By Guest Writer: Mike
Chapter 8 – Part 1 of 2 - Contents
I awoke feeling the weight of my tits. They were heavy, they were huge and they were mine. I climbed out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. My breasts seemed to throw off my balance. I’d gone my whole life without them and now I found myself living with them more and more. I rubbed them and tweaked my nipples. I think any guy would have and I was still a guy. I spied myself in the mirror, a man with perfect tits.
I took a shower and enjoyed soaping my breasts. It was deliciously naughty to have tits and I must admit that I liked this part of it. Alone, in the shower or lying in my bed, they were something to behold and fun to caress. It was kinky and they were fun. Outside of the house though, that’s when they presented a problem. It had been fun when I had forced myself into a game, strutting through Publix and only feeling that terrible shame at the end. Today would be something totally different. I would not be able to control how I felt. Every emotion would be genuine. I didn’t have access to the Wererock to mask my shame and humiliation. I felt queasy just thinking about it.
I left the shower and donned a frilly, light-green bra. It had shimmering, scalloped lace along the cups and a dainty little flower sewn between the soft cups. It was overly feminine and exactly the kind that Cynthia had chosen for me. Apparently if I was to be her girl I was going to be a girly girl. The bra hoisted my tits, forcing them higher, with the delicate lace contrasting my smooth skin. I put on my matching panties, not really considering anything else. Hadn’t Cynthia commanded panties from now on?
I put on a pair of pants and a thin pair of socks. I buttoned down a long white shirt. My tits were thrust forward, the shirt hiding nothing. No, the shirt couldn’t hide them, but I knew what could. My heels and my purse. I pulled jacket after jacket off their wooden hangers. Each jacket I tried on proved what I already knew; my clothes couldn’t hide my breasts. The same thought from the night before raced through my mind: shit.
I finished getting dressed and then donned my heels. The other day the heels had turned into a game. Today was going to be much different. I couldn’t take them off if I wanted to hide my boobs. I looked at my feet in the heels and at how much of the four-inch spike was visible. Did I have longer pants? I walked back to my closet and as with the jackets, my pants came off their hangers one by one. I found the longest pair of slacks I owned. They didn’t fully mask my heels but they helped. It felt like a tiny victory.
I practiced walking in the heels, trying to find a way to move my feet that didn’t leave a loud, distinctive sound hanging in the air. I tried shuffling my feet but that felt too awkward. I tried taking slow, tentative steps and while that helped mask the noise it looked alien and would probably draw even more attention to me than just walking normally. Each practiced step I took caused my huge tits to jiggle and bounce. It was as if they wanted to be noticed.
I looked at the time. It was far earlier than I normally went into work. Usually I’d get up, take a nice shower, get dressed and settle in to eat a bowl or cereal while reading the news on my computer. Today, I planned on racing to work, getting there before Carley and hopefully hiding behind my desk all day. I grabbed my purse and felt my chest go flat. The power of the Wererock once again amazed me; if only I had access to it now. I felt stuck; I was stuck. And that thought, while terrifying, sent an electric current to my cock. Damned if being trapped in this situation wasn’t arousing. Was it the humiliation I was facing that turned me on? Did I share that with Cynthia or was it something she planted? No, I had set up a game to humiliate myself before I met Cynthia; this wasn’t her doing. What did that mean? I’d never been into humiliation before the Wererock so was it something the stone did to me? Was it payment the stone demanded to be able to access its powers? I had far too many questions on my mind and trying to answer them all was pointless.
With my purse draped over one shoulder and my heels firmly ensconced on my feet, I walked to the car. I looked silly. Men didn’t carry purses. Since I was carrying a purse, did that mean I wasn’t a man? Maybe so. I was Cynthia’s girl. Wasn’t that her point?
I set my purse on the passenger seat and felt my breasts expand. I bucked up, the strap digging into my flesh. I snatched the purse and set it in my lap. Immediately my breasts disappeared. Good enough. I backed out of my driveway, my feet feeling foreign on the pedals. The heel pushed my foot at an odd angle and seemed to keep my foot a little too far from the gas and brake controls. I ended up tilting my foot at an angle, operating the gas with the side of my foot instead of the bottom as I had done my whole life. It felt every bit as strange as my boobs being bifurcated by the thick strap of the safety belt before I took them away with my purse.
I made it to the office, delighted to see that I was the first to arrive. I parked my car, picked up my purse, and walked into the building. The lobby was empty and for that I was happy. How could I explain the purse hanging off my shoulder? No matter how I thought about that, I couldn’t come up with a plausible answer to that question. It was a frustrating feeling to be unable to answer the questions I hoped I would not hear. Still, while it would be humiliating to be caught with my purse, how much worse would it be to be caught with my boobs? Cynthia had set me up well.
