Selena Gomez and the Breast Expansion Curse

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

Selena Gomez and the Breast Expansion Curse

AN: In real life, SG’s surgical scar is on her back: for this story I moved it to her front. I have not seen The Substance but believe it to be similar in subject matter and tone.



Chapter 32C

Selena Gomez was squeezing ivory-white palmfuls of titflesh into a tight sports bra when her life changed.

Her cell buzzed. She scooped it up; jammed it to her ear. “Mmm-yallo?”

Nobody answered. A cold river of static poured down the line. Endless. Pitiless. As patient as death.

“Anyone there?” She drummed fingers. If this is some psycho stalker, can we hurry this along? Skip the terrifying buildup? Get straight to the part where you wanna wear my skin as a mask?

The ad shoot with Flatter Chest, Fuller Life was in an hour, and she still couldn’t fucking find those Cosabella hiphuggers that had looked hella cute on her butt.

No offense, Señor Psychopath, but I REALLY have places to be today.

She was about to hang up when she heard a noise behind the static.

Not breath, not a whisper, not the rustling of dead leaves in a drain, not anything her mind could circle and name…

Just sound. It defaced the raging white perfection of white static, like a crack riven in an ice floe. A shudder of revulsion kicked through Selena, knotting her flesh into goosepimples.

Something about that sound disgusted her. The auditory equivalent of a hair stuck inside her mouth.

She’d had enough.

“Lose my number, creep,” Selena said to the chanting static. “I don’t know who you are, but I can fuck with you harder than you can fuck with me. Promise you.”

Her index finger stabbed the call dead. Click.

Black walls crashed in upon her. Dizziness. Nausea. A sudden twisting impression of no up, no down. Stumbling, she almost fell, the ground lurching horrifically under her feet. Her vision rippled, distorted, smeared. The walls of her mansion burst apart around her, fragments exploding outward with the dead, horrific stretch of a sparrow’s shattered wing—

Selena clenched her fists. She shut her eyes, counted down—

—and reopened them back on Planet Earth.

So now I’m having dizziness attacks? Great. Awesome. Love that for me. Those fat burner pills from the internet were something else.

She resumed the search for her hiphuggers, and forgot the call. Later—after hell broke loose—she tasked her private security company to track the caller.

There was no record of it ever arriving on her phone.

* * *

An hour later…

“…Ready to see how much my boobs have shrunk? Let’s go!”

Vamping and pouting for the camera, a high-wattage array of studio lights glazing her face in Chernobyl-intensity death, Selena Gomez looped the measuring tape under her breasts.

“Band size? Thirty two!”

Next, the tape zip-zooped over the fullest part of her breasts.

“Bust size? Thirty five!”

She did a quarter-turn, letting the lens see the 32C tag.

“Six months ago, I was a 32F…and felt like crap.” She started ticking off shit on her fingers. “I couldn’t wear cute bralettes, everything hurt, I looked like a Hooters waitress, men were beyond gross, I had zero self-esteem, and my back was killing me! But thanks to Flatter Chest, Fuller Life’s natural breast-reduction remedies, I’m down three sizes!”

She dropped her hands to her sides, exposing her curvy, hippy figure. No sign of the scar from her kidney transplant: they’d powdered that away. This was a transformed Selena: flawlessly porcelain.

She grinned. “Also, I can do the Flatter Chest, Fuller Life Self-Hug!”

She raised her arms in front of her chest, and tapped her elbows together.

“See? My elbows touch! Try doing that with F-cup slaughtermelons getting in the way!”

She repeated the script Flatter Chest, Fuller Life had given her.

“Life is better without breasts. Studies show that petite-chested women live longer, have higher salaries, are interrupted less in the workplace, and have more fulfilling sex. Men actually prefer tiny breasts! Did I just blow your mind?”

She did a full turn, facing the camera, showing off her perky bra-filling decollatage.

“32C is just the start! I’m shrinking my chest to nothing! In two months, when you next see me on TV, I’ll be an A cup! Flatter Chest, Fuller Life guarantees it to me, and they guarantee it to you! Join me on the itty-bitty titty committee! Call the number on the screen, and book your free initial consult!”

She glanced past the lights to the soundstage’s edge. She saw Charity Lispector—acting director of Flatter Chest, Fuller Life—watching her, arms crossed and lips pursed.

Selena hit a Sailor Moon pose—Tsuki ni kawatte, oshioki yo!—made a V-sign at the camera, and dropped the money quote.

“I’m Selena Gomez, and I’m here to have the best time, not the breast time! Here’s to a Flatter Chest…and a Fuller Life!”

Cut.

* * *

With the ad shoot over, Selena stood on the street, nursing a double-strength latte. The sun stood directly overhead, bright and fierce, making her sweat. She scratched herself. Her boobs felt hot and perspiration-itchy inside her bra.

And oddly heavy.

Nevermind. Her bikram yoga class was in an hour. Sixty minutes to fill or kill.

She drove to her boyfriend’s place in Los Nietos and fucked him.

Dressed like a slutty toddler—pink frills and ruffles and platform shoes—she knocked on his apartment door, pussy throbbing. As soon as he let her in, she pounced, driving him back into the apartment. They embraced, kissing obsessively, circling around each other, hands eagerly exploring and searching.

Jared was tall, handsome, and unshaven. He unhooked her bra with a guitar-calloused hand. The other one slid beneath the elastic waistband of her Cosabellas. A finger penetrated her shaven pussy. She felt it wriggling in her cunt like a worm.

“Uh! Jared!” Thrills splintered up from the finger inside her.

Selena humped her eager crotch onto his hand, juice swirling around the digit. “Ahhh Jareeeeeed!” His lips swallowed her squeals.

They fucked like animals on the sofa. Hard and heavy and fast and hot, bodies tangled up like two cars smashed together at high velocity, screwing and thrashing and gasping and moaning, skin pounding against skin.

Jared took charge, riding Selena from the top. With her thick Latina legs flung over his shoulders, he scythed through her depths, cock thrusting in a juice-spraying blur between her kicking thighs. Noises rang out as he dropped his crotch into her, again and again.

Slap! Squelch! Slap! Sploikk!

“Ughh! Fuck me harder!”

His shaven pubis lunged forward with muscular stabs, punching his cock into her moist core over and over. Sweat poured down her flexing thighs and down her asscrack. Her fake eyelashes quivered with frantic desire for more, for harder.

“FUUUCK ME!” Selena’s neck muscles flexed and her feet pedaling air upon his shoulders. Her pussy stretched and contracted like moist bubble-gum around his pummeling shaft, leaking out grool on each withdrawal.

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

She writhed under his bitch-breaking dick. Bucked. Moaned. Cried out his name. Cried out the name of God. Her hands knotted into claws, scratching against the sweat-stained upholstery, as waves of fuck-heat spasmed along her spine.

Green eyes stared down into her slate-blue ones. His hands latched onto her shoulders, pinned her in place, letting him thump his huge flagpole of a prick right through her cunt. Then again. And again. And then again once more. It was devastating.

She orgasmed convulsively.

She loved screwing musicians—even broke, unsigned ones who strummed “Wonderwall” at parties.

They had excellent natural rhythm.

As she climaxed like a slut, Jared snatched one of the apple-sized tits whipping around on her sweat-dripping chest. He rolled it in his guitar-calloused fingers.

“So, that scam breast-reduction thing you’re shilling…” He smiled down at the ex-Disney Channel starlet as she creamed. “…How much are they paying you?”

“None of your business, Jared! UGHHH!—”

—a hundred grand upfront. Plus two million if I fit into a 32A by May 1st—

“—And they’re—OHH!—not a scam! They’re a little unorthodox, but—AAAGHHH!—FDA approval takes a while! RAAAAGHH! DON’T SLOW DOWN!! PLEAAAAASEE!!”

He pulled his cock back to the mouth of her pussy lips, and sloooowly pushed it back in, making the penetration last ten seconds. She wailed, spine wracked into an lust-broken curve.

The product was a scam. They both knew it. The scammiest scam in Scamsville. Scammier than a Nigerian Prince selling an NFT of the Brooklyn Bridge on Silk Road. Flatter Chest, Fuller Life’s breast-shrinking treatments involved experimental injections of off-label ephredine and Semaglutide, raw horse testosterone, and various androgynizing byproducts, all of them untested. It would kill you if you were lucky. Selena wasn’t touching that crap with someone else’s ten foot pole. She’d shrunk her breasts from 32F to 32C through a more healthy method: illegal fat burners from the dark web.

Shrinking from 32C to 32A in eight weeks was ambitious. Achievable, though, she thought, the coil of her orgasm starting to tighten again. She began calculating the calories she’d have to cut, the pills she’d have to pop, the dizzy spells she’d have to spin with.

Jared’s hand released her left breast, and grasped her throat, choking her, then backing away—careful not to mark his princess’s flesh as he thumped his penis into her guts.

His breath roughened. His hands constricted upon her; like vipers surging on her skin.

“I’m about to cum! HNNNGGHH!”

“Pull out!” she hissed, feeling him rapidly throb inside her pussy. “I can’t fucking leak at yoga class again!”

* * *

Chapter 32D

Ninety minutes later, Selena swaggered from her Hotworx full body class, back into the noise and brightness of bougie-ass Anaheim. Traffic choked the street in both directions. Horns stabbed and cut like rapiers. People stared and snapped photos of her, which suited her like hell. Her sponsor wanted the world to see their client wearing a 32C bra.

