Kompera

Virus II

Added 2022-02-26 04:40:06 +0000 UTC

Note: This is a story-prompt for Kush Destroyer.

As much as Tristan tried to embrace denial, at a certain point he had to admit it. He was infected. He was personally experiencing the effects of Bovid-19, and the extent of his ongoing changes was truly alarming.

He couldn’t stop eating. Sometimes he felt like crying while still frantically stuffing his mouth with food. He was desperately hungry at any time of the day. When he wasn’t ordering burgers, Chinese, sub sandwiches, or loaded extra-large pizzas just for himself, he would throw something together on his own, in a vain effort to save money. He would boil several boxes of macaroni and cheese in a big soup pot, or bake some potatoes and drown it all in melted butter. Sometimes he would make simple rice, with butter. Butter with everything, really. Butter was fucking amazing. How had he never noticed that before?

Rob wasn’t faring much better. He too had become a bottomless pit when it came to food. Their apartment was a mess, covered in food wrappings, dirty pots, pans, and dishes, and full trash bags that were accumulating faster than they could be taken out.

Their relentless appetites corresponded directly with their growth. Tristan had tried to ignore it for a while, but he was undeniably developing breasts. The only reason he really acknowledged it was because it was uncomfortable, feeling the mounds bounce around on his chest anytime he moved around. He needed support.

One morning he went to his bedroom mirror, took a gulp, and truly surveyed himself. In addition to his newly plump hips, thighs, backside, his rounder face, and softer shoulders, Tristan had grown a decent pair of breasts. Well, decent, if they were attached to someone else. They had to already be C-cups, where they sat full and perky on his chest, pushing his already straining shirt outward, bulging out visibly so there was no denying them.

“Fuck,” Tristan whispered, shaking his head. His hands moved up, cupping the undersides of the soft mounds, a small groan escaping his throat as his body shivered. Damn, they were sensitive. Like, really sensitive. Was this normal? It wasn’t as though he knew how they were supposed to feel attached to one’s own body. He lightly shook his head. He couldn’t believe this. He was really turning into a hu-cow.

Hu-cow. That’s what the media was dubbing the victims. Fertile, plump, voluptuous men and woman who were afflicted with the virus, many developing strange cow features. It was all so disturbing, Tristan didn’t like thinking about it.

Rob, who was somehow even more voracious than Tristan was, was even bigger in the chest area now. His tits must have been D-cups, based on Tristan’s estimation. They were round and bouncy, sweaty cleavage bulging out in Rob’s tank tops. The college student in question would spend most of his time perched on the couch, eating his most recent food order. His skin was flushed and dewy, tits wobbling merrily. Sometimes he would scratch one, then groan. Sometimes he would squeeze a nipple, experimentally, until he grunted out, giving no fucks about whether or not Tristan was around to see him do it.

Tristan frowned at his reflection and pulled a jacket around his shoulders, though it didn’t come close to closing around him. He couldn’t exactly afford a new wardrobe. Not while he was still growing. Better to wait till the end of the month, when the transformation stopped, and he became…whatever he was becoming. Every day he browsed the internet for news of a cure, but nothing yet. But he was hopeful.

Folding his arms awkwardly against his chest, and wincing a little while doing so, Tristan walked out of his room. He paused at the sight of Rob standing in the kitchenette, glugging from a milk gallon, some of the fluid trickling down his chin, and into his deep fold of sweaty cleavage.

Tristan couldn’t help staring. Rob’s breasts looked as though they had grown significantly since the previous day. They had to be EEs already, his shirt looking as though it might tear right open.

Odder, was how perky they were. They were so full and round, not sagging even vaguely. His nipples were huge, bulging visibly against his top. They had to be at least the size of marbles, albeit more elliptical. Sticking out way too far.

Rob finished the milk gallon and lowered the jug to the table, panting as he wiped his mouth, one of his hands cupping the side of his right breast. “Can’t believe how thirsty I was,” he remarked, is huge ass bobbing slightly as he turned to face Tristan. “Man, my body’s been out of control. Could you believe how much weight I’m putting on?”

“Rob, we’re obviously infected,” said Tristan irritably.

But as usual, Rob was hardly listening. Instead he grimaced, now cupping his breasts with both hands, as he arched and grunted. “Errghhh…not again…” he groaned, and then moisture blossomed on the front of his shirt against his nipples, making the material even thinner than before, making his nipples look as though they were growing as they pressed outward, against the semi-transparent, now-damp cotton.

There was fluid coming out of Rob’s nipples. Rob was…lactating.

“Ohhh…” Rob moaned, panting now. “Seems like such a waste.” He threw Tristan a weary glance. “Maybe we could use it for our cereal or something,” he added blithely.

How could Rob be so chill about this? Tristan’s mind went hazy. “I think I have to sit down.”

Rob shrugged and scratched at an itch above his groin as Tristan made his way to a chair.