The Wererock - Chapter 2 – Fed-Ex

The Wererock

By Guest Writer:  Mike

Chapter 2 – Fed-Ex

Wednesday morning came early. I woke up long before my usual time and well before the alarm clock I had set. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning anxious to see what Santa had brought. I had come up with the plan and I wasn’t going to waste any time waiting to see it done. I had come up with a number or scenarios but I was still in the testing stage and so, while I took risks, I didn’t take huge risks. Those came with Cynthia and the two miraculous things she discovered about the Wererock.

I took a shower, ate a quick breakfast of instant oatmeal, and got dressed in one of the suits I normally wore to the office. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I was going to make a change. A big one but not one that I couldn’t be repaired if things turned out poorly. I knew it was stupid but I couldn’t help it. I was a junkie needing a fix. I didn’t know what was happening but somehow the Werestone was changing me. That’s the best way to describe it, I guess.  It was talking to me, calling me to play and I listened. I obeyed.

I drove to the office, the Werestone in the front pocket of my light blue shirt. I could feel it there. There was this coolness that seemed to seep through my shirt, making my left nipple hard. I laughed at that, knowing what was coming.

I parked at the office. I had fourteen employees with six programmers, four men and two women, each sitting in their own cubicles writing out the code for whatever project they were assigned. My salesman, Jason, was out, probably drumming up new business. Seated at her desk in front of my office was my assistant, Carley. She was a pretty, black lady with tight, curly hair and full red lips. She frowned at me, “What are you doing here? I thought you took the week off?” She had this tone, like she was scolding a recalcitrant student. She hobbled to her feet.

“You’ll be the one taking more than a week off,” I said, watching Carley holding her stomach. “How much longer?”

“Oh, about another two months. With my luck, he’ll be late, the little shit.” She smiled at her own words. “Now, what are you doing here?”

“Just wanted to ship something out.” We had preprinted air bill labels at the office and a full supply of boxes. “FedEx show up yet today?”

Carley shook her head. “Nah, probably won’t be here for an hour yet.”

Perfect.

I gathered up the shipping supplies before shutting myself into my office. I filled out my home address on the FedEx label before assembling the small box. The box hung open, taunting me. I thought of what I was about to do. It would be scary. It would be exciting. It would be crazy. I knew I shouldn’t do it. I knew that but I couldn’t not do it, too. I was a drug addict needing my next fix even knowing that the fix would cost me dearly. The Werestone was calling to me. I could almost hear it telling me to go ahead, it’ll be fun. And it would be fun. Scary fun, like a haunted house or a roller coaster.

I took off my blazer and unbuttoned my shirt. My chest bared to the room. I fished the stone out of my pocket. I held the icy rock in my hand and gave myself breasts. At first they were small, barely noticeable. Of course, that wasn’t good enough. The stone was my pusher, telling me to keep going. Go big or go home, wasn’t that the saying? I made them bigger and then bigger still. I stopped with two perfectly formed breasts on my chest, each a little bigger than a grapefruit. I would guess I was a C-cup or maybe a bit bigger.

I hopped up and down, feeling them move. They wiggled and wobbled. I rubbed them, feeling their heat. I lifted them, taking in the full weight of them. I pinched my right nipple, making it as hard as the left. One more quick nudge and the nipples became a little more sensitive. I blew on my nipples, first one and then the other, and felt a tingle in my cock. My breathing sped up as my nipple electrified my senses.

I buttoned my shirt, my breasts pushing out as two large mounds. I donned my jacket. I looked at my reflection in the glassy computer screen sitting on my desk and then down at myself from above. I was sure they were hidden enough to escape the office without being seen.

I looked at the stone still clutched in one hand. It wasn’t too late to change my mind.  I kept telling myself that but it was too late. I had to do it. I wanted to even more.