…except suddenly, she wasn’t sure she was a 32C.

Impulsively, Selena checked and adjusted her boobs inside the racerback bra. Then did it again. Five more times.

Something’s not right. Her jugs didn’t sit correctly—the bra felt strangely tight around her tits. Like it had shrunk around her body. Little edges of fat were spilling out of the cups.

Her breasts seemed big and heavy inside the fabric. Too big. Too heavy.

Period bloat? Not that time of the month. Weight gain? Hard to gain weight when your caloric intake consists of caffeine, 2,4-Dinitrophenol, and broke guitarist dick.

The 32C bra had fit this morning. She didn’t understand. As she waited for her Uber, she pinched and lifted her breasts, trying to judge, to decide.

Her decision came swiftly. I’m imagining it.

She wasn’t any bigger. Maybe her boobs had always spilled on this bra, and she’d never noticed before. She was a 32C, but a big 32C. Closer to a D cup than a B cup. Nothing another week of fat burners won’t solve, she thought, and mentally upped the dosage.

Her phone rang in her handbag.

“Hello? Who’s this?”

Static. Static. More static. The sense of something moving behind the static, like a predator slicing apart ferns in a thick, fog-drenched jungle.

With her Uber pulling in, she hung up.

How had this freak gotten her unlisted personal number?

* * *

Selena Gomez ate a few bites of something carbless and tasteless at a Long Beach tapas bar, drove to Orange County, and fucked her other boyfriend.

It was complicated.

The short version? What boys don’t know can’t break their hearts. The long version? Micah Hayfield knew about Jared Sorelson and was cool with it, but Jared Sorelson did not know about Micah Hayfield and would not be cool with it, and neither Micah Hayfield nor Jared Sorelson knew about Trent Agostini, and Trent Agostini was too dim and drug-fucked to know about anything, let alone about Ethan Krantz…

Selena preferred the short version.

* * *

She rapped on the door, clasping her hands like a girl scout, horny for more sex.

Micah Hayfield unlocked the door. She gave him an aggressive, toothy blowjob in the doorway, spat out his cum into the kitchen sink—she hated swallowing—then they took the sex to the bedroom.

Micah was a former NCAA football draft pick with a wonderful future directly behind him. His tiny bachelor pad was loaded with college memorabilia and other assorted sportsball crap. It was embarrassing. You couldn’t curtsy without knocking over a commemorative division 1 plate or something. Gotta suck knowing your life ended when you tore an ACL at 19, Selena reflected, unsnapping her bra.

He stripped her naked, picked her up, and carried her to bed like an ogre in a fairytale. He had a stupid-ass Brian Bosworth mullet, a nose that had broken and healed in a slant, and hugely broad shoulders that she liked to bury her face in, whimpering while his dick turned her into a train tunnel. It was nine inches long. Quite a locomotive.

Micah was a living cliche. A human This Bud’s For You commercial. Someone who hadn’t even burned out in an interesting or memorable way. She liked that. He was kinda like a movie she’d seen a hundred times. Sometimes you don’t want shocks and surprises.

He fucked her atop his kind-sized bed. Clapping her splayed twat with deep womb-wrecking thrusts.

His plunging hips whipped down into her, rhythmic slams shuddering through her body. He sped up—two strokes a second becoming three—while she moaned into his salty-tasting skin.

Selena climaxed, then they changed positions. Jane on top: Tarzan on bottom. She grunted and bounced, rolling her hips back and forth, feeling her butt-cheeks wobble with each stroke he took upward into her pussy. Micah apparently noticed it too.

“Yo, can we do butt stuff?” he reached behind her body, flicked at her sweaty taint.

Butt stuff. He calls it butt stuff, like a high school girl. Yikerino.

His hand closed around a handful of her hair, and he pulled it tight. She moaned, a doll in his hands.

Using the palmful of hair as a handle, he forced Selena into a submissive, doggystyle position. Hands and knees splayed and ready to absorb his fucking from behind. Her boobs wobbling under her body in deluptuous handfuls, glittering with sweat and spit..

Micah retrieved some Slikret water-based lube, popped the tip into her spasming butthole, and squirted a swift, shudder-inducing jet of lube into her bowels.

Shuffled behind her, he mounted her and laid his cock at the entrance to her rectum. Her starfish puckered before his blood-engorged mass. Warm pre-cum leaked from his cock-head, mixing with the cold lube.

I’m surprised he’s so into anal, she thought, grinding her ass against his tumescent pole. He’s the type of jock who thinks it’s gay to assfuck a girl.

Selena felt excited shudders tripping and spilling through her haunches. She wriggled her ass back and forth, yanking Micah’s prickhead from side to side.

Then, with one pumping thrust, he filled her moist shitter. She arched her back wickedly, braying like a swan into the air. “OOooooooOOOoOHHHHH!”

Still gripping her hair like it was the reins to the wild latina mare he was riding, he slid his other hand down her haunches, and smacked her wobbling ass. It jiggled obscenely around the thick erection packing her shitbox.

Then the rhythmic football-drill thrusts started. Nine inches in. Nine inches out.

They fucked like this for some time. Her derrier kept getting flung forward on the mattress as he slam-pounded her. The effort of resisting with her thigh muscles was slowly breaking her down, turning her hindquarters to mush. An orgasm darted and flew through her pussy, elusive yet steadily being flushed out, as though his ex-footballer’s dick was a hound chasing it to ground.

PLAP! PLAP!

Selena twisted her head around, and saw his face sneering stupidly at her. He was watching his prodiguous lubed cock corkscrewing in and out of her tight ass. The wet, slurping sound of her asshole hummed against the walls as it dilated and contracted around his thrusting shaft.

He sunk his cock to the root. Her body flexed around the rubbery sensation, twisting back onto his prick like a question mark..

“Yo, Sel.”

“What?” Her eyelids fluttered with a mindless ecstasy.

“Are your boobs growing again?”

Shock made her tense up. A lewd fart escaped her rectum, squeezing past the greased tube of meat packed into her guts. Squeaaak!

“No! Why do you say that?”

“I’m watching those babies fly under your body…” Micah beat her ass like a drum, watching her thick Latina butt cheeks jiggle—POW! POW!—each time his powerful erection drove through her hot asshole. His hand grabbed a dangling tit from around her body. He manipulated it like cookie dough.

“…They’re swangin’ and bangin’ more than yesterday, sister. Tell ya that”

That killed the mood for her.

She didn’t like to even think about her boobs.

Everything was riding on her fitting into that 32A bra. Millions of dollars. Her sponsor’s reputation. Her own personal dignity. She’d never liked being a busty girl, feeling like a sex object. Micah was pathetic, caught like a fly in the dusty cobweb of his college sportsball dreams, but at least he’d worked hard to be a wide receiver. How did you work hard at having big fucking natties? Go back in time, and make sure the right mommy loves the right daddy? It was all genetic. Unearned and undeserved.

She rolled her eyes. Bored of waiting to cum again, she reached for the pink vari-speed VibraTex inside her purse.

“Oh wow, they’re swangin’ and bangin’, are they? What do you know about boobs? You weren’t even paying attention yesterday.”

“That company you’re working with is bad news,” Micah informed her between thrusts. “I read on the internet they trialed their tit-removal drug on Somali orphans. Three quarters went blind, and the other third died.”

“That’s 108.3% percent.” Selena lunged her haunches back, squeezing her rectum around his penis. It engulfed him with a wet shlurrrp as she rocked back to the root of his engorged cock.

She plunged the vibrator against her clit. His cock shunted in and out of her asshole. The VibraTex detonanated thunder and fire through her clitoral nerves. Fucked from two directions—man against machine, her body as the battlefield—her eyelashes fluttered in incipient release.

“But still…” Micah said, “are you sure this breast-shrinking thing is smart? Seems kind of drastic.”

“It’s not. Fuck big boobs.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“So funny. You should have your own show. Don’t men prefer smaller breasts, anyway? That’s what they told me.” She said it just to say it, but found herself very curious about the answer. Pleasure crashed against curiosity.

“Yeah. I guess small ones are better.”

You guess?

He lunged deep into her moist muscle-ribbed asshole, his cock exploding in climax. Torrents of cum sprayed inside her shit-pipe, triggering her own orgasm. She saw stars, and fell face-down into the bed.

…but not as far as she expected.

She landed atop her boobs—they propped her up like meat pillows, bulky and substantial.

Were they always this big? In shock, she scooped up handfuls of breast, and left them sift out through her fingers.

Weirdly massive and thick, her flesh-sacks tingled and itched. It was like they were infected.

Like they were alive.

* * *



Chapter 32E

Sleep threw her into a nightmare.

She was in a place without light. Her body had morphed and mutated in a way she couldn’t understand. She felt like a plastic action figure melted with a hair dryer. Deformed and ruined. Wreckage fit for the Pacific Garbage Patch.

She couldn’t breathe. Something heavy lay atop her chest, pinning her flat. A ponderous mass crushed her like an anvil—a mass that somehow was part of her—with her lungs pumping and flapping uselessly against its weight. Her ribcage sunk down and down, collapsing beneath a crushing tightness that grew heavier with each passing moment.

No air.

No air.

Dying.

No air.

She sank into the swallowing cocoon of her own body, so massive that it was collapsing in on itself like a black hole. Her mind was spinning-whirling-flying toward the event horizon…

…and she blinked awake in bed.

