A Coda for Cuda (Random Writing for Cuda96)

Another day and another bra ruined. As usual.

Getting up used to be so easy. No weights, no leaking, no having to worry about measuring himself for the purpose of reporting back to an observation team that was clearly more worried about pictures than data. And to think he had all of that to worry about when all he really wanted to begin with was a small enough boost to his figure that he could finally rock that outfit one of his friends bought for him. A simple request, and yet one that ended up so botched that Cuda still wondered why he hadn’t contacted his lawyer.

Rubbing his eyes, he slowly heaved himself off the bed and made the slow walk to the bathroom. Moving anywhere in the morning was such a chore that he sometimes felt like not doing it at all; certainly wouldn’t be the first time he lounged around doing nothing until his stomach started growling, but he had actual work to do that day and thus couldn’t afford to just lie there watching himself get bigger. Besides, he already had enough of that during the night; the usual routine of measuring up his breasts and nuts was something that had happened so many times already that the initial allure had completely died off, leaving only clinical detachment and a notebook full of measurements that presented a suspiciously growing trend.

For the bun, this was just a fact of life. He was slowly getting bigger whether or not he liked it, and until the treatment decided to stop working its magic, he’d just have to deal with it. The one positive aspect was that he still obeyed some basic laws of physics: namely, if drained, he’d get smaller. It seemed like such a small thing, and yet Cuda was very much aware of other, “natural” hypers whose bodies went in the exact opposite direction, or simply refused to shrink down when needed. That he could still demand that of his own assets was a boon, even if the need to carry around a milking machine in the trunk of his car still struck him as incredibly embarrassing. To say nothing of having to explain why it was even there at all.

As usual, the pumps themselves were right by his side in the kitchen, ready to be used while he ate breakfast. It was the norm for him, its mystique and arousal qualities too reduced to near-zero by constant use; it was still pleasurable, at least physically, but Cuda saw it more as an unfortunate necessity than anything else, making it quite obvious that the real victim in all of this had been his sense of wonderment and ability to experience kinky lewdery like he used to. If anyone told him he’d find the idea of milking his tits to be banal just a month before, he would’ve blushed furiously and tried to pretend like he wasn’t very much in love with the idea of even having milky tits to begin with. Now though? Just another part of his day.

Unfortunately for him, he wouldn’t have time to do it. A chance glance at the clock above the door nearly provoked a spit take when the bun saw he had somehow woken up about an hour after he should, and was now seriously late for work. He rushed to the bedroom, only to turn back around and stop at the door to the kitchen. The pumps were still there, untouched, left alone in his rush to get into some clothes that fit so he wouldn’t piss off his manager too badly. But in being there, it meant they weren’t attached to where they should be, which itself led to the uncomfortable realization that he hadn’t milked himself yet that morning. A quick look down revealed why this was a significant problem.

He was productive. Very productive. So productive, in fact, that he could usually drain himself to about half his “awakening size” just by emptying out into the milking machine. While this wasn’t saying much, as even his smallest forms were still big enough to draw everyone’s attention, they were still more wieldy than a pair of balls that dragged along the floor and a set of tits that covered most of his chest. Both were hotspots for noise as well, loudly churning away with each step and quietly sloshing even when he was standing still, something that never truly went away, but that the milkings helped mitigate. Thus, he was stuck in a bit of a dilemma: sit down and let the machine run its course, alleviating his issues but adding at least half an hour to his late timer… or forgo the milking entirely and risk it, hoping to use his lunch break to get through whatever build-up there was.

It was the first time since his procedure that this happened, and now that it had… Cuda didn’t really know what to do. He had never been forced to deal with his productivity going unchecked for more than a night’s sleep, leaving him without any real frame of reference for what might happen to his body. If anything, he was more worried about the possibility that he might leak onto the computer at work more than anything; he’d probably be forced to pay for it out of pocket!

Sighing in resignation, the bun decided not to activate the pumps, choosing to risk spillage rather than stretch his manager’s patience even more than it probably already was. Getting into anything decent was a challenge and a half, since he didn’t really… own anything of that size. The best he could do was stretch out his largest shirt, and that still ended up revealing a good third of his breasts as overflowing cleavage, barely covered by a hastily-chosen jacket; the same could be said for his package down below, a good portion of which was very much visible above the specially-designed bulge sack his pants now had. It wasn’t the best, nor was it in any way adequate… but it was the only thing he had.