I dropped the Wererock into the FedEx box and sealed it shut. My heart was pounding now. I felt an excitement I could barely contain. My whole body was tingling. I tried to remove my breasts but nothing happened; I wasn’t holding the stone. I could rip the box open, touch the rock and take my tits away but that wasn’t what I wanted to do. I wanted to be stuck with tits until my package was delivered. I wanted to be helpless.

Before reason took over I left my office, handing the box to Carley. “Make sure this goes out today, please.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Orlinski.” She looked at me a little funny but didn’t say anything. I watched as she stacked the little white box on the table behind her desk, setting it on another, similar box. Just one more thing in the outgoing mail. Nothing out of place. Nothing out of the ordinary. But something extraordinary.

“Thanks, Carlie. Say ‘hi’ to Zachary for me.”

Carlie nodded, “Will do.”

“See you Monday.”

I left the office, feeling each step in my chest. The tits were distracting, demanding my attention. No, not the tits. My tits. I had tits. I walked to my car, feeling my tits bounce. I got a thrill as I felt my hard nipples slipping against my shirt. I bucked my seat belt and felt the strap settle between those twin orbs.

I raced home, watching the rear-view mirror more than the road in front of me. I was driving on autopilot, concentrating on the box holding the rock getting further and further away. I made it home and raced into the house. I couldn’t take it anymore. One hand fumbled with the key to get me inside while the other was pulling at the button on my blazer. I was in the house with the door slamming behind me when my hands ripped my shirt open. Buttons scattered away, sounding like rice falling into an empty pan. I fell to my knees, rubbing my tits. My nipples were hard nubs and so very sensitive. Each caress felt like a thousand tongues. I pinched my nipples and came in my pants, without ever touching my dick.

It had all been too much. The sensations of my breasts bouncing as I walked. The electric feeling of my engorged nipples shooting pleasure straight to my cock and my brain, fueling it all, with the same overwhelming thought. “You’re stuck with tits. You can’t take them away.”

And I was stuck. That was the most exciting thing. I’m not sure I could ever explain why that was so exhilarating. It was thrilling to be able to make the changes I could make but somehow it was even more amazing to be stuck with the change I had made. Without my Wererock I was stuck with my tits. Even the word “stuck” sent lines of pleasure from my brain to my dick.

So far, this first experiment had been amazing. My mind kept coming up with new, riskier, scenarios and I knew I’d have to try them all. I spent the day playing with my tits. I grabbed one boob and brought the nipple up to my mouth like I’d seen in so many pornographic videos. My knees buckled at the sensation; it was more than arousing. It was amazing.

Topless I walked from room to room just to feel my tits jiggle with each step. By the time my stomach reminded me it was time for dinner I understood why women wore bras. The weight of the tits, the pull of them, left me wanting to feel some support. And I could only imagine how’d they look if I hoisted them, putting them out for the world to see.

Once that thought entered my mind I couldn’t shake it. Hastily I redressed and left my house, throwing one glance at my front door. The day had disappeared and it was nearly dinner time. By now the FedEx box was gone, fully ensconced in its journey back to me. I couldn’t go to the office and collect the box now if I wanted. I was trapped, waiting for the stone to come home. Just the thought of it made me tingle.

I drove two suburbs over to a small outdoor mall that had a Victoria’s Secret. I needed a bra and it needed to be lacy and overly supportive. Now, I’ve never thought of wearing women’s underwear in my life; the thought was as alien as the breasts on my chest but somehow when I thought it, the idea felt right. It dawned on my briefly that the Wererock had changed more than my body; it had altered my mind as well. As quickly as that disturbing thought entered my mind, I found it replaced with an equally terrifying idea. That I was glad I was being trained to accept the changes. “That makes it easier,” I whispered under my breath. Then those thoughts were nothing but vapor.

I walked into Victoria’s Secret, surrounded by bras and panties of every color imaginable. The lights were bright, making the sexy underwear even brighter. I looked around, seeing thongs and bikinis, boy shorts and tanga panties all adorned with soft, frilly lace. I spotted panties with matching bras and garter belts paired with sheer stockings. I was overwhelmed by the choices, lost in a world I knew nothing about.