* * *

Morning. Probably. Crepuscular blue light traced a wan slant through the window, falling over her naked, panting chest. It gleamed with sweat, heaved with shallow respiration.

The nightmare lay over her like stink.

Just a dream.

But something still wasn’t right.

She blinked, steadied her view of her torso like a camera’s rack pull, and frowned at what she saw on her chest.

Are those boobs mine? They look different. Mine normally lie perfectly flat when I lie on my back. You could do your ironing on them. But now, they’re casting shadows over my chest, like mountains when the sun’s low. And the nipples look so big…so engorged…

Must be someone else’s titties on my chest. Half-asleep, the thought nearly made sense.

Then she blinked again, groaned, and sat upright.

She felt the weight of her boobs as they slid greasily down her chest. Two jiggling pear-sized mounds of mammary-meat, soft and plump and perky, tumbling with gravity, stopping with a jolt. She cupped them, eyeing them suspiciously. They felt puffy and doughy and and dense. Her nipples seemed more substantial, more present.

They existed more than they did yesterday, however little sense that made.

Seriously, what’s going on with my boobs? She hefted and jiggled her bare tits, feeling their mass and weight.Why were they so sore? So sensitive?

And so…big?

Was she pregnant?

Micah said they’d grown, but they can’t have. I can still fit into a 32C. She rummaged on the floor for the dirty worn bra.

She strapped it on…and gasped. The 32C bra was choking her.

“Huhhh…!” Selena jerked; felt panic hammering against her ribs. It was as though she was being garrotted by gaslight in a Victorian-era alleyway. Fabric hands seemed to crush and squeeze around her flesh, sending mortifying spills of boob out around the edges of the straps and band. Her tits gushed like bread dough, flowing out of the bra every way they could.

Sucking in shallow breaths, Selena’s skin erupted in shivers.

The bra fit yesterday. This is impossible. Unreality shuttled through her. Is this a dream-within-a-dream thing? Do I wake up for real right now?

Selena hurriedly stripped off the bra, and stood bare chested in her bedroom, staring at herself, facing a funhouse mirror version of herself. An impossible body. Yet she still couldn’t be certain she was bigger.

She hunted around her dresser, found a tape measure, and took her bra size again.

Chest? 32". All was right in the universe.

Bust? 35".

Selena let the tape go slack, heaving out a relieved sigh.

Same measurement as yesterday. Her tits weren’t growing, except perhaps in her head.

Of course. Silly to even check. Breasts can’t grow a whole inch in 24 hours. Medically impossible. She was still dripping with the brain-rotting residue of her nightmare, imagining things that weren’t real. Micah had thought she was bigger, but Micah had suffered multiple traumatic head injuries on the pitch.

Next stop, an A cup.

Nothing would stop this train.

As she began to get dressed, a shy little thought arrived. From her subconscious, perhaps.

Girlfriend…hate to tell you this, but you cheated with the tape.

She snarled, rage spiking inward. “Did not! DID NOT!”

It’s supposed to be loose against the skin. You pulled it tight, making your measurement smaller. Her inner Jiminy Cricket wouldn’t leave the subject alone. Measure yourself properly. If you were 35" at the bust by pulling that hard…what do you measure loose?

Selena swallowed, hands clenching to fists. It had been an extremely hard taping. Her breasts hurt with the force she’d applied against her bust. She’d witnessed flesh swelling like breast dough, muffin-topping above and below the tape, and even now, there was a red line of circulation laid across them like a stripe. A cold drop of sweat explored her skin, tickling and twisting its way down her back. It was warm indoors, but not especially.

She wouldn’t be able to stop stressing about her breasts until she did it.

Once more, she put the tape around her bustline. Not tight. Loose.

36".

A depth-charge of shock—of absolute disgust—exploded out as she saw the number on the tape.

THIRTY FUCKING SIX.

A whole extra inch of chest, gained in one goddamn day. How? Goddamn how? Where did that inch come from? This is bullshit. I’m doing something wrong. The tape’s at an angle.

She tried a different angle, got 36.3“. Tried another, got 36.5”. Then she threw the tape away before it made her vomit.

Horrified, hyperventilating, headfirst-sliding into panic, Selena wracked her mind for reasons this wasn’t happening—couldn’t be happening.

I need to be an A-cup by May! she wanted to scream. I can’t afford to grow bigger!

Her phone rang.

No caller on the id.

She picked it up, and heard static. A faint hissing sibilance, like a radio station tuned to the edge of the signal, one band crashing into the next, both stations chattering each other to oblivion with noise.

When she hung up, a wave of dizziness rolled through her like a wrecking ball. She spasmed, and the convulsion made her tits jiggle with new heft, new bulk, new heaviness…

Staring down at their swaying globelike hemispheres, she felt the flight instinct of a pursued animal stalked by a predator. Run. Get away.

She couldn’t.

The predators were part of her body.

* * *

After an hour spent freaking out, Selena realized the obvious answer.

The measuring tape was wrong.

She couldn’t recall where the tape was from—why would you remember a thing like that? Maybe she’d swiped it from a college roommate, maybe from Miley Cyrus, maybe from the wardrobes backstage at the old Disney or Nick studios? Maybe it was defective—a QC issue had put a dotted line at the wrong spot, or something. Who knew?

But she could not regard its measurements as gospel.

I bet if I used the same tape measure I used in the ad shoot, I’d still be a 32C. I’m gonna go to the soundstage when it opens, and do exactly that.

She had the morning off, so she spent it at Trent Agostini’s loft. He was her third boyfriend.

He was passed out on the pot-stinking couch. She woke him up with a blowjob. Over the next four hours, they had lazy, louche sex on the couch, in his bed, and finally in the shower.

“I love you, baby-girl,” he said, holding hands in the afterglow of the bed session. “We’re gonna get married someday, right?”

“Of course!” she said with bright plastic disingenousness.

“Right on!” he drawled, kissing her. “Let our love shine for the world to see. When, though? Give me a date.”

“Soon, baby,” Selena squeezed his hand, brushing her sweat tousled hair from the pillow. “When my career slows down. Everything’s so busy. It’s just rush rush rush, all the time. But soon we’ll get married. Bet on it.”

Then Trent asked her why he never let her take her to any of the lame hipster bars he hung out at. Asked why she never allowed anyone to see them together. Asked all sorts of risky questions.

He wants us to be exclusive. Uh-oh.

Selena made up a bullshit answer. “I dunno. What we have just feels so special I don’t want to ruin it by going to a place with other people. It kind of ruins a moment to have paparazzi running around everywhere, don’t you think? Don’t worry. Soon we’ll do it.”

A smile dimpled her mascara-smeared face. Soon means never, baby. No matter how big your schlong is, or how good your BC Kush is.

If she was papped with Trent, Micah and Jared might see. Jared was chill with her fooling around with other guys, but Micah would get mad. Or was it the other way around? Fuck it. Too hard to tell. Better if all of these guys were kept on separate tracks.

“I need a shower.” She said.

“I need to fuck again.”

Her hand closed around his cock. It twitched to life. “Two birds, one stone.”

Trent watched Selena’s breasts ride down her chest as she sat up.

“Sel, maybe it’s the light…but are your jugs getting bigger?”

* * *

Chapter 32F

Heart thudding, knuckles white, weaving through traffic, La Roux on the radio, panic stabbing out from the bassline.

Calm down or you’ll crash. That’ll be an interesting test of how big your breasts are. Five broken ribs or six?

She laughed at the thought, but only once. “Ha.”

Selena drove to the soundstages she’d used for the commercial, and demanded to be let inside. She tried to sound normal, but probably failed. She felt like she’d go insane unless she could measure herself with the tape.

The tape. It had gained almost mystical significance in her mind, like a religious artifact. I have to have The Tape. All will be right with the world if I just have The Tape.

She would bleed for The Tape.

Kill for The Tape.

The wardrobe stylist at the ad studio didn’t understand the urgency. “Mrs Gomez, if you need a measuring tape, they’re ten dollars at any seamstress’s supply shop.”

Her eyes burned with frantic cobalt-fire need. “Listen, lady, I need the exact one I was measured with yesterday. The exact one. Thousands of dollars could be riding on this. Millions!”

That got a suspicious eyebrow-raise. “The wardrobe kit you used yesterday belonged to Emma Doughty, our in-house makeup technician. Right now, she is on location in Scottsdale. She will be back, oh, a week.”

“Then,” Selena said with teeth bared like fresh ice, “I will be back in a week.”

She swung her ass around and left.

* * *

Days rolled forward with a frantic, nonsense bounce, like a leashed dog dragged behind a moving car.

Selena resolved to not measure, touch, or worry about her breasts. No point, until she had the measuring tape. She wore a 32D around the houses, because fuck you. She ate virtually nothing. She took amphetamines and DNP and ephedrine and caffeine. She even popped the cap on one of those Flatter Chest, Fuller Life products, and swallowed two of the pills. Let’s hope I’m not secretly a Somali orphan. She screwed Jared and Micah and Trent and Ethan and some below-the-line dude from MTV whose name she forgot in an hour.

She did everything she could to forget about her potentially-expanding chest.