Plenty of people stared at him when he walked to his car, including a few of his neighbors who happened to be nearby; some even tried to say something, opening their mouths before whatever words they were thinking got stuck in their throats. Didn’t help that Cuda was struggling to bring the milker down the stairs, being stuck in the bloated state he was, nor that he clearly wasn’t designed to be in the driver’s seat anymore. Despite pushing the darned thing as far back as it went, he still had to physically heave himself upward just to prevent his breasts from pressing on the horn, which made reaching the pedals even harder than it already was given the massive sack constantly trying to push down on all of them. The end result was his drive to work took thrice as long as it normally did, at which point Cuda had to wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to just milk himself in the kitchen and then speed as quickly as he could.

The initial reception wasn’t all that sparkling either, with his shift manager torn between demanding an explanation for the tardiness and wanting to know why one of his employees had suddenly turned into a hyper overnight. Half-hearted explanations and platitudes were offered, along with a request to bring the pumps from the car into one of the bathrooms, neither of which were received with anything less than utter scorn and an order to get to his office as quickly as possible.

The bun was left practically panicking at the thought that he wouldn’t be able to drain himself. Who knew what would happen now that he’d have another eight hours ahead of him to look forward to, with nothing to let him relieve the pressure in the meantime? It was enough to make him want to shout, which he avoided doing purely because he was, frankly, loud enough already. Every coworker on the way to his office craned their necks to stare at him, which didn’t really strike him as embarrassing as it should be, a thought that in itself caused such an immense amount of blushing that the bun hurried up to lock himself somewhere where no one could see him.

Once safely inside his private space, it was time to get to work milking himself. Or… not. Cuda caught himself thinking that thought, only to experience a double take of epic proportions once he processed it; did he just think that? It was an odd feeling, losing control of one’s thought process, but it absolutely wasn’t his job that he had in mind. All he could think of were his milk-filled udders, so plump and full and ready to be tugged at and milked for all they were a worth, a series of mental images that would’ve brought his hands to his teats were it not for his phone ringing right next to him. Even then he still took his sweet time looking down, admiring how his bust was large enough to obscure his chest, hands trembling as they approached it, eager to remove his clothes and get to work emptying those things all over his office. It was such an appealing prospect, in fact, that he was already holding onto the fabric before he pulled himself out of the hole, snapping back to reality and focusing on taking the call.

Obviously, it was something that only made his situation even worse: a casual reminder on the part of his boss that, thanks to a certain few people being on medical leave, Cuda had to be the one to deal with their workflow; specifically, a whole heap of reports that were meant to be delivered by five o’clock in the afternoon, in addition to whatever it was the rabbit had to do himself. It was commanded, not requested, and with a tone of voice that left plenty to be desired, but he couldn’t really do anything about it; he was told to finish the reports, and he was going to finish the bloody reports, even if it left him unable to move.

That didn’t mean he’d do it without a large measure of bitterness hanging over him. Of all the days for medical leave to bite him in the ass, it had to be that one, after he deliberately chose not to use his right to it precisely to avoid this kind of bureaucratic backlog. He wasn’t mad at his coworkers, though; if anything, he was beating himself up for being stupid enough to show up to work without milking himself to a more manageable size. Stuck in his office until he could get everything finished, the bun pushed away any expectation he might’ve had of slinking away into the nearest bathroom in order to enjoy some time alone, and even during lunch break he had to give up his plans; there was no way he was getting things done by five if he stuck around for the whole duration, forcing him to gobble up his heated leftovers and then rush back to his office to wrap everything up as quickly as possible.

This of course had the obvious side-effect of drawing a lot of unwanted attention to his body. Cuda’s transformation wasn’t secret; it would be impossible to keep it as such given how patently and immediately obvious it was, but what no one knew was just how large he could get without proper management. His coworkers all assumed that he had simply boosted himself up from flat to curvaceous; at no point did they imagine the unassuming bun could ever develop tits to cover most of their chest, or a pair of balls that he had drag behind him as he struggled to move from corridor to corridor. It was enough to get them to stop working and stare, very few bothering to actually help, which led to a lot of complaints on the part of the management staff who caught them ogling Cuda; last time this happened with a hyper they were all dangerously close to getting sued for harassment.

