Kompera
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Virus III
🕑 Added 2022-03-31 14:57:38 +0000 UTCNote: This is a story-prompt for Kush Destroyer.
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In a matter of days, Tristan’s breasts had managed to swell up to the size of Rob’s, and they felt terribly bloated. His flesh tingled and his nipples ached. The mounds were just so hot, full, and round. He suspected he knew what was going on, but he didn’t want to admit it.
Rob was irritatingly blasé about the whole situation. He had indeed started to use his breastmilk in his cereal. Tristan thought it was insane, but Rob was as happy as could be.
“Dude, you’ve got to try it. It’s fucking delicious,” Rob called around a mouthful of fruity-Os. He was sprawled across the couch, where his ass seemed to be permanently parked lately.
“Man, you are insane,” Tristan responded, where he was hunched at the kitchen table, staring down at a bowl of oatmeal that he hadn’t touched so far. He was trying to eat healthier, but all he could think about at that moment was the box of donuts sitting in the fridge, practically calling out to him.
To further distract him, his nipples were stinging, and he could hardly focus. They ached to be touched somehow, but he had resisted the temptation up until that point. He groaned and arched, stretching out his spine, while shoving his tits farther out into his shirt, as his swollen nipples pressed into the cotton. Damn, that felt good. He shifted, encouraging the friction. He was so damn close. He groaned again, the heat of his chest practically suffocating. He needed relief.
“You just have to let go, brah,” Rob called from the couch.
Tristan’s eyes snapped open. “What?” he said, getting a little defensive. He quickly returned to hunching, not that he was hiding anything. His growth was blatantly obvious.
“Let go, man. Let those babies squirt.” Rob cackled.
Tristan wrinkled his nose and returned his attention to his oatmeal.
He felt as though the more he gave in, the worse condition would get. He knew it wasn’t true, yet he couldn’t accept what was happening to him; not yet. It was like giving up his masculinity altogether.
He seemed to be suffering all the symptoms the virus had to offer. Tristan had noticed, in recent days, that his genitals seemed to be getting smaller. At first he had told himself that he was imagining it, but now it was quite obvious. At this point, his dick was already down to half its original size, and he couldn’t get hard no matter the amount of effort he put into it. In contrast, his nipples were constantly hard and bulging, constantly so sensitive that it left his whole body shivering.
He was continuing to pile on weight, the layer of fat that covered his body only thickening. His gut had become soft and plump, his ass round and jiggling when he walked around. His hips were just massive, his thighs, fat and squishing together whenever he moved.
And there was another development transpiring, directly below his waistband. At his pubic region, the hair had thinned out over the past couple of days, until it had become entirely bare. Tristan could see that the skin had turned a faint pink color, that was deepening every day. In addition to that, the flesh was becoming fuller and bloated. And itchy at times. He could see small bumps, like mosquito bites, forming on the surface. This was the worst development yet. It was said that a small percentage of people with the virus actually developed a functional udder.
Tristan could tell that Rob was experiencing the same thing. Their rates of growth seem to have synced up somehow. He could see the curve in Rob sweatpants; the gentle swell of his own udder developing there.
At a sharp stinging in his nipples, Tristan’s whole body tensed up. “Guhhh…” He groaned, then his fingers were moving before he could stop himself. His hand slid along the underside of his breast, moving up his nipples, fingering them through his top. He rubbed the nubs, moaning quietly, desperate for relief of the heat and pressure. “Nghhhh…” He arched, finally squeezing one of his nipples. He felt the material of his shirt dampening, his face flushing, as he gasped for breath.
And so he was lactating.
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It took a couple of days before Tristan tried it, mainly out of morbid curiosity. Rob seemed completely hooked on his own milk, drinking it continuously, trying to incorporate it into every meal. When he wasn’t gobbling down cereal, he was drinking shakes, or even making homemade ice cream, which seemed like more effort than was even logical. That day, Tristan saw a Rob boiling his milk into some sort of pudding, and he could no longer take it. Tristan went into his room, closed and locked the door, then wrenched up his shirt. He stared at the swollen mounds, easily the size of honeydews where they wobbled on his chest, full and round, nipples swollen and dripping. He drew a deep breath, and allowed some of his own milk to splatter onto the palm of his hand. He lifted it to his face, sniffed it, and finally flicked his tongue out to lick it.
His eyes went wide.
It was good.