The way it wobbled when it shouldn’t have wobbled. The way deep oscillations vibrated through her tits she braked her Lambo suddenly, or sat down in a chair. The way she couldn’t jump without pain ripping hotly across her chest, as though her boobs were seeking to take flight from the nest of her body. The way even a 32D bra seemed like a snug fit. The way her boyfriends—with the exception of Ethan, who had his own issues—seemed to notice. Always staring at her tits, going wow, making goo-goo awestruck faces when her bra snapped off, desperate to touch and feel and suck her jiggly globes.

Most of all, she tried not to think about the possibility that things were getting worse.

She got a call from Charity Lispector, the head of Flatter Chest, Fuller Life.

“Good evening, Miss Gomez!” A waspish middle-aged woman’s voice jagged across her hearing with sandpaper roughness. Selena winced.

Charity had the smallest tits Selena had ever seen. Her chest was basically concave. She didn’t need a bra, she needed plugs. Selena wondered if this woman had founded Flatter Chest, Fuller Life out of personal inadequacy. If I can’t have boobs, none of you can have them.

“Oh, hi Charity,” she said, bright and sparkly as her boobs throbbed in her bra. “How are you?”

“Fine. Checking in on your progress. How are we looking for the big A cup reveal in May?”

“Um, my progress is…great!” Selena sweated guiltily, scratching the band on a 34D bra. The 32D had proven too uncomfortable to wear.

“What are your current measurements?”

“Sorry, this is not a good time!” she half-shrieked, wild with panic. “I have to go now! Bye!”

Charity heard that note of fear, and pursued it like a hawk.

“Sel, is anything wrong? We’ve got a lot riding on your 32A reveal. If you can’t make it on time…well, I need to know now, so I can make other plans for the sponsorship. If anything’s wrong, we can help you…”

“I said bye!”

She hung up. God, even thinking about her breast size triggered a little terror attack.

Then she made eye contact with Ethan Krantz, her fourth boyfriend, whose apartment she was currently in.

“Ugh.”

Her other, other, other side piece, Ethan was a small, sensitive, empathetic guy, with box-framed emo glasses, hair in a swoop, and a t-shirt that said THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE.

“Was that the breast reduction sponsor?” he asked. “Were they actually asking for your measurements?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s horrible, Sel!” he wrung his hands with ludicrous theater-kid seriousness. “They’re turning you into an object.”

“They’re paying a million billion squillion dollars for me, so that object is a goddamn priceless antique. Ethan…I have a question…”

She grasped the band shirt she’d stolen from Jared, pulled it up over her head, then posed in front of Ethan with her hands on her hips, hitting cheesecake shots.

“Are my boobs the same size as the last time you saw me? Or are they…”

She spat out the word.

“…bigger?”

She unhooked her bra, and let it fall. Her boobs swung down heavily, their surfaces glowing by candlelight. Ethan was a bona-fide Scented Candles Man. The only such that Selena knew, or desired to know.

Please say I’m not. She needed to hear that no, the curves of her breast’s slopes weren’t filling out, they weren’t hanging heavily with weight, they weren’t casting longer shadows down her belly than before.

Ethan held out his hands in surrender. “Sel, I never look at your…chest when we’re…intimate. You’re not a body to me. You’re a person!”

Clenching fists, she smiled hideously. “Answer the question or that person will walk outside your apartment and key your car.”

He shook his head, raising placating hands. “No…you’re not any bigger.”

Did he even look? She sighed, and leaned against an ornamental Buddha statue. “Are you telling the truth?”

“I would never lie to you, Sel,” still with that stare, that seemed to be going right past her. “You deserve the truth.”

I’ll take it. She wanted desperately to believe that the plan was still on track. “I’m gonna be an A-cup soon,” she said. “You won’t find me any less attractive when I have no breasts, right?”

“No!” He solemnly stared with eyes that reached past her face. “If anything, I find a small chest more attractive. You’ll be hotter than ever in my eyes as an A cup!”

As he said this, his gaze kept flickering down from her face to her hooters, which swung and dangled pendulously, casting long shadows down her taut, toned belly. Was there…something there? Something he couldn’t say? She couldn’t tell and couldn’t read his eyes.

I just have to trust him.

“For the ad, they made me read a line about how men secretly want small tits.”

“And that’s absolutely true, Sel. All my friends prefer smaller breasts.”

He stepped forward, opening his arms for her.

“Remember, the smaller your breasts are, the closer I can get to your heart.”

Then she fell forward into his embrace. “Oh, shut up and fuck me already.” This dude was so fucking cheugy, but sometimes that was just what the doctor ordered.

I can still make it, she thought as they began stripping each other. Five weeks to an A cup. And I’ll be hotter than ever.

“It’s us against the world,” Ethan smiled as they embraced in bed. “Bodies change, but who you are never will. Believe me, Sel, you are not your body. How you look does not matter.”

* * *

After ten minutes of sex and fifty minutes of talk—Ethan shared his thoughts on bell hooks’ radical praxis with regards to manspreading, while she tried to find an excuse to leave—she got a call.

Not from the stalker. Not from Mr Static, who never spoke except in a voice of roil and hiss. From the ad place that that Flatter Chest, Fuller Life had contracted for the advertising spot.

The makeup technician had returned.

They had the measuring tape.

Yes! Buoyed by exhuberance, Selena drove through LA traffic to the studio, let herself in—all the staff were looking at her like she was a weirdo by now, and she wondered what the front desk girl had told them—and grabbed the key off the check in girl.

She walked down the hall, past a variety of best-boys and gaffers, then let herself into the soundstage.

It was large. Dark. Now that the camera mounts and riggins were disassembled, it seemed sepulchral in its emptiness. Her footballs landed like thunder on plasterboard floors. Her nose wrinkled: someone had repainted the soundproofing. In the dressing room, she found the makeup kit. Trays and pans. Lip gloss. Nailpolish and nail remover. Little wads of foam, so you could stuff a bra if you had the opposite problem she did. All the cantrips of a busy woman. And with them…

…a coiled-up tape measure, laid as neatly as a restaurant aperitif.

And here we go. Selena smiled, resisting the urge to fist-pump. She snatched it up, and unrolled it.

She unhooked the bra, wincing as a loose wire scraped the hemisphere of her busty left jug. Why was she so sensitive? Didn’t matter. It was all a fantasy. And now she would prove it.

I don’t know what nightmare or crack fantasy this is, but with this tape, it’s in the past. I’m locking it there, and turning the key.

She raised her arms, looped the tape fast, and took her underbust measurement.

32", on the dot.

Excitement scurrying across her skin, she loosened the tape, and wrapped it around the bulging curve of her bust.

35 inches. She chanted, trying to manifest it. 35 inches. Come on tape, your mouth to God’s ears.

Then she opened her eyes, and looked at the notch of the tape as it crossed over itself on her chest.

38"

Disbelief smashed into her. Her vision swam. The tape fell with a clatter.

Selena Gomez screamed and screamed. Her balloonlike boobs jiggled and wobbled as howls tore out of her lungs. The sound pierced and tore through the vast room like an ice drill, stark and cold and endless, driven out of her by anguish and horror. She heard people running down the hallway, heard them asking if she was okay—which she fucking wasn’t.

Not a C cup, a D cup, or even an E cup.

She was a 32F.

* * *



Chapter 32G

My bust has gained three inches in two weeks. It’s impossible. Insane. Am I losing my marbles? I hope so. I’d rather be insane and wearing a 32C-sized straightjacket than have any of this be real.

Heart and head pounding violently, stomach reeling sickly, feeling violated and broken, Selena Gomez drove back to her mansion.

She rummaged through her wardrobe, found dusty old bras she’d left behind months previously, and put one of them on.

32F. Her all-time largest size. A level of boobage she’d never expected to have again. And now she was straight back there, like a boomerang, in a matter of days.

This isn’t happening. I’m not a 32F!

One week later, she measured her chest again, and found that she was correct, in an unfortunate way.

She wasn’t a 32F, she was a 32G!

As the number leaped off the tape, she did not scream. Did not pass out. Did not smash her room. She was past all that.

She released her trapped boobs from their corset of tape. They flopped with painfully loud slaps, jiggling above her belly button for several seconds.

Her dangling globes looked like huge whales beached on the sandbar of her skin, scary-huge and scary-helpless at the same time.

She put hands on her hips and made her huge, saggy-looking boobs swing around like pendulums, feeling nothing at all, whatsoever. Just dizzy emptiness. The same nothing the dinosaurs beneath the Chicxulub meteor must have felt. Why even worry, in such a lunatic world?

She was now a woman free-falling into absurdity. No net, no parachute.

Just a tape, and it’s rapidly running out of numbers.

Selena lifted her G-cups, stunned by the sheer distance she could pull the flesh-sacks from her body, feeling them squish and jiggle like fistfuls of dough. G for Gomez!

“Hahahaha!” Suddenly, she wasn’t calm. She felt giddier than she ever had drunk, more existentially terrified than she ever had sober. A person at every edge at once.

She ran some errands that day—walking in public, profoundly conscious of the mammoth G-cup hooters bouncing and slamming up and down in her bra like cannonballs.

Nobody photographed her. At least there was that.

Two men hit on her. The first was actually out on a date with his flat-chested girlfriend—Selena gave her a pitying stare, and got back one of horror and anger in return.

The second guy did not even seem to realize she was Selena Gomez as he asked for her number. His stare was fixated hungrily on her cleavage, as though trying to explore its hot and dark interior with his eyes, as he couldn’t with his hands.