Not that the bun would ever bother with that; he didn’t blame them for staring, seeing as he himself really wanted to as well. In fact, if he were allowed to do whatever he wanted, he’d be stripping down to his underoos and pleasuring himself right there and then until the whole floor was made white with his milk. Sadly, he still had his reports to finish, so the bun had to force himself through a door he could barely fit in, sit at a desk that was too far away for him to do anything, and power through what had to be the biggest, deepest sense of dread he’d ever had to deal with in his life.

He was going to burst. Not literally, obviously, but the metaphorical dam was already overflowing and he was a single drop away from losing control. He could already feel his shirt getting damp in two compromising spots, his pants beginning to rip quietly whenever he wasn’t paying too much attention, and his whole body becoming so warm that sweat began to pour down his brow in far too copious a quantity. He wanted to focus on his job, he really did; it was just exceedingly difficult to do so when he had to deal with his body slowly going out of control.

Miraculously, he somehow managed to do it anyway, entering a kind of meditative trance born out of years of practice; if there was anything Cuda was good at, it was getting paperwork done, so it wasn’t all that surprising to him that his brain decided he should be locked out of the decision-making process until his job was done. The bun spent hours not really understanding where he was, simply feeling himself exist while growing larger, all while his fingers typed away at a keyboard that became increasingly menaced by his swelling bust. Despite putting none of his mind into it, and being all-but certain that the “finished” reports had a myriad of typos, they were still finished; a quick look through them confirmed that the essentials were there, allowing Cuda to send them to his boss, check the time and decide he could afford to leave five minutes early.

Getting back in his car was… possible. Not exactly doable, but still possible; now, driving it home on the other hand, that was a different story altogether. Cuda still tried, giving everyone on the road a good look as he slowly walked down the stairs, wobbling and sloshing aggressively as he did, then tried to stuff himself into a driver’s seat that was much too small for someone of his immense girth. He should’ve given up at the first attempt, but went on for five more before finally conceding that there was just no way he was ever going to get in and be able to drive at the same time; if not for the size, then for how much his tits and nuts were getting in the way of him thinking straight.

The taxi arrived a few minutes later, its driver asking no questions whatsoever when he helped the bun place the milking machine from their trunk into the cab’s front seat; the back portion of the vehicle was reserved for the bun himself, who had to lie down and hope the vibrations weren’t enough to set him off. At least his chaperone was polite enough to go as slowly as he could, deliberately avoiding any sharp turns and taking the longest, safest route possible before parking in front of Cuda’s house, then helping him out through the trunk again. The man even offered to get him up the stairs as well, and while the bun seriously considered the offer for a few moments, he ultimately decided against it, for a variety of reasons… though mostly because he didn’t want to rope anyone else into what was about to happen with him.

How exactly the elevator didn’t break under the strain of his weight was anyone’s guess, though it did creak ominously as it ground to a halt, giving Cuda just enough of an opening that he could “sprint” to his front door and lock himself inside. Once safely within, all bets were off and every limit he had imposed on himself vanished instantly; the bun ripped his shirt off, an easy feat given how stretched it was, not even bothering to do anything to his pants given how his cock alone was able to destroy them the moment he laid hands on his tits. There would be no waiting, no dragging himself to the bathroom or even activating the pumps; he had to do it by hand.

Hours passed. He wasn’t sure whether or not he fell asleep, collapsed from exhaustion or just went into a dissociative fugue state, but what he did know was that a large chunk of his day, looking back, was nothing but hours upon hours of unbridled, mindless pleasure, with him returning to reality at the very end, holding onto a pair of breasts that were both mercifully empty and thankfully much smaller than they had been for most of the day. Attempting to remember what he did to himself was entirely unnecessary; a quick look around revealed a mess of milk and cum that could only have been caused by an eruption of unprecedented scale, and given how his cock was still twitching, spurts of his seed falling all around him, it was probably what woke him back up to begin with.

Everything was white, sticky and smelled of an odd mixture of salty and sweet. He was going to have to spend a whole day cleaning up, then explaining to his neighbors what the aroma was. But he didn’t care.

In fact, he wanted to try it again.