I set my purse on the desk and felt my boobs expand to fill the empty cups of my bra. I settled into my chair, positioned my monitor a little more to my right, hoping to hide as much of my body as I could from anyone just peering in. Satisfied, I put my purse on my lap. I could feel it sitting there, like it was mocking me. Every shift I made returned my attention to that simple purse with its golden button. But, with the purse in my lap, I didn’t have my breasts. My feet were arched, my toes on the floor and my heels jutting upward on those thick stalagmites. I must admit that it felt sexy to be wearing those heels but terrifying, too. I was at work, trapped with heels on my feet, a purse in my lap, wearing panties and an overly feminine bra. I let out a small chuckle; I was wearing more women’s clothing than I’d ever worn before and at the office no less. The thought entered my mind that the only thing missing was a skirt and a blouse. I smiled, promising myself not to mention that to Cynthia.
I heard Carley come in, “You’re here early, Mister O,” she said, standing at my office door. I felt my pulse race. Could she see the heels on my feet? My desk sat perpendicular to the door, a large window behind me. My computer blocked most of my body, I was sure of that, but the privacy panel on the desk didn’t extend all the way to the floor. Sitting, the hem of my pants was slightly more elevated than when I stood, so did that expose enough of my shoes that Carley could see them? Did the angle of the desk block her view? I moved my feet closer towards the door, hoping to use the side of the desk to hide my heels. I felt my mouth go dry, like the moisture had been seared out of it. “What?” I finally choked, forcing a smile to hide my nerves, “Oh, yeah, I just wanted to get some work done. I’ve been distracted.”
“Don’t I know it. Good for you. You’ve been alone for far too long.” Carley flashed me a playful grin. She was wearing a light blue dress and simple black heels. It dawned on me that my heels were taller than hers. Maybe that made Carley smarter than me.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, taking her meaning. I had been alone for longer than I cared to admit.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“Please,” I said, not really thinking. In my haste to get into the office I had not made me a cup and hadn’t considered that that might have been a good thing. I didn’t have my own, attached bathroom. If I drank too much, well, eventually I’d have to use the bathroom. And then what? Grab my purse and clip-clop down the hallway in my noisy, towering heels? Or take them off and jiggle and bounce towards the bathroom with breasts far too big to conceal? Neither option sounded appealing. That thought didn’t enter my mind until I finished my second cup of coffee for the day. And when the thought did appear, that brought on other, scarier thoughts. How would I go to lunch?
I went in early to hide my purse from my staff but I really couldn’t hide all day, no matter how much I wanted to. An hour before lunch, when I was trying to decide where I’d order a meal and should I order something with a large drink just to have the cup to use as a make-shift toilet, my phone rang. “Hello?”
“Adam. It’s Tommy, can you come down her for a minute?”
No! “What’s up?”
“It’s better if you come see it. There’s a problem with this code that I can’t quite shake.” I was silent for far too long. “Adam?”
“What? Oh, sorry, my mind was elsewhere. I’ll be down shortly.” Shit.
I sat at my desk, weighing my options, feeling indecision wrap around me like kudzu choking a tree. Breasts or heels and purse? I could slip off my shoes, drop my purse on the floor, and bounce over to see Tommy, my breasts leading the way or I could grab my simple black purse and carry it with me, hoping my heels wouldn’t be too loud on the waxed concrete floor. Neither option sounded appealing. What had Cynthia done to me and why was I finding it so exciting?
I picked up my purse. Maybe I could explain the purse away and maybe nobody would notice the shoes on my feet. Isn’t that what Andy Dufresne said in The Shawshank Redemption? That nobody ever noticed another man’s shoes? I could only hope he was right.
With my purse in hand I clip-clopped out of my office. Carley saw me right away. She gave me this odd look, trying to decode what she was seeing. “That’s a nice purse? Is it a gift for your new girlfriend?”
“Yes!” I said, a bit too loudly. It was something.
“It’s pretty.” She tilted her head, that odd look growing sinister. Or maybe that’s how I saw it. I was waiting for her to mention the pointy toe of my black heels.
“Thanks,” I said. I turned from Carley, feeling her eyes on me. I walked through the office suite towards the programmer cubes. Tommy was waiting for me. He spotted the purse by said nothing about it. I could only imagine what he was thinking. My cheeks were red and bright and it felt like I had spent too much time in the sun. I was sweating; my mouth was dry and my pulse was thrumming. “What’s up?” I asked, praying he wouldn’t mention my purse.
We spent ten minute going over the code. I had him send a copy to me so that I could double check our corrections. “Thanks, Adam,” Tommy said, turning back to his screen. He was dialed in; maybe he didn’t really notice my purse.
Since I was already out of the office I decided to get lunch. I stopped to pee on my way out of the building. I was relieved to find the bathroom empty. I finished what I had to do and was shocked to see the color on my face in the bathroom mirror. I set the purse on the counter and watched my breasts rise. I rinsed my face, finding swallowing to be difficult. Grabbing my handbag returned my chest to its normal size. I studied myself in the mirror. Brown hair, green eyes, and a lovely black handbag. It looked out of place; I was wearing a suit and carrying a purse. The heels on my feet made me look taller; had Tom or Carley noticed that? Carley did; she and I have worked side by side for years. How could she have missed it. I felt another wave of shame wash over me. How was I going to get through the rest of the day?
