Bad Roommate, Part 23

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Summary: Justin's stomach progressively transforms into a giant breast. Contains: Male: belly expansion, breast expansion, belly-breast, and more.

This story is a work of fiction. As specified throughout the story, all characters featured in this work are 18 years of age or older.

Previous Chapter

-

Ryan fidgeted and whimpered on the thin, uncomfortable mattress, where he lay on his side. The throbbing heat and pressure that filled his posterior made it nearly impossible to sleep.

It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. More so, it was relentlessly arousing, and he was exhausted. His ass cheeks would warm up, tighten, then start seeping milk at odd intervals. Ryan’s dick was achingly hard, and he could not count the number of times he had jacked off, only to find himself in the same predicament several minutes later.

The heat was intolerable. His ass felt as though it was pulsing. It was all bloated and full, the tissue packed with milk that he couldn’t release except for the odd spray or episode of dripping. He would doze and wake repeatedly throughout the night, helplessly sprawled in a puddle of the white fluid.

With sleep continuing to elude him, Ryan decided to get up.

After Ryan had outgrown his trousers, the masked servant had given him a pair of sweatpants to put on. Ryan could tell the sweatpants were a few sizes too large, baggy at the legs, but skin-tight at the ass. It hugged his swollen backside, hardly able to contain it. With every passing day, the sweatpants seemed to grow tighter. Now the waistband was stretched out, the expanse of his cheeks causing the material to strain and sag, as his crack protruded over the hem. It had hardly been three days and he was already close to tearing through another pair of pants. He could hardly believe how much he was growing.

Ryan walked slowly, more so shuffling along, just trying to get some activity to stave off the madness that came with confinement.

As usual, his hands were reaching back behind him, clutching his backside to stabilize it as much as he could. Ever since he’d outgrown his scarf, every movement was torture, his backside continually wiggling and wobbling, as he panted and did his best to endure this unique discomfort.

Ryan stopped by the bars, just taking a moment to breathe. He looked down at his torso, which was clad in just a thin wifebeater.

His backside wasn’t the only thing bothering him lately.

His chest had gotten increasingly sensitive and more bloated with every passing day. The small hills developing there had given way to…to softness, to plump flesh, his nipples now swollen and sensitized, continually erect. Not only had they distended, but they looked a good deal larger as well. And beneath them was a pair of what could only be described as breasts. He was developing breasts. They were small but perky, warm and tingling, tingling with sensation, which seemed indicative that something was happening. Progressing. His breasts were growing and developing, and he…he didn’t know what to think of any of it. This whole predicament was entirely bizarre.

Ryan just tried to take things one day at a time. He tried not to let all his questions reel in his mind.

He froze and went stiff at a sudden prickle of pain in both of his chest nipples. The feeling was familiar — as a matter of fact, he was certain he had experienced it at least once in his…in his butt-nipples.

“Oh no…” Ryan muttered, gazing at how truly distended his chest-nipples were. They looked like they were trying to tunnel through his shirt. Ryan’s face twisted in discomfort. “No…it can’t be…” But then it was. Ryan felt it. He looked down as a small patch of moisture formed on his shirt against each of his nipples.

“God dammit,” he muttered. Not this again. He suspected that the breasts on his chest would grow; grow the same way his butt-boobs were. This was just getting to be ridiculous! “Errghh…” Ryan grunted as his backside quavered, milk spilling into the back of his pants and dripping onto the floor.

A key turned in the lock.

Breathing heavily, Ryan looked up as the door to the dungeon creaked open. He was surprised when it wasn’t the masked servant who entered. Instead, Ryan found himself lowering his gaze to a young man in a wheelchair.

It was Kyle.

Or some version, some approximation of the formerly spry young man.

It actually took a moment for Ryan to spot Kyle’s face. At first, all he could really see was an unwieldy pile of fatty masses spilling over the edges of the wheelchair. It took surprising effort to zero in on the person attached to it all, practically buried beneath it. And panting.

The wheelchair rolled forward, a pair of Kyle’s many breasts squashing up against his chin. Milk spilled from the wheelchair, dripping onto the floor. It trickled down from too many places for Ryan to even count.

He wanted to avert his eyes, but he forced himself not to. He tried not to envision himself in such a horrific state. This would never be him.

