CURSE OF THE ANCIENTS

Nick was miserable.

Ever since the day he had accidentally stumbled upon that dilapidated old temple in the caves at the edge of town, nothing had gone right for him. How was he supposed to have known it was cursed to all mortal men? Upon setting foot in the dimly lit hall, stone statues of ancestral patriarchs had twisted themselves to life, laughing uproariously. Each bore on its head the phallic sigla of divine masculinity.

“So THIS is what our boys have become?” one mocked.

“Pathetic.“

“Scrawny little weakling…“

Shrugging off the dust of untold millennia, one of the Ancient Ones traced menacing patterns in the air — vaguely aimed at Nick’s backