacks of potatoes, and a big canister of flour, and a kitchen stacked high with dirty dishes. Fruits were discarded on the floor.

“My—hand. Hands. Both my hands,” Ateera said. She looked at one, then the other. Now both were wrapped up. Her right hand hurt, and she could feel some sort of cream on it. It, also, had an old t-shirt as a bandaid. “I’m just... tits?”

“It’s fine,” Julia said. She was holding the milkshake. “Drink up.” She was even in Julia’s bed, still in her pajamas. Her shirt had rolled up in the fracas, to show the coffee-milk underside of her tits. Julia, for her part, was wearing a brief white skirt with matching white thigh-highs, and an apron so short it was more of a cummerbund. Her own tits were nothing on Ateera’s, but wobbly and inviting, with porcelain skin. A glob of milkshake had escaped, and splattered on her upper boob.

She looked so happy when Ateera drank.

“No—no. I can’t eat any more,” Ateera said, hapless. “I’m—I already—all I can do is eat and grow boobs. And I have big enough boobs.”

“Do you, though?” Julia said. She urged the milkshake on Ateera, again. She drank, obedient. Soon it was down to the dregs.

“Ten out of ten,” Ateera said, unprompted. “I’ll just—”

“Could you try my creampuffs, next?” Julia said, eagerly. She shivered, and tucked her hair back. “I think you’ll really like them.”

“I don’t have any hands,” Ateera said. “I’m just—you’ll have to do all the work.” The milkshake had been so good. But she really needed to go. Her apartment was on fire, among other things. “You’d have to feed me by hand. And really, Julia, seriously, if my boobs get any bigger I’ll break your bed. I gotta go to like a really good surgeon or something, like immediately. If they’ll treat girls who’ll probably eat their stethoscope.”

“It’s fine,” Julia said. She closed her eyes, and shivered, biting her lip. “That’s fine. It’s the ultimate compliment to a chef, enjoying her cooking. Ummmmmh. Oof. I think we’d both enjoy it.”

The cream puffs had a rich chocolate glaze on top of them, and were more like mini-eclairs. Julia picked one up, and Ateera had no choice but to open her mouth. It was strange—she was suffering from smoke inhalation, multiple injuries, and had contracted some sort of titty virus. Julia held the confection in front of her. The way her long nails were holding it, there was no way to approach without getting some fingers in her mouth. But who cared?

It was as delicious as promised, and Julia let out a low, piercing gasp when Ateera’s tongue encountered her fingers. For the second one Ateera cautiously licked her index, which made Julia’s eyes flutter. And for the fourth one she ended up just sucking on Julia’s fingers for a bit, the chef squeezing her thighs together. Her ability to care about propriety was slipping very fast. Pretty soon she’d just enjoy whatever was in her mouth.

“They’re GREAT,” she enthused. Julia seemed barely able to hear, her eyes closed and breathing fast. “Gonna go right to the boobs.”

“I have more,” Julia said. Her cheeks were bright red. “I have a lot more. Please. I’m—so glad you like them. Really, really glad. It feels—so good, so so good, to—share.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ateera said. She couldn’t cook. She couldn’t even grip. She had a dim recollection of some sort of—idea? Thought? But her current perception of herself was big-boobed large-titted heavy-breasted lump, able to contribute cleavage and nothing else.

So she didn’t say anything when Julia started to rub herself, on the third course. This was apparently called a vatrushka. Julia’s hand disappeared up her skirt, and she had her eyes closed. Ateera helped by making sure every drop of custard was cleaned off of her new friend’s long fingers. They stayed that way for some time, and Ateera’s thighs throbbed for attention as well, watching Julia’s free hand go at it. She didn’t even consider asking for relief of her own. This was going to be enough. And her tits did like it, all the extra padding. A final burst of fats to round out the mammoth titties.

The final dessert was apparently called a zefir, maybe, although Julia was now slurring her words, and couldn’t seem to talk rationally. She also, ironically, had trouble supporting her own weight, and ended up sprawled on top of Ateera, using her soft tits as a pillow. Sugar fell down into the valley of her cleavage.

They ate off each other, trading sugar and pastry back and forth with soft girl kisses.

“It’s good,” Ateera would’ve said, if she didn’t have a finger to lick. But it worked out—when Julia came, shuddering and whispering curse words in cyrillic, it meant she was rubbing herself all over Ateera’s boobs. And that was enough. Ateera’s titties had more than enough nerve endings now to make her cum. Each nipple, by itself, was a miniaturized clit, with an endless capacity for pleasure. It even felt obliging, like she was helping, to cum alongside Julia, to join her in orgasm. It was the very least she could do, after all.

On Thursday, Ateera took inventory of everything.

She didn’t recall very much of Wednesday, except that her mouth had been busy. Her main memory, if it could be called that, was sense memory—of sucking and chewing and swallowing. Mostly a succession of sweet and savory treats from Julia’s endless kitchen, but also things that were more—biological. Fingers as well as finger food. She couldn’t say if she’d sucked a cock or just dreamt it, but she was pretty sure she’d lapped on some tangy and newly-shaven pussy. Maybe more than one—she recalled different flavors .