“What do you want?” Ryan stammered. “Just l-let me go!”

But Kyle said nothing. All he did was sit there, and stare.

-

“I can’t believe this shit,” Milton muttered for the gazillionth time. It was the following day, and both he and Kyle were in one of the expansive living rooms, sitting with their eyes glued to the 100-inch television screen. Ryan was being surveilled around the clock, the feed playing on the TV.

“He outgrew another pair of pants,” Kyle managed, his automated wheelchair inching closer to the television. He could barely see over his three stacks of swollen, basketball-sized tits. He panted heavily, one of his hands cupping the side of his massive belly-breast. “I told them to just give him a skirt. One of those stretchy ones. Spandex.”

“Practical,” Milton said as he took a sip of his whiskey.

“What the hell is going on,” Kyle breathed, his eyes glued to the image of the servant groaning and rubbing his chest with one hand, while his other hand clutched the enormous backside he had protruding out behind him. The young servant was expanding at epical rates. “It’s just insane.”

“No kidding,” Milton responded, decently tipsy.

Kyle glanced at him.

This was kind of sick. Perverse. He and Milton, just sitting around, watching this guy moan and rub his fat, seeping tits.

“We can’t keep him in there forever,” Milton noted, looking a little dazed.

“It was your idea,” Kyle countered, breathing heavily. Something about this guy was setting his body off, his mounds throbbing and heaving, filling with heat and pressure. He groaned, arching. “So what — do we do?” he choked out, his face twisting.

There was a long pause. Milton finished off his drink. “…we haven’t been to the club in a while,” he mentioned.

Kyle threw him a look of disbelief. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“We have a fucking servant locked up in the basement and—errgghhh…” Kyle’s cheeks flushed a deep red hue, milk splashing down his wheelchair, creating a puddle on the floor. “I can — barely f-fucking m-move, and you want to go out!? Look at what you did to me!”

“What I did?” Milton retorted.

The argument was cut off by a loud crashing noise, the building shaking slightly. Kyle wobbled and nearly tipped over in his wheelchair. Milton just looked stunned.

“What the hell is going on out there!?” he shouted as he got unsteadily to his feet. “Jenkins!?” he shouted for the butler.

The door banged open, and several figures walked in. None of them were Jenkins.

Kyle’s eyes went wide. “Wait…you’re —”

A greenish gas filled the room.

Everything went black.

-

“Things couldn’t have gone better. Three specimens for the price of one,” Rita murmured as she tapped away at her console.

She and several other scientists were facing a glass wall, through which they could monitor their many subjects.

The “subjects” came in various shapes and sizes. It was a menagerie of sorts. Several college-aged men and women, along with Kyle, were attached to huge milking machines, which continuously pumping the various plump breasts protruding from their supple bodies.

Ryan was perched in the shallow end of the pool there, leaning against the edge as he breathed heavily, his face sometimes contorting slightly. A pair of H-cup breasts sat perkily on his chest, the mammaries growing out of his backside concealed by the water.

By the sun bed stood a young man marveling at his huge jugs, from which a thick pair of nipples that had to be a foot long protruded, drooping somewhat. Not far from him, in the corner, was a massive mound of flesh. This one was called “Justin,” though it hardly seemed logical to give the blob a name. It was approaching the size of an elephant, perched there, sometimes quavering, sometimes spraying milk all over the place.

Near the greenhouse was a man called Milton sprawled on the grass, crying out every few moments. Standing over him were two curious scientists who took turns tasing him.

“No more!” Milton cried. He screamed as the scientists tased him again.

A young man with a plump cow-udder protruding beneath his waist was standing in the greenhouse, gawking at Milton’s dilemma in morbid fascination.

As always, everything was in perfect order.

“Who’s next for pickup?” said Rowlands, who was standing beside Rita.

Rita lifted a large photo and held it up for Rowlands to view. It displayed a flustered young woman whose hands were cupping what had to be a dozen breasts protruding from her torso. They were stacked atop each other, from high on her chest all the way to her lower belly. “Santana,” Rita said impassively.

“Excellent work,” Rowlands said as he accepted the photo, then took his leave.

Rita returned her attention to her console. Just another productive day at the office.

The End