Everything in life was now complicated by her chest. She still hadn’t mentally adjusted to the spatial dimensions of her colossal boobs, and they kept brushing people in the street, and knocking over random objects. When she sat down at a coffee shop, she dropped down into a chair. Her boobs heavily flew down in front of her like sledgehammers, sending her coffee cup flying. Her yoga class became all kinds of awkward. Poses she’d nailed before were now nearly impossible.

That evening, she tried to do the Flatter Chest, Fuller Life Self-Hug, touching her elbows together.

She could still do it. It was a struggle—doughy ribbons of boob expanded on each side of her skinny arms—but if she was patient and bit her lip against pain, she could just smoosh her elbows past her boobs. At least that’s something, she thought, panting with exertion, boobs hanging low. Not much. But something.

But speaking of Flatter Chest, Fuller Life…

“We need a progress update by now, Selena,” Mrs Lispector’s voice was sharp enough to shave with. "We have only five weeks to get you into a 32A. By our calculations, you should be a 32B by now.

“There…could be a problem,” Sweating, she tried to pull together a story.

“No, Sel! There can’t be a problem! Not at this stage! Time’s running out!”

“I’m a 32C” Selena stammered, staring down at the huge projection of her chest. The top shelf of her tits muffin-topped out of the 32F. She had ordered a 32G, but it had yet to arrive. “I’m not losing bust size as fast as I should.”

“Well, a 35” bustline isn’t as bad as I thought. Can we see a picture as proof? You haven’t been photographed in public for a long time."

She sent Charity a picture, and earned a grudging huff of approval.

"Alright, we appreciate that you’re still on the wagon, so to speak. I was worried that you’d gained weight, or something. I will emphasize that we need to see you losing more weight. You look exactly the same in that picture as you did three weeks ago.

And so she did.

That was when the photo had been taken.

* * *

She tried to distract herself with boys, cycling through Jared and Micah and Trent and Ethan.

Sex now felt awful. Her chest got in the way, in multiple senses. It was like a third person was now in the bed, or perhaps two people—monstrous boobs, spilling and flopping everywhere, always getting in the way, always attracting their eyes and hands.

Ethan excluded, they were quietly growing obsessed with her breasts.

What she hated, they loved.

She broke up with Trent. A moment of confusion meant she’d called him Ethan by mistake. Naturally, he was curious as to who Ethan was. Guiltily, she’d confessed that she was seeing another guy.

At first, he’d looked heartbroken. Then he said that he didn’t care.

“Can we still fuck?” he asked. “You can see other guys. I’m cool with it.”

She recoiled. “Don’t you care? I thought you wanted to go all exclusive.”

Her mental image of Trent included someone pushing for monogamy, for marriage.

“Fuck that, I just want those awesome tits,” he said, reaching out for their pendulous lower surfaces. “They’re worth being cheated on.”

That crushed her. His values, his identity—all of that meant nothing next to his lust for her. She couldn’t stay in this bed a moment longer. She dived out of bed, grabbing her bra from the floor.

“Trent, we’re through.”

“But baby…!”

She hauled her mammoth flesh-sacks into the 32G.

“Through!”

* * *

Chapter 32H

The next evening—fire warnings were out in LA, dust and smoke billowed against the windows like fungus—Jared was on top of her.

He pulled his cock out, yanked her forward on the couch, and flipped her around. She collapsed into a doggy-style position, ass wagging in his face. He started driving his dick into her warm receiving pussy from behind.

He ploughed into her, fucking her warm depths with urgent, exploring thrusts. She screamed, her voice a hot wind fueled by lust. “AHHHHHH!”

Deep powerbombing thrusts shuddered through her. Her muscular legs collapsed inward like broken springs. Selena’s hellcat mouth spat and cursed as pleasure exploded with nuclear intensity.

“FUCK ME! FUUUUCK MEEEEE!”

…and yet…

Plap! Plap! PLAP!

…she was jiggling so much. Her enormous breasts were crashing up against her collarbone, slapping her chin, blurring into sweaty explosions of white flesh swinging back and forth.

“Yeah, baby, that’s it,” he said, as he snatched her wide hips and rowing his dick through her spongy cunt-flesh. She shut her eyes, tried to ignore the oceanic tidal shifts happening on her chest.

He slapped her ass, sending a cascade of ripples through her bent-over hindquarters. Jared thumbed her tight asshole, feeling it contract. Selena whimpered and whined. He pulled his cock back, feeling her tight pussy tunnel suck against his retreating prick, before stabbing himself back in.

But as Jared lunged between her splayed legs, screwing her from behind, he noticed the large swinging milkbags jolting under her torso.

His thrusts slowed.

“Yo, what’s up with your rack? That shit’s bouncing like crazy. I thought you were shrinking your tits.”

The huge flesh balloons dangled. Sweat dripped from the nipples onto the tangled bedsheets.

“Shut up,” she whined. Please just ignore my chest. Pretend it’s not there. I try to do it and at least 10% of the time I succeed, so it is, in point of fact, possible.

But Jared was now utterly fascinated by her huge sweaty boobs. He slapped one, grasping her bra-bursting tit and swinging it back and forth, like a cow’s udders. He pulled and jerked it around, marveling at how it flexed and distorted.

“Woah…this is intense.”

You’re not wrong. She balled up her fists.

He played with her tits for long minutes, completely ignoring her. She wriggled her fat bubbly ass his way, purring seductively, but he couldn’t even pretend to fuck her. His cock slipped out, trailing pre-cum and vaginal fluid across her thigh. It still pulsed with arousal…but Selena knew why.

He didn’t care about her anymore.

He cared about her breasts. They were what he wanted, not the woman attached to them.

* * *

Micah, the next day, was even blunter.

“Can I fuck your tits?”

He gripped a big keg-sized breast with his fist. She blushed, feeling a nipple grow erect in his hand.

“They make me feel so gross…” she whined. “Something is seriously going on with my rack, and I don’t know what.”

But he was already on top of her, squirting lube into the channel of her breasts, and shoving his cock into the moist valley between her tits.

She closed her eyes in silent disgust as he straddled her body with his waist, gripped both boobs, and clapped them around his dick. He rocked and thrust inside her cleavage, shunting in and out with frantic need. His golfball-sized cock head spat and dribbled pre-cum along the huge slopes of her flesh. It thumped against her chin as it slithered forward, hot and hard inside her rack.

smack! plopp! shlupp!

As he ploughed her dense white fields of cleavage, Selena lay back in bed, sinking into a spill of her flowing black hair, mind wheeling into a fantasy that became a dream.

They were stalking her.

Even with her eyes closed, they hunted her. Her own breasts. Two enormous person-sized mammaries, detached from her body. They took wing, seemed to swirl above her through a dark landscape like abstract shapes, each capped by a nipple. They were like jellyfish in the black sky, watching her.

“Huhh! Huhh! HUHHH!” back in the real world, Micah’s convulsions made her tits slosh like ocean waves. Their surfaces rippled, like physics simulators.

She felt it, even if she couldn’t see it.

…in her mind…the disembodied breasts began to spray milk, showering the dry arid darkness with warm fresh white. Showering her, until she was covered in the stuff…

Half-dreaming, half-awake, sanity crashing against nonsense, cock crashing against tits. Micah’s moans were increasing in volume, his humping cock thundering through her squelching wet cleavage.

plop-plapp-sklch-splurchhhhhh…!

Micah grasped her fuck-balloons hard enough to sting, and gasped.

Bursts of cum struck her chin over and over. Smack! Smack! Smack! Her breasts jolted hard in his hands as he rammed with short, powerful thrusts.

His load sprayed across her face in scattergun blasts. Ropes and beads and drops fountained across her bedsheets, her breasts, her face, and her hair.

Selena just stared past him in utter horror, feeling his cock twitch its way to softness inside the bath of sperm he’d splattered out inside her cleavage.

“Wow…” his eyes were big enough to drive a tank through.

He’d ejaculated far more intensely between her tits than he ever had in her pussy or asshole.

* * *



Chapter 32I

It was now four weeks until she showed the world—and her sponsors—her wonderfully flat 32A chest.

My big reveal. Hurr hurr.

Cursing as she trapped a fold of skin under her body and pinched herself awake, Selena tumbled out of bed. Before reaching for her phone, she groped beside it on the dresser, seeking something else.

Her fingers closed on the sweat and powdered deoderant stained measuring tape—she now measured herself dozens of times each day, always hoping that this time her breast growth would prove imaginary—and looped it around her chest.

32I.

She jokermoded hard. She brayed a laugh that scalded like vomit—ha! ha!—as her head and ribcage thudded with savage violence.

The nipples of her behemothic breasts were sore and swollen. The tissue ached, like overexerted muscles. Pulses of fire ran through them. Every movement of her breasts was misery, and they moved so, so much.

Selena spent part of the morning ordering new, bigger bras for herself.and the other part drafting and redrafting an email to Charity Lispector, deleting each one after a few words. She couldn’t explain what was happening to herself, let alone to another person. There was some dietary issue. Some health concern. Maybe her kidney transplant was reacting to pollen in the atmosphere or some shit.

She swallowed another pill from the open Flatter Chest, Fuller Life supplement bottle.

She was shotgunning them like Tic-Tacs. Bring on the illegal horse steroids. Right now, I need all the androgynizing agents I can get my mitts on.

Then she got dressed for public, which was an adventure in itself.

