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.