“Can I help you sir?” A pretty, Asian woman approached me. She was wearing a tight skirt that barely covered her knees and a white blouse topped with a jacket just a little darker than my own dress shirt. Her nametag read “Suyin.”

“I need a bra.”

Suyin turned her head, putting her ear closer to me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

I repeated my request, louder now so that it could be heard other than in my head. 

Suyin seemed nonplussed. “A gift?”

I shook my head, suddenly embarrassed. I had come here with confidence; I needed a bra. Now that I was here I somehow felt like a child caught stealing a chocolate bar from the checkout line of the grocery store. I felt the heat rise on my cheeks. Where had my confidence gone? I thought of the stone, somewhere in the FedEx system. It could give me the strength to get through this. Another thought followed that one, one that made me gasp. It could magnify my shame, too. Suddenly I wanted it to do both. I was a junkie needing a fix and I didn’t care if the resulting trip was good or bad. Hell, I doubted I’d know the difference.

“No,” I said, finding my voice.  “I have,” I looked around me. A few women were shopping, looking at the panties in their little wooden bins. Across the store two other women were talking about some new fragrance of lotion and behind them a mom, pushing her child in a stroller, was looking at some gray sweat pants with the word Pink written across the bottom in the appropriate color. All of it was normal; only I was out of place. “Breasts. I have,” the word eluded me, “a condition that gives me boobs, breasts, and I need a bra. I guess,” I gave a shrug as I finished my tale, feeling my cheeks turning an even brighter red, “I need to finally accept the truth.”

She took it all in, “Do you know the size?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Suyin said. She escorted me to the back of the store. “We’ll do a fitting. Go inside and take your shirt off. I’ll be right in.”

I hadn’t expected this and I felt my chest growing hot. I felt embarrassed, true, but somehow, I felt even more turned on. The humiliation was exciting. That was new; I’d never been into that but now, as I stood topless, my tits bared to the bright dressing room lights above me, I found myself aroused by the shame I was feeling. And it was shameful; men didn’t have tits. In my house, my tits had been fun. Here, in Victoria’s Secret, it was humiliating and even more exciting. I felt my cock tighten, threatening to erupt.

Suyin returned and let out a little squeak. “You weren’t kidding.”

Did she think it was something I would make up? I was about to ask her when she told me to turn around.

She measured my chest below my breasts and again, crossing a soft pink tape with black markings over my nipples. She jotted down each measurement she took and told me my size: 38-C. At her insistence, I got dressed again. I quickly donned my shirt and jacket, needing both to hide what I couldn’t take away.

“Follow me, sir,” Suyin said, leading me from the dressing room. She was quick, polite, and most of all, professional. She didn’t make any snide remarks and I never once heard her snicker at my plight but I wanted her to. At the time, I didn’t understand my thoughts, I only knew that as I was following her from the dressing room to a round, wooden table filled with lacy bras with matching panties, I was hoping for her to shame me. I swear, had she had called me a big girl, or anything even remotely demeaning, I would have come on the spot. It was the Wererock that put those thoughts in my head. It was the only thing new; I’d never been turned on by sexual humiliation, but I’d never magically sprouted tits, either. One led to the other. Both were caused by that amazing stone.

I selected two bras. One, a plain black one with just a slight tinge of lace around the upper cups. The other was bright yellow with an iron underwire that only had half-cups. The wiring would push my tits up; the half cups would let them bounce. Suyin gave me a strange look that caused my cheeks to flare with color. “Thank you, miss,” I said, surprised my voice didn’t crack.

She gave a nod and had me follow her to the register. Just like that I had two bras and I knew my size. I left the store, feeling a flush as I carried that bright pink bag out into the covered walkway that skirted the stores. The bag was a beacon; you couldn’t miss it. People milling about, moving from store to store, didn’t seem to care what I was carrying. If anyone saw the bag they’d think I’d bought a gift for a wife or a girlfriend.