I left the building, my heels singing against the asphalt parking lot. In the safety of my car I set my purse on the seat next to me. Of course, the power of the Werestone couldn’t be denied. My chest expanded, filling my bra, my shirt and causing my chest to jut outward like a seawall. I bucked the seatbelt, feeling the strap against my chest. It still felt foreign but somehow erotic, too.
I bought a small cheeseburger for lunch, risking nothing more than a drive through window. I set my purse against my thigh before I paid; just having it touch me was enough to satisfy whatever spell Cynthia had used. I had to be touching the purse; at least it didn’t have to be in my hand or draped over one shoulder, or clutched in my teeth. I used to read Calvin and Hobbes, a comic strip from way back. In one pane, Calvin, the horribly fun six-year old boy made the comment that life was never so bad that it couldn’t get worse. Dark tidings for a comic strip maybe but so very accurate. Cynthia could have made my compulsion so much worse. I made a mental note to leave that thought to myself, too.
I drove back to the office and carried my lunch in one hand and my purse in the other. I saw a few stares from my employees but they said nothing. Sometimes it was good to be the boss. Carley, saw me come in and flashed me a frown. She saw the purse and she noticed the heels. My face flared with heat. “Any calls?” I asked, my voice cracking.
Carley shook her head and followed me into the office. “Not that it’s any of my business, but what’s with you today?”
Shit. I know I’ve said that before. “Nothing, why?” I began setting out my lunch, carefully keeping my purse in my lap. Having Carley see my purse and heels was one thing, seeing my breasts something worse, but seeing them grow, how could I hope to explain that away? No, it was better to face the shame of the purse than any of the other options.
“You’re carrying a purse. And look at your feet. Those are women’s shoes. Is that why you’ve never dated. Are you gay?” That last word was spoken in a whisper.
I thought of what Cynthia and I had done. “No,” I said, shaking my head, “I’m not gay.” Was I really having a conversation about my sex life with my secretary? That was surreal. The only thing we’d ever talked about before was our families. Heck, we never so much as told one another a dirty joke.
“Then what’s with the heels? You seem to walk in them pretty well; have you had a lot of practice?”
It felt like she was mocking me. Somehow, I felt petty. “No, it’s just…” What was it? A game between Cynthia and I and what was Cynthia to me? An acquaintance, a friend, my girlfriend? I didn’t really have an answer and wasn’t entirely sure I owed one to Carley anyway. “Just something between Cynthia and me. A bit of harmless fun.”
“Well,” Carley said, looking bemused and a bit disappointed by my answer, “If I see you coming in wearing a dress I’m going to laugh at you. Big time.” Then she did laugh. At me. Big time. The sound sent a tidal wave of shame crashing over me. I felt my throat tighten, feeling like a child being mocked by his peers for some speech impediment or maybe an ugly birthmark. Carley’s laughter made me feel tiny.
“Oh, I don’t see that happening,” I said, not sounding confident. I sounded indecisive and that part threw me the most. I didn’t grow my business by being timid.
“Too bad. Maybe I should give Cynthia a call. It would be a hoot.” She shook her head and left my office, leaving me feeling six inches tall in her wake. I heard her calling to me from outside my office, “Now where did her number go?”
After lunch, I hid in my office. Sure, I got some work done, even formalizing the offer letter for Cynthia, but mostly I just stayed tucked away in my office, with Carley standing guard. Two employees came to visit me but if they noticed my heels or the purse sitting in my lap they kept it to themselves. The afternoon passed as normal as it could for a man wearing heels and sporting a black women’s handbag.
My feet were hurting and I thought of taking off my heels but hiding them was far easier than hiding my breasts. No, I’d have to suffer through with my pinched toes and aching arches.
Cynthia texted me just before three: How’s it going?
Fine. What else could I say? I’m still embarrassed by the purse.
I could almost hear her laugh. That means you’re not used to it yet. Don’t worry, you will be. That one she followed up with an emoji showing a simple yellow face sticking out its tongue. I got your offer letter and I must say I’m impressed. I have another idea I want to run by you but it has to be in person.
How are your feet? Sore yet? You can always slip off your heels. This was followed up with that same tongue exposed happy face. In my mind, I could hear her laughing.
I’m good, thanks.
Oh, so you like them. I guess you’ll just have to wear them some more. I should tell you two other little things.
I didn’t respond to that. She was building towards something and I was a little worried about what it could be. Cynthia had already proved to me that she had a devilish mind. I didn’t have long to wait.
Want to know how to make stop your breasts from growing when you set the purse down or take off your heels?
That one was easy to answer. You’ll do it tonight when I see you?
Nope. I’m not changing anything; you’ll have to do what I set up. Sound familiar, sexy man? Or is that my girl?