It was too hazy to grasp, and too wispy to be concerned about. Anything bothersome could be dismissed as a dream.

This was a known phase in the Calving system of creating big-boobed fuck sluts. A final orgiastic haze was a good way for new mental architecture to be phased in, and old unnecessary things like ‘concepts of weights and measurements’ to be flushed away.

A new bimbo deserved a fresh start, waking up newly minted, now comfortable in their cum-soaked and sex-hungry body.

“Soooooo the fire burned just about everything,” Bailey said. She tapped a white-tipped fingernail against her lips. Bailey was dressed in full French maid apparel, although matched with a deep Brazilian burr. She even had that hat that looked like an apron. “Yeah, your bed, your... stuff. All your clothes. Yeah. Everything. All gone. But good news is, all clean.”

“All gone,” Ateera echoed. She held her tits up with her still-wrapped hands. “What about—bras?”

“Uh,” Bailey said. “Mm. Yeah, no.” Like everyone lately she stuck a finger out and touched at Ateera’s boobs. They’d gone beyond too big for Ateera to see her own belly button. Now no one would ever see her belly button, again. They were huge honkers. She had big fucking tits.

But Ateera was really coming around on them. They felt too good not to.

They were special, and she badly needed to be special, just then. There were so many special girls even in her apartment building, much less the world at large. Bailey, for example, had charged into a burn zone with a single scrub brush and sorted out what was left of Ateera’s entire life. If she was special only because of her mammaries, and also her matching fat ass, that was still SOMETHING.

Ateera needed something.

“Oh, this survived. I guess it doesn’t burn? Some sort of—swimsuit? I guess?”

It was a deep, deep blue, and it tried to trigger memories in Ateera. Her in swimming class, making wetsuit jokes. Bad jokes about Muslim Baywatch. But those had been disposed of, to make room for more satisfying and constant orgasms, as well as a physical addiction to stimulation.

“It’s a burqini,” Ateera said. She let go of her boobs to pick it up. They didn’t have much sag, but they did lower a few inches. Her nipples pointed at a lower angle. “I used to... something. I used to something with this, in something. Umm.”

Bailey put it over her outstretched arm. She didn’t comment on the bimbo brain fog. They were all feeling it. “Good news on that,” she said, brightly, in the scorched remnants of Ateera’s apartment. She steered the enormous-boobed girl out the charred door. “Terri is throwing a pool party! She said we should have something nice before she ships us off to some farm or something upstate!”

It was done. She’d put the burqini on.

It had taken the entire apartment complex, working together, to make her fit. It had been both humiliating and inspiring and searingly erotic. She’d been touched and groped by every single girl in the building, mostly at the same time. Bailey had gone and collected them all.

It hadn’t only been getting her outrageous body into the severely strained latex. She’d been shaven down with precision by Kylie, who had her hair up in pigtails and was the only other girl in a one piece. She’d refused to meet Ateera’s eyes, but had done a superb job on her snatch, or so Ateera was told. She couldn’t really see past her boobs at all. All she could see past a mountain of tender titflesh was the tail end of the pigtails. And of course she could feel the buzz of the razor, making her into a quivering mess. She was pretty sure she’d squirted into Kylie’s face at one point, but there was no way of knowing.

The other girls had pitched in to fit her into the swimsuit. It was very difficult to breathe, and Ateera had to take sharp little breaths. At one point Julia had squeezed her right tit, muttering Russian curses, while Bailey cursed in Portuguese from the other end, and Elena used her more powerful upper body to zip the zipper. The multiple hands stroking her boobs left Ateera continually quaking, which was overall good. There was no room for thoughts like—why did she have boobs that were many times bigger than her own head? Why did she cum when her nipples were even touched?

She did seem to have finally, finally stopped her unending growth. The hunger had ended. Her body was still tired, but she forced herself to keep going. With tits that big she had a sense that if she stopped moving, she might never get up again. Just be a pool toy for the enjoyment of others, two attached beach balls to be pushed around. Ateera was curious to see what happened in the pool. She’d either sink or float. There was no halfway.

“Girls, I failed you,” Terri announced, as Ateera struggled up the stairs. She had to keep moving, or she’d fall backwards, her boobs bouncing from step to step like a slinky.

“I didn’t know what I wanted, because I’m basically a brain-dead bimbo slut, and so I didn’t get anything,” Terri said. Terri came into view. Ateera realized, shocked, that she was even bigger than the blonde. She had bigger tits than Terri. “I just went, bloop, here’s some slutty chems and here’s some cool hypnos, lets see what happens, like this is that place that fish live. What’s that called?”

“Aquarium,” Seth said.

Now Ateera could see him. He was sitting in a lawn chair, his pants down, and he was getting Jelena pregnant, if she wasn’t already. Jelena was furiously bouncing and squeezing on the man, who seemed completely at ease, his rod iron hard. The other girls were discretely lined up, in their swimsuits.