All her clothes bulged and distorted in disgusting new ways. The band shirts stolen from Jared’s closet stretched the faces of Elliott Smith and Stephen Malkmus into bloated nightmare caricatures. She slipped on a demure work blouse, and the buttons were almost pulled apart. In a mirror, she saw the buttons exposing lewd, pornographic views of oceans of cleavage. She was a sea, and that sea was at high tide.

Sweat trickled down her neck, and down her cleavage. Even when she couldn’t see her tits, she could feel them. Moving, swaying, sloshing, bouncing.

She’d strapped on her largest bra. She didn’t just bulge out the top, but out of the sides and bottom. Her breasts were literally making escape attempts, the flesh pouring out every way they could. She anxiously stuffed rolls of flab back inside the bra, but with any movement of her shoulder girdle, rolls of boobmeat would explode back out.

She was sickened by the sight of her body. Two mega-busty torpedos of flesh jutting in front of her, swaying and oscillating with hypnotic jiggles. They seemed to move with a mind of their own.

The rest of her body was noticeably filling out too, despite the fat burners and the crash dieting. Her ass flowed out in a wide, heavy sweep. Her thighs were thickening. Her waist was soft and matronly. She just looked…fertile.

Breedable.

Awooga.

The phone on her bedside dresser rang.

Anonymous caller. She didn’t pick it up.

The ringing echoed deep within her mountainous jugs, as though they weren’t skin and fat and glandular tissue but purest glass, and the ghosts confederated within their depths were answering in her stead.

And what might her boobs be saying?

Selena’s gone. We’re her replacements.

* * *

She left the house infrequently these days.

Each time she did, she thought not infrequently enough.

Men shamelessly ogled her huge wobbling knockers. Construction workers whistled, leaned over scaffolds, risked becoming fodder for cautionary OSHA training videos to get a glimpse down her neckline.

It was like her huge boobs were magic. They snared attention, caught eyes like fishhooks, turned heads wherever she went. Men around her seemed to slide into a dizzy halllucinatory state, their words trailing away, their eyes bugging out, their expressions as dazed as those of boltgunned cattle.

One day, she got papped while shopping for maternity bras. The flash of the camera blinded her, and when she turned her head, the photographer was already running for his van.

She rang some contacts who worked for print and digital publications. She threatened them with lawsuits if they bought bought and published the photos. It did nothing. Hours later, the pictures were all over the internet.

They showed Selena Gomez, looking plump, curvy, shading her eyes against the sun on the cracked Rodeo Drive sidewalk.

But nobody would notice details like that.

Boobs bigger than her head exploded from her chest. Huge pressure-lines of flesh—where they quadboobed out of her bra—were clearly visible through her clothes. You could see the exact line where they quadboobed out of her overstuffed bra cups.

Seeing herself in third person made her feel sick..

The pictures went viral. They topped every social media site she visited. Don’t read the comments, Selena felt sweat flowing between her tits, which she was forced to rest on the desk for support. Don’t read the comments.

Naturally, she read the comments.

> wtf selena girlie…nooooo > SHE LOOK LIKE COW > this bitch fat > milk truk just arrive > wtf she getting booby > hello miss i am jayaprakesh from mumbai. i give u sexi tiem. pls snap. pls send bedrum pic with cloth off. pls. > not my proudest fap > this latina getting THICC! another huge W for TRUMPS AMERICA!!!

Eyes unfocusing, she fell back in bed, dazing for a while—sinking not into a dream but a cold bone-chewing sea of anxiety—until a text from Charity Lispector jolted her awake.

> SELENA, I HAVE SEEN THOSE PHOTOS! > EXPLAIN YOURSELF!

She flung the phone away, hard enough that she heard the screen crack.

What was she doing? She couldn’t cover this up. Couldn’t reverse it. Couldn’t undo it.

Then she sat on the bed, legs folded, a crazed smile, like her face was being unzippered.

* * *

Her boobs were still growing. They distended massively from her sternum. She kept touching them, lifting them, vacillating between revulsion and arousal. She knew every inch of their loathsome, massive surfaces.

By the time her new bras arrived, she would be too large for any of them.

She wore one and broke out laughing. Massive amonts of sideboob and quadboob sloshed out. The bra straps cut into her shoulders, into her back.

She cracked open another bottle of those scam Flatter Chest, Fuller Life pills, and robotically forked them into her mouth, swallowing them without water—half-hoping that one would choke her.

The pills were doing nothing. Which meant they were just as effective as any other option she had.

She felt a twinge - an itch - irritate her massively globular tits. A shudder wracked her. She grabbed the boob and massaged it, wondering if she was fucking it literally growning. Oh God. It’s like it’s getting heavier in my hand.

She had to let it flop before it strained her wrist.

The phone rang again. She picked it up.

The dark. The night. The endless ocean. It rumbled against her hearing, insinuating and insissipating.

“I want this to stop…” she said.

Strangely, she sensed someone listening.

“Whoever you are…” she whispered. “Tell me why this is happening. Then tell me what I have to do to stop it.”

Are you prepared? a softly lilting male voice said. For your journey?

She cackled demently, brokenly, feeling her huge boobs sway pendulously and her stomach roil with those dogshit scam pills.

“This is your doing,” she said. “Tell me your name. I’m not trying to get you in trouble. I just…don’t understand why.”

“My name is Lao Wei,” he said. “And you have stolen my property.”

“I don’t even know who you are.”

Lao Wei gave her an address.

A Skid Row apartment complex.

“If you wish to hear my story, I will tell you. Come, and come alone.”

* * *

Chapter 32J

Xinjiang, China.

Under a wide, ancient sweep of sky, the land sprawls in its curves and folds and twists. The hills ripple outward to the horizon like coruscating waves of water, each flash-frozen to strange ice. An endless sea, full of the sense of motion, yet absolutely still.

A forgotten place, it holds worlds. Clasps extremes to its breast. Fierce burning desert, wind-straked dunes, umber-flamed mountains, nights that are drowning-dark and leave the lakes scummed with ice, days that breach a hunred degrees, the stars that seem to wheel and arc like slits torn open in the velvet of the sky.

Flocks of fat-tailed sheep browse, upon beautiful meadows bejeweled with poppies. In the distance, the ragged teeth of the Pamir Mountains press hungrily against the day’s clean lapis lazuli flesh.

And here, buried in plain sight near Tian Shian and the Taklamakan Desert, there is a place that is not ancient, not eternal, not beautiful.

A place that—officially—does not exist.

It would be better if this were true. If the Laogai camp existed upon the steppes of Xinjiang, it would be one of the worst places in the world, a sickening cancer.

The prison camp sprawls in a spider’s web of interconnected sub-camps. Huts erected from fragile wood stand circumscribed by fanged barbs of wire, spitting with high-voltage electricity. Death to run. Slower death to stay. Thousands of undesirables are interred at the Laogai camps. Uyghers, Buddhists, Falun Gong, Tibetan radicals, and assorted political malcontents. Scraps plucked from the teeth of the dragon. Like the camps themselves, the prisoners do not technically exist—another lie better than the truth. Conditions at the camp are brutal. Prisoners are kept in cages, worked as slaves, euthenazed and experimented on, but the world does not know. The Red Cross is denied access to the Laogai complex, as is UNICEF.

Xinjiang is a beautiful place, with clear open spaces of grass and sand and stone and sky. This is how it should be remembered.

The camp will be unwritten in history books, and forgotten.

* * *

Rumors of forcible organ harvesting have emerged from the Xinjiang camp for years.

The official PRC’s line is denial.

And the escaped prisoners who report that they had blood samples taken? That they were subjected to x-rays and ultrasounds? That they were questioned about their ancestry and past history of disease? Liars, one and all. But one fact remains, as inescapable as it is unsayable.

In America, if you need a kidney you can expect to languish on a waiting list for months or years, no matter who you are.

In China, you can have a kidney in a single day, if you are willing to pay.

* * *

In the darkness of his apartment, Lao Wei’s lips moved in a thin macrame of woven shadow. His voice didn’t break the silence. It barely rippled it.

But Selena forgot not one thing he told her that night.

“The secret police let me speak to my wife just once, before they took her inside the camp,” Lao Wei said. His lips were thick, and his face, although lined to parchment, did not seem very old. “I hugged her, and told her not to worry. She had done nothing. This was an administrative error, surely. Something that would be rectified.”

Selena Gomez sat opposite from him, listening, her transformed body hidden in a poncho.

“I never saw her again.” Lao Wei’s voice seemed to splinter like a ship upon a reef of horror. “I do not understand why they imprisoned her instead of me. She was innocent. I was the one who had offended the government, with my research into Tibetan mystic rites. Perhaps this was their punishment. They wanted me to suffer.”

A single Coleman lantern spat flickering light over the table they both sat at. She could see little of her surroundings. The walls and furnishings seemed to devour all light, giving back nothing.

“I received one letter from my wife, inside the camps. She said she was being treated well. She said that the government would commute her sentence, in exchange for a patriotic gesture - the donation of a kidney. I do not know if she actually wrote that letter. When I replied, I heard no response. Or at least not from her.”

His eyes left Selena’s face, and stared at the table. He brushed a hand over it, interrupting the reflection that glowed vaguely on the varnished wood.

“The government replied on her behalf, two weeks later. They informed me that she had died upon the operating table. A tragic error committed by the surgeon.”

She still did not speak. Merely held open a space so he could talk.