I remember feeling my cheeks flush thinking about Suyin mocking me and that led me towards the bathroom. I ducked into the surprisingly clean restroom. An old black man was washing his hands at the sink, while two teen-aged boys were drying their hands and playing basketball with the paper towels. “You suck like Shaq,” the taller boy laughed as his friend’s wet towel landed on the floor three feet from the trash bin.

“Whatever,” the second boy said. They were both laughing as they left the bathroom.

I scurried into a stall. I hung my jacket on the hook on the back of the stall door. I raced to take off my shirt. I fished into the bag and pulled out the black bra. Oh, the yellow one would have given me more bounce but I wanted more than the jiggle. I wanted the heat of shame to stain my cheeks. I needed it. I didn’t know why and I didn’t care. I know now, of course; it was the stone. It was a sentient thing playing with me like a cat toys with a mouse.

I fastened the bra around my chest, those three hooks stacked vertically in the front. I spun the bra around before fishing my arms through the heavy straps. I bent forward, allowing my tits to settle into the padded cups. I adjusted myself, tugging the bra, making sure everything was in place. My knees lurched inward as a wave of intense pleasure raced down my spine. My tits looked hot in the bra but that hair would have to go. The stone could do that. I wanted the Wererock to take the hair away; I wanted the stone to make my tits bigger. The more I played the more I wanted to play.

Like I said, I was a junkie.

I put my shirt back on. The bra amplified my tits, making them appear bigger. It put them out there. One button was straining against the size of my boobs. I could see my bra through my light blue shirt; the yellow one wouldn’t have been so evident and I was desperate to feel the shame. I could see my chest though the bulge in my shirt. I put the jacket on; my bra was hidden as was my chest, but you could make out a definite mass underneath my clothing. Somehow, I knew that wouldn’t do. I took the jacket off. Perfect.

I opened the stall door, my chest demanding to be seen. The bathroom was empty but the mall concourse wouldn’t be. It would be busy. My nipples, overly sensitive thanks to the stone, were diamonds. They were so hard they hurt. I felt the soft lace of the bra caress them and that sent another wave of pleasure through me, making my crotch buzz and the hair on my arms stand erect. I almost came just walking out of the stall carrying my pink Victoria’s Secret bag. I glanced behind me and could just see the dark outline of my jacket still hanging on the door. Leave it behind, the thought came and I couldn’t deny it. You don’t want to hide behind your jacket, do you? Oh, I didn’t want to at all.

I walked out of the bathroom, almost bouncing off a man about my age. He gave me a look, shook his head and uttered, “fucking fag,” before disappearing into the bathroom to take care of his business.

I came on the spot, feeling my knees grow wobbly and the wetness in my pants. I had to clutch the tiled wall next to me to prevent myself from falling to the ground. My face glowed in shame; my nipples ached. I flexed my fingers, one hand sliding along the cool title the other wringing the handle of my pretty pink bag. My breath came out of me in a ragged, hitching pop. I sounded like a man shivering in the cold.

It took a moment to catch my breath. I stood up and began the shameful walk to my car. My jacket was forgotten; I didn’t even notice until the next morning that it was missing. The bag in my hand seemed to be a beacon, the color drawing the attention of everyone around me. Mothers with their kids had their children look away. I heard sounds of disgust and words of derision and everyone one of them was like a lightning bolt to my balls. I was more turned on that I could every recall being and I felt more shame than I thought anyone could tolerate. My cheeks were flush, capable of leading Santa’s sleigh; they’d put Rudolph to shame. I felt a heat across my hairy tits and my mouth was somehow an arid desert. I couldn’t swallow; I could only endure. I felt stuck and that feeling was amazing.

I walked through the mall, past Starbucks and Macy’s, past GameStop and Bath and Body Works. The cobblestone walkway was filled with people gawking and pointing and laughing. I was cussed at and mocked, ridiculed and insulted. Every word, every gasp, every mom making their kids turn away shot a beeline of pleasure through my system. I was turned on by the shame and I wanted more.