“Right. That,” Terri said. Ateera took a rest break near the top of the stairs. She was panting, and not just from the sight of Seth’s big dick. The burqini was impossibly tight. But she needed to—she had to—

“So yeah, super sorry, I know this isn’t working out and a lot of you are, um, homeless and stuff,” Terri said. “I thought we’d have a nice pool party and then the vans are showing up to take you to one of our farms for studs and sluts. Sorry again. Enjoy the pool.”

“Nnnn...” Ateera only had the breath for the first part of the word “No.”

“O!”

She reached the landing. The other girls turned to her. Julia who had brought more snacks. Bailey who was still a little soot-y from cleaning her up. Elena who had helped her exercise. Jelena who she didn’t really know, but was getting Seth’s dick nice and wet for the rest of them. Even bratty Kylie, who hadn’t squeaked when Ateera had squirted right in her face.

Terri took in the breadth of Ateera’s tits, and was, very unusually, impressed. She fell silent.

Ateera had the floor.

She took in as deep a breath as she could, to say something, and the burqini burst.

Not quietly. Her tits broke out of it first, and the remainder detonated, the overstuffed fabric peeling apart in all places. A small scrap on her head served for mild modesty, and the rest was reduced to an exhausted ball on the roof of the apartment complex. There was about enough left to use as a damp rag.

Ateera was naked and glorious under the sunlight.

Her tits were so large they cast their own shadows, and could be used as a sundial. Under the sudden awed stares of her fellow residents her nipples perked up, aching. Her tits felt very full. Ateera was aware that her pussy was glistening, and especially aware of the hungry look of the lone male. She tried to reassemble her remaining brain cells.

For her part Terri was in awe. This was something new. Calving had talked a big game about reaching out to diverse populations, and had had some limited success turning asian girls specifically into breedable fuck toys. There were a few black girls at a particular HBCU getting their backs blown out by studs. But this was—different. The first brown girl that Terri was aware of who wasn’t just fuckable, a basic version of what they already had.

She was an exemplar. She was new. She was so much. Even Terri, Pastor Flynn’s confidant, felt an urge to kneel. They’d created, inadvertently, a خاصکى سلطان.

The chief consort of the harem.

It was important that she get knocked up immediately.

“Umm,” Ateera said.

They all waited for her. It was—terrifying. The cum-milk cocktail had wrung Ateera out so thoroughly that her brains were mostly tits. She was thoroughly dumb and horny. What was left was sure that she was basically worthless, except as a stress ball. Nonetheless a small spark remained, somewhere in her cleavage.

“Maybe we can all live here and help each other and take turns fucking Seth?” Ateera said. “Would that be okay? Like we already have a cook and a maid and I can.. I don’t know.. roll around? Terri, is that alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Terri said, right away. They’d created a Queen, of sorts. Her mouth watered, wanting to suck on those tits.

The other girls nodded their agreement, cowed, but all eyes ultimately went to Seth. As the man, everything was ultimately his decision. He popped Jelena off his dick, and put her gently on her back, so her breeding would take. He stood up.

“Sounds like fun,” he said, and it was decided.

He approached Ateera with manly certainty, and hovered his cock in front of her lips. Ateera tentatively took a lick at the cockhead, tasting for the first time his cum-cream. It was the best cum she’d ever tasted. He only let her nuzzle it briefly, as he’d been working out how best to fuck her, given how big she was.

“Lean over the pool railing,” he said, eventually.

Again the girls scrambled to help. Her—sister-wives, or whatever they were. No doubt there was a term for it, Ateera thought. She still hadn’t realized that she was about to be first among the girls, but that was fine. There would be plenty of time to work everything out—fuck schedules, and baby planning, and rotas for chores and service. Ateera pushed her ass out at Seth. Her hands, still wrapped up, couldn’t hold on to the railing. Her tits bounced on the rusting metal.

He sank so many inches into her, and that’s when the pool party really got started.

Although it didn’t kick into a higher gear until later, when she was in the pink, frothy pool. Terri had poured some sort of bubble soap in there, to make it extra fun. It was making all the girls high and excited. To no one’s surprise Ateera floated extremely well. The others batted her around, playful, as she buoyed across the water.

“Do you think I did the right thing?” Ateera kept asking, plaintive. It would only occur to her much later, when Seth fucked her tits first, that she was more than last. And even then, even when she was confirmed to be carrying twins, she would still be the shy and diffident one, politely making sure everyone was pitching in.

In the pool the bandaids on her hands came loose and fell off. Ateera looked at her brown hands. They’d healed with a slight curve, perfect for inserting a healthy-sized cock into them, for her to stroke.

And with that, she did feel a certain—contentment, in the sun, with Seth’s cum leaking out of her. And especially so when she tweaked her nipple, with her hands finally free, and a jet of creamy white milk spilled out of her. The other boob joined it, and some of the aching pressure was finally relieved. Everyone wanted a taste, and Julia had a number of dairy-based recipes she wanted Ateera to be part of.

The milk mixed with the pink suds to create a beautiful white-pink patina.