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His fingers trembled as he pulled them away from his earlobes, and he turned his gaze to the necklace hanging from his neck. It was massive, heavy, adorned with precious stones that gleamed coldly in the dim light. He reached for the clasp, but his long nails got in the way again, snagging on the stones and scraping his skin.
— Damn, — he muttered, trying again to deal with the clasp. His fingers were shaking, and his breasts, those damn heavy sacks, swayed with every movement, distracting him. He could feel the tight and uncomfortable bra—or whatever it was—pressing against them, as if trying to break free. — What the hell is all this shit doing on me?
Finally, the clasp gave way, and he, now more carefully, set the necklace on the floor. His breasts. They pulsed under the tight bra, like a living creature trapped in a cage. Without straps, only held by fragile hooks and desperation. Trevor fumbled behind his back, his nails sliding over the damp skin, until finally, there was a click. The freed flesh surged forward, heavier, sensual. He instinctively cupped the two soft mounds, trying to hold them, but his fingers sank into the pliable flesh, like warm dough. Surprised, he jerked back, and the breasts, freed from the constricting bra, painfully bounced, making him grimace. Every movement now echoed with a new wave of discomfort—weight, firmness, unfamiliar sensitivity. He froze, afraid even to breathe, but his heart pounded, making his breasts tremble in time.
— They’re huge... — he exhaled, looking down at the strange chunks of flesh hanging from his body. — Fuck this shit.
Fatigue hit him like a wave, and Trevor, unable to hold back any longer, collapsed onto the stone cot, not wanting to bother with the belt anymore, feeling the cold hardness of the stone piercing his body. He closed his eyes, trying to convince himself that this was all a dream, some delusion, a hallucination. Maybe he just overdid it at one of his endless parties, and now he’s lying in his penthouse in Manhattan, and all of this is just a nightmare brought on by too much tequila. But no. Every breath, every movement, every thump of his heart in this fragile boobs reminded him that this was real. Goddamn real.
He turned onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position, but his new hips, so wide and soft, got in the way. His breasts, those two rebellious burdens, slid to the side, pressing his arm with their warm weight, and his thighs—traitorously rubbing against each other. Trevor snorted, trying to push them away with his palm, but the skin under his fingers was unexpectedly soft, and he accidentally brushed his nipple—an electric jolt of strange sensations and shame shot through his body.
— I’ll burn you, Merrick... — he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. — I’ll turn your whole lab to ashes...
It smelled like mildew and sweat, but even that was better than seeing his own body. He squinted, imagining his penthouse—the cold marble under his bare feet, the whiskey bar, the light from the skyscrapers flooding through the panoramic windows. Professor Merrick. Yeah, he’d make that mad old man pay. He’d boil him in his own machine, turn him into a frog, a slug, into...
His thoughts blurred, giving way to the weight of his eyelids. His breasts pressed against his ribs, his thighs felt like foreign cushions sewn onto his hips. He jerked his leg, trying to shake off the invisible blanket of discomfort, and his knee knocked against the stone. Pain pierced through his sleepy haze, but he didn’t have the strength to scream anymore.
He dreamed of the lights of Manhattan. He was driving a Ferrari, the wind ripping through his hair, while Professor Merrick was tied to the hood—the old man screaming, begging him to stop. Trevor pressed the gas, laughing, but suddenly the steering wheel turned into a snake, the car into a carpet, and the asphalt into sand. He heard a loud laugh, the picture was unclear, and he couldn’t tell where it was coming from...
— Ha-ha-ha, look at this slut! Lying there like a sultana! — a sharp laugh from the guard broke through Trevor’s dream. — But her tits are nice, though, lying there like sweet melons at the market! Maybe we should wake her up? Let her dance for us, huh? — the voice of the second guard, hoarse and rough, sounded like the crack of a whip.
Trevor opened his eyes, but his consciousness returned slowly, as if through thick fog. He could hear the voices, but the words seemed distant, disconnected from him. But the cold of the stone floor under his thighs, the strange heaviness in his chest, and the sharp smell of mildew quickly pulled him back to reality. The heavy weight of new flesh on his chest, the strange sensation of too much volume in his hips. It was all real again.