I didn’t plan anything more than leaving the mall but I stopped at a cupcake stop instead. I ordered a vanilla cupcake with cream cheese icing. The teenaged girl rang up the order and gave me my change, “here you go, miss.” She said. She was laughing at me. My balls tightened listening to her mocking tone and derisive laughter.

“Thank you.”

I took the cupcake and sat on a green wooden bench in the middle of countless shoppers that all became gawkers and commentators. I ate the cupcake, reveling in my shame, with the Victoria’s Secret bag sitting between my feet. My back was against the bench, my tits were jutting into the world for all to see. The bra was clearly visible beneath my light blue shirt. I finished the cupcake and looked at the wrapper. I had to get rid of it and I had a bag with me. At the time, it made perfect sense. I pulled out my bright yellow bra and set it on my lap. The cupcake wrapper went into the pink striped bag. I carried my garbage bag in one hand and my lacy yellow bra in the other.

Five minutes later I was back in my car, trembling in embarrassment and sexual lust. I dropped my hand to my lap and came again.

I slept well that night.

Thursday morning came and with it the memory of what I’d done the night before. I felt a wave of regret, promising myself I’d never to that again. I sat up and felt my tits shift. My nipples hardened in the cold room. Draped across the recliner that sat in the corner were my two bras, lying there as twin reminders of what I’d done. The memory of the shame returned which was far greater than recalling what I had done. This was a reminder of what I felt. That lead to another glance at the bras. Suddenly I wanted to wear the yellow one and see how it made my tits bounce.

I hopped out of bed, anxious to see the yellow bra caressing my breasts. I donned the bra much faster than the one the evening before. Naked except for that lacy yellow bra that pushed my tits out and left my nipples uncovered, I walked around my house, moving from room to room. My eyes were riveted to my tits. The jiggled and jostled, bounced and bobbed. It was painfully exciting.

I stayed naked all day except for the bra. I kept looking down, finding myself excited by my tits and afraid of them, too. I was stuck with them until my Wererock arrived. I tried to wish them away, but without the rock they were a part of me; only surgery could remove them. The hair on my chest looked out of place and while I didn’t have the stone I could do something about that.

I climbed in the shower and lathered up my chest, feeling a pang of regret as I removed my bra. I gently scraped away the hair until my tits were free of that course bundle of brown hair mixed with an errant gray. My armpits felt the pull of the razor as well; I wanted nothing to disturb the view I expected when seeing a beautiful pair of breasts barely enclosed by a sexy, lacy bra.

Finished with the shower I donned the bra again. I watched TV. I browsed the web. I made lunch and dinner all while doing nothing but watching my tits bounce in that sexy little bra. They looked amazing and without the hair I found myself turned on by them. The fear of the Werestone not arriving was there, simmering on the back burner, a nagging, scary thought that kept my nerves on edge and my overly sensitive nipples crystalline hard.

That night I masturbated, one hand on my erection and the other pinching and pulling my deliciously hard nipples. I sucked them into my mouth, hoisting them with one hand. If my tits were bigger I could get the nipples to my mouth easier. That thought was enough to send me over the edge. My come launched upward, landing on my ripe chest. Some come landed on my tits; without thinking I licked that, too. It revolted me but excited me at the same time. It was another new thing in an ever-growing pool of new experiences. I felt a new wave of shame as I tasted the warm, saltiness of my spunk. It wasn’t anything I had ever thought of doing before but that didn’t stop me from doing it then. I regretted it and knew I’d do it again at the same time.

I fell asleep wearing that pretty yellow bra.

FedEx arrived just before ten Friday morning. I signed for the package wearing a pair of shorts, a T-shirt that had somehow become far too small and my pretty yellow bra. My tits lifted the shirt and the way they bounced when I walked was nothing short of mesmerizing. Truth is, I didn’t think anything of opening the door with my tits jutting proudly forward. Sure, I wanted them gone before I went to work on Monday, but I wanted them to be bigger, too.