“It was no error, and the letter was a lie,” Lao Wei’s voice was as quietly lethal as a stiletto. “A living person can provide one kidney. But a dead person can provide two. That is why my wife died.”

Selena frowned. “I am sorry.” If you’re not lying. “But how does that affect me?”

“You underwent a kidney transplant, did you not?”

She scratched the scar knifing down her side. “If you’re implying that…”

“You have her inside your body,” Lao Wei said, jabbed a cracked yellow fingernail at her sternum, pinpointing the exact place, even though he couldn’t see it. Selena shuddered. How could he know?

“I hear her screaming, from where you sit.”

Selena shuddered, and shook her head.

“Look,” she said, “I have never been to China. I had my transplant done in Mexico. I’m sorry about your wife, truly I am, but I had nothing to do with what happened to her.”

Momentary annoyance twisted the vellum of his face. “The clinic you went to is owned by an expat with ties to the PRC. The kidney was very cheap, wasn’t it? Suspiciously so.”

Selena screwed up her face, trying to recover facts and prices. Years had passed. Her management had handled most of it.

She remembered the senior physician. A Chinese man. And it had been a very cheap operation: cheaper by far than the other clinics she’d investigated. Fast, too. No waiting list. Two weeks after she had signed the form, she had a stranger’s kidney in her body. Her label had started a story that a friend had donated the organ.

“When we kill,” he whispered. “We create. When things die, other things are born. They took my wife from me. In its place, I have…hate.”

Selena felt all of that hate, pressing upon her like the edge of a blunt but massive knife. Space. I want space between him and me. His will had a presence; the air separating them seemed to boil, as though malignantly alive.

The sensations racing across her breasts were more intense than ever. Hard not to scratch herself raw. Even her kidney seemed to leap beneath her skin. Is it true? Was my kidney harvested from this dude’s fucking wife?

No....Impossible.

Her mind just rejected it.

Lao Wei was lying. And she was done with his shit.

“This is bullcrap,” she said. “There’s no way you can know where the kidney ended up. It’s not possible.”

He laughed. “Just as it’s not possible for your body to chance this fast. Your own experiences should prove that we live in a universe of impossibilities.”

She clenched fists under the table. What is this mean capable of? What does he know, and what can he do? She was in the most dangerous situation possible. A battle with an unknown enemy.

He spoke words that fell on her like a guillotine.

“My wife died to provide you with a kidney, and you will pay. I will take away everything. Your career. Your dreams. Your body and mind. Unless…”

Selena fought to lock out his voice, but it seemed to be racing around her skull, like an uncaged animal.

“…Unless what?”

“You give back what you stole.”

Selena’s hand flew from her breasts to the surgical scar on her side.

“This is ridiculous. I’m leaving.”

She stood up, and sprinted for the door. She wanted the night, wanted Los Angeles, wanted to escape his softly snarling voice.

“You cannot run. This does not end…”

* * *



Chapter 32K

“…untl I have what’s mine.” his voice crackled through the recording device.

Selena’s poncho had hidden more than her breasts. She’d wrapped a tiny lavalier microphone around her neck. Now, at her mansion, she played it back. His voice was fuzzy. Faint. She would pass it over to an audio engineering friend who might be able to clean it up, but his words were more or less understandable.

And then she unclipped the pinhole camera that had been fastened to the poncho’s lapel.

She plugged it into her laptop, and downloaded the data. Blurry nonsense, mostly. But for just a few seconds, the camera focused…

…and caught his face.

Good. He’s not a ghost. I have his address, name, face, voice, and words.

She couldn’t wait for vengeance. You’re not the only one who hates, Lao Wei. But she needed help. She didn’t know what this man could do.

She needed backup. But she could no longer rely on any man in her life.

To Jared and Micah and Trent, I’m just a pair of breasts with a woman inconveniently attached, she thought, horrified. They don’t even care that this is weird, and impossible. They just look at me and see…tits.

Maybe this is his plan. To remove all of my possible allies from the picture. If so, it’s worked…

…except for one man.

Ethan. She remembered his words. “It’s us against the world. Bodies change, but who you are never will. Believe me, Sel, you are not your body. How you look does not matter.”

The progressive ally. The male feminist. The one man in her life who would never objectify her. Ever.

Time to see if he’d meant any of it.

She invited him over—her partner in crime—with the intent of telling him everything that had happened to her.

But she never got the chance.

* * *

As soon as Ethan came through the door, he froze, dumbstruck by the massive flesh torpedos ballooning from Selena’s front.

“Big tits…” he whispered, eyes not leaving her chest.

“Yeah, they’re pretty big,” she said.

Understatement. Selena couldn’t even guess how vast her boobs were now. Far larger than her head. Each time she walked, they sloshed with a massive bounce that stretched the elastic of any maternity bra she could find to breaking point. She felt herself being violently pulled forward by their weight, ready to topple over.

Her big bazookas dwarfed her entire torso. She looked like a cartoon drawn by a horny 14 year old boy. Her head poked up behind her cleavage, looking comically small next to the globular bra-busters.

“I have a problem, and I need some advice—”

“I wanna touch them,” Ethan said, stepping forward.

He threw himself at her.

Ripping away her top, tearing off her bra, he buried his face in her enormous tits. Coffee-colored cleavage jiggled around his sucking, kissing lips.

“OH MY GOD!” his voice gurgled out somewhere in the darkness of her chest. It had taken his entire head, leaving only a shaggy tuft of brown hair! “THEY ARE SO BIIIIIG!”

Selena pushed him back.

“Okay,” she said, ruffled. “You’ve played with your boobs and had your fun, so let’s talk. There’s something really weird going on here. Can we talk?”

“Holy tits…” he whispered, wracked by shudders.

And then he lunged forward again, desperate for her hand-flooding, face-devouring breasts.

She squealed as his hands pulled and yanked them around like handles. “Ohhh….fuuuuck…” Ethan moaned as her tit-meat filled his hands. He grasped. He squeezed. He cossetted. He was all over their hot expansive surfaces, kissing them, slobbering them. “HUGE TITS! I FUCKING LOVE THESE SO MUCH!” he screamed, loud enough to make the surfaces vibrate. “OH MY GOD, THEY’RE AMAZING, SEL! FUCKING AMAZING!”

Then he was on top of her, pulling down his pants. He mounted her chest, angling his cock in line with her cleavage.

Like a man possessed, he rammed his dick between her boobs. They rippled like obscene pillows as his crotch impacted against them. Smack! Smack!

His body curled in immediate orgasm.

Ethan grunted as an enormous strand of semen blew from his yawning piss-slit, arching over her giant left jug and the three feet of tile beyond. The next shots slammed against her neck with enough force to sting. His cock was gushing and pumping cum until it flowed down her cleavage like a river.

Holy shit, she thought as his sperm glazed her. Where’s all this coming from?

When the last of his load had emptied out over her rack, she assumed he was done. He’d never gotten hard again after fucking her, ever.

But Ethan stepped forward, an animal possessiveness on his face.

And his cock had not gone soft.

“Take your clothes off,” Ethan ordered. His huge dick bobbed, causing precum to spill to the tiles.

She complied, an excited thrill bouncing back and forth down her spine. Her Calvins hit the tiles too, soaking in sperm he’d squirted over the ground.

But immediately, he thrust into her pussy.

“Ow! ETHAN! Slow down!”

His wild rutting was coarse and aggressive. Bullying. He frantically pounded her pussy, with the wild savagery of a dog. She found herself climaxing in spite of herself.

“FUCKING CUMMING!” he roared, pulling out of her twat with a plop.

He jerked his dick twice, and ejaculated.

The load that had been gathering in his balls for the past twenty minutes sailed out over her, splattering over the first load that had dried onto her skin. Cum spewed out in hot draughts. Shots hit her bowling-ball sized boobs with enough force to make them jiggle. Selena closed her eyes to protect them as wads of gloopy sperm sprayed over her body.

“You said you like them better…small…” Selena whined.

“You said you don’t like them.”

His hands jerked her vast rack upward. Mountains of titflesh to flowed up into her neck. Ethan grabbed and pulled with both hands, throwing himself directly at her chest.

“I LIED!” he hollered.

He fucked her again in the kitchen, then a fourth time in the bathroom. She was shocked by the nebbish young man’s sudden viriliy. He’d never wanted to have sex more than once in a day. Something about her new body had turned him into a caveman, an animalistic beast.

“So much for not objectifying me,” she snarled as he spread her legs, pulling his cock out of her slippery cum-filled vulva.

“I’m sorry…” he whimpered, his face planted inside her cleavage. “I’m sorry…”

His palm grasped her oversized left tit. The huge party balloon of flesh expanded in his grasp, ribbons of boob squeezing out through his fingers.

“…I can’t help it.”

And then she felt him get erect for the fifth time in two hours.

And as her eyelids rolled back and her mind filled with the whiteout shock of a ceiling light…

…he shoved his cock between her rack once again, and began pumping.

* * *

Late at night, in a deepening spill of shadow, her phone rang.

With a sigh, she picked it up.

“Lao Wei, you win.”

There was silence on the other end.

“I’ll do it. I’ll give you back the kidney. It will take a few weeks. I’ll need to find a surgeon ready to do it. God only knows how I’ll explain it to them.”

The silence deepened, became inky-dark and expectant. Something was still required of her.

“I’m sorry about your wife, and what happened. I know that doesn’t make it better.”

And then the static stopped. She heard an exhale.

“It is enough.”

And then the man started to weep.

“It is all I ever wanted. Thank you, Selena. It is over.”

* * *

As soon as she hung up, she realized that the primal throbbing in her breasts had stopped. They were still huge, overflowing her bra like stormy seas bursting dikes, but they no longer felt like living parasites. She looked down at them, and they were hers.

Tiredness settled over her. A need to sleep.

Selena collapsed into bed, her gigantic jugs flopping over her face, rolling over her in a wave of cleavage. Normally, she spent an hour propping and positioning her breasts so she did not painfully pinch them while moving in her sleep.

But this time, she was too tired.

Her head seemed to plunge right through the pillow, falling down into a murky dream. One that stained and poisoned and lingered in her psyche.

She was in a place she couldn’t recognize. The physics and geometry of the walls were wrong. MC Escher-like. Bamboo-lined walls, reinforcing big wards made of curtains. She heard whirring of surgical equipment, heard high-pitched screaming that took a long while to digest as human. Through gauzy curtains, she saw human shapes thrashing.

Wetness soaked through her socks.

She looked down, and saw blood flowing around her feet in a sickening tide. Her stare followed her feet up to her ankles: she was wearing blood-splattered medical scrubs, and a mask stained red.

The blood-tide gushed higher and higher. Her shoes were ankle-deep in a swelling sanguinous tide that gained force until it was like a river, gushing down the hospital corridor.

Lao Wei voice broke through her mind.

Remember your promise…give back what you took.

Then she woke up.

And her breasts had shrunk.

Chapter ?

Her huge breasts were no longer there.

In wonder, she hefted the apple-sized globes. So small, so fragile, so perfect. Like newly born kittens, tiny enough to trip over their own paws. Her mind froze in awe that crushed it like a glacier.

What kind of man was Lao Wei that he could do this?

Was he even a man?

She had gotten so used to the massive mammaries that these new small ones felt like alien artifacts.

She bounced out of bed—emotionally, not literally—unsure of what to make of the fact that there was nothing weighing her down. She did jumping jacks. No pain.

A moonwalker’s lack of gravity seemed to exist over her senses. Selena Gomez laughed and giggled.

She felt lighter than air. Like she could fly.

Her chest. A mystery. A secret. Locked up behind a bra, because the world does not deserve to understand its mysteries.

She didn’t understand how, but she had her old body back.

* * *

The next day—after prancing around in public, almost begging paparazzi to photograph her—she confronted Charity Lispector. Her sponsor.

Selena wished she’d used the hidden camera to film the woman’s face when she saw what had happened.

It would have captured a fury-pinched face—severe and stern, with a tartan dress pulled tight enough to emphasise her nonexistent chest—that melted, softened, losing itself in awe. A hand fluttered up, and fingers touched her mouth.

“I…I don’t believe it.”

“See?” Selena thrust her chest forward with oligeanous smugness. “I’m a size 32C, just like I said!”

The Flatter Chest, Fuller Life representative was stunned. She touched a hand to her mouth.

“You’ve had surgery.”

Selena popped her top. Nipples jiggled modestly on her chest.

“No scars.”

Charity stammered apologies and defenses. “Selena, I’m so sorry. When I saw those photos online…”

Selena winked. “I stuffed my bra to fuck. Just a practical joke. Guess it wasn’t as funny as I thought.”

“Okay, but now there are three weeks remaining, and you’re still only a 32C…”

“I’m still shrinking,” she said breezily. “I took a break from this dieting shit, but I’m on the edge of a 32B now.”

She spoke with utter, total confidence. Effusive and bold. She was back to her old self: old mind, and old body. In control of everything.

Charity Lispector glanced around, as though seeking the missing words for her mouth.

“Ms Gomez…I am sorry. I misjudged you.”

“People often do.” Selena folded her arms over her small tits and stared the older woman down. “Your sponsorship is as safe as houses. Even if I’m not 32A on the day, I’ll wear a binder under the bra. I’m small enough that nobody will ever notice.”

Charity nodded. “So you’re sure you’ll be able to do it?”

“Absolutely.”

She idly remembered that this crossed over the date she’d given Lao Wei for her surgery.

But that didn’t matter. She wasn’t going through with her promise anyway.

He didn’t deserve her kidney. He deserved ruin, and she deserved to bring it down on him.

Smiling deeply, she laid plans.

* * *

Days later, she took a hit off a vape pen while texting with her LAPD contact.

Lao Wei was fucked.

They had his face, his voice, his name - or at least the alias he went under.

California was a two party consent state for recordings, but this does not apply when violent crime is involved. And extorting my goddamn kidney from me like a 90s urban legend sure qualifies as a crime, she thought bitterly, letting the smoke burn her throat.

She touched her elbows together, just because she could. No boobs! Hurrah!

Then she got the text she’d been waiting for.

It was from her contact on the LAPD.

SEL, THEY’RE ABOUT TO RAID THE APARTMENT COMPLEX TO GRAB YOUR STALKER.

Grab away, boys, she thought, snickering. Grab away.

She had no intent on honoring her promise to Lao Wei. Removing her kidney from her body would be expensive, sudden, and awkward. She could not afford a hospital stay, so close to the consummation of her contract.

And besides, fuck him.

Wrecking her body? He was going straight to prison..

She did not understand exactly what he’d done to her - whether he’d spiked her drinking water with some mystery breast-growth agent, or whether he’d scrambled her perception and memories with hallucinogens, or whether something genuinely supernatural was going on.

Surely he’d spill his secrets after the LAPD threw him in a box for a few hours.

You should have listened, Lao Wei, she thought. You fucked around, and now you’re finding out.

A smile wefted across her face, and she raised the vape pen, in satiric toast.

* * *

The raid happened at dawn.

A Lenco BearCat rumbled to a half outside the apartment where the stalker lived. Camoflaged operatives from the LAPD’s SWAT unit secured the perimeter, and then readied to breach and enter.

They assumed points, and smashed down the door. Flooding through into the building, they sectioned it off, room by room, yelling clear, clear, clear.

Such a display of force would have normally been excessive. But this was an unusual case.

Selena Gomez was being stalked—and perhaps poisoned or drugged—by an intensely disturbing individual, who seemed to think he had some sort of magical power to control her body. Officially, her identity was a secret. Jane Doe, according to the paperwork. But someone had leaked.

All the men knew who it was.

They made no arrests that day.

The interior of the apartment block was empty. Nobody lived there at all. Not even rats.

Judging by the inch of dust on every surface, it had been empty for a long time.

The police chief, anxious for results to justify the expensive raid, interviewed people in nearby addresses. Nobody recognized the stalker’s face, or the sound of his voice.

It was like he’d never been there at all, except in Selena’s imagination.

* * *

As the raid happened, Selena was in her mansion, phone in front of her, drinking a daiqari, pleased as punch. She had won. Lao Wei had lost.

She was just waiting for the LAPD to call, and report that they had him in handcuffs. They’re gonna throw you in jail, throw away the key, and then throw away the jail, you son of a bitch.

The phone rang, and she took it. “Yo? Did you catch him?”

It was not the LAPD on the other side.

She was speaking to a huge aphotic ocean of static—streaked with rage and energy. It seemed to slam and echo inside her mind, ringing her like a bell.

“Liar.”

Lao Wei’s voice cut through the static like a whip.

“Did you think I could be caught?* He did not sound angry. Just exhausted and sad.”Do you think I’m afraid of the American police? Do you think I’m afraid of you?"*

Her mouth fell open in a shocked oval. No words came out. Her hand drifted away from her head…

…toward her breasts.

“Our deal is canceled. I will deal with you in a different way. Far worse than I did before.” He spoke words that were like nails piercing her flesh. Worms of madness seemed to flourish from the wounds.

“No....No....NO!!!” Selena screamed.

“Because you betrayed me, your body will betray you.”

Her breasts started itching and throbbing. Insects seemed to crawl over their surfaces…which abruptly swelled against her dress. The nipples drove out like diamonds through the fabric.

“You will feel it change and alter and become foreign to you.”

Her blouse ballooned out with the masses of expanding cleavage billowing underneath. She squawked as the fabric started to strangle her.

“You will suffocate under the weight of your flesh.”

Utter horror blew through her like wind tearing through a broken window. “Please! Don’t do it!”

Her breasts were exploding outward, blowing through cup sizes, swelling in front of her eyes. What had taken weeks now took minutes.

“NO!” she screamed. “NOT THIS!”

**“Die, under your own meat.”* He hung up.

Gasping for air, clawing at her blouse, the weight of monstrous tits pulling her forward…she finally unhooked her choking 32C bra.

Her tits were muffin-topping out of her her neckline, expanding like rising dough until the heavy flesh almost seemed to cascade down the front of the dress’s cut.

In utter disbelief, Selena grabbed at the huge sagging boulders packed into her dress. Two vast pumpkins of flesh, barely constrained by her blouse.

No! NO! NO!!!!

And then not even barely.

A button burst, then a second. Her boobs exploded through the gaps, bigger and bigger.

Buttons burst from the dress like popcorn as Selena’s breasts tore it apart.

“AAAAAHHHH!” she screamed.

Mountains of titflesh gushed out, pouring into the air, nipples jutting further and further and further into space as her breasts swallowed all in their path.

[John Connors]

Great story that was fun to read. Good characterisation of Gomez too.

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

Thanks John. Appreciate it.

It could use another editing pass. I'll fix it up if I write a part 2.