I signed for the package, not saying anything to the strange stare the burly FedEx employee gave me. What could I say? Until I opened the white box there wasn’t anything I could do about it anyway. Still, I felt a surge of shame and desire crash down on me by that disgusted glare. Why was humiliation suddenly so exciting? That was the first thought. The second was more gleeful, the stone is back!

I shut the door so hard the little window above it rattled. I tore open the box and pulled out the stone. It felt good to touch it, my fingers slipping over the cold, smooth surface. I rubbed the stone, feeling its weight. It seemed to vibrate in my hand like one of those little buzzers they give you at restaurants to tell you your table is ready. There was an energy in the stone I hadn’t really felt. It seems my stone missed me, too.

I stripped and made my tits disappear. I needed to do that first, to make sure I wasn’t truly trapped with tits until I could have a doctor take them away. My breasts disappeared. My chest looked out of place without the hair that was normally there.

I marched into the bedroom and donned a pair of jeans. The Werestone stayed in my nightstand. I had an errand to run and I didn’t want the stone to be a distraction. The same T-shirt I’d been wearing when I signed for my package looked normal now that I didn’t have those magnificent orbs hanging from my chest.

I drove back to the mall I’d visited two days before. The sun was bright, spilling warmth onto the cool morning. By mid-afternoon it would be almost ninety degrees but that morning it was still barely seventy and the day felt good. I drove with the windows down and a cool breeze mussing my brown hair. I felt good. My experiment had been a success. I had come up with a way to trap myself with whatever change I wanted and it was delicious. I had so many more things I wanted to try. I had to escalate, that was the thought that kept my excitement high and my mind racing. That next time it would be bigger. It would be longer. It would be scarier. Could the stone amplify my feelings of humiliation? I thought it could. Could it make me a slave to my own desires? Could it make me do things I didn’t want to do? That thought made me tremble. I had some more experimenting to do.

I parked at the mall and made my way to the center of the three concourses that merged at a covered tent. A pretty woman about my age was sitting behind a circular desk. She smiled as I approached. “Can I help you?”

“Hi. I accidently left a jacket in the men’s room. I was wondering if anyone turned it in?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.” She had a pretty smile. She had short brown hair pulled back into a tiny pony tail that barely reached halfway down her head. She had blue eyes that reminded me of Dory from those Pixar movies. There were even a few flakes of gold in those pretty eyes. The woman opened a little cabinet beneath her desk and pulled out my jacket. She placed it on the counter. “Here you go; is this it?”

It was. I picked it up and draped it on my arm, “That’s it. Thank you, Cynthia,” I said, reading her nametag. She was wearing a smart black blouse, buttoned to her throat; she had on tiny heels and a skirt that ended just below her knees. She was very pretty and yet I couldn’t chase the thought that my tits had been bigger than hers. It was catty and I felt bad for thinking it but a little bit proud, too.

She gave me a smile that lit up her face. I glanced at her hand; no ring. Was she single? She was pretty, very pretty, so somehow, I doubted it, but I was feeling confident. I had my stone back and if she was taken, well, I’d never have to see her again. I could be someone else. Anyone else. That reality was empowering. “This might sound forward, but are you free for dinner tonight?”

Her pretty smile became even prettier. “Are you asking me out?” Her voice was playful and melodious.

I nodded, “I am.” I held out my hand. “Adam,” I gave her my last name.

“I have plans tonight,” she said, feigning an exaggerated frown. “How about tomorrow night?”

That was even better. I could play with the stone. “Great!” We exchanged info, putting our information in each other’s phones. Business cards of the digital age.

And that was how I met Cynthia. Cynthia who would teach me a few more things about the Wererock. Cynthia who became just as enraptured as I was by what that stone could do. Cynthia, that took over and made me do things I had imagined but never truly realized.

Cynthia who would one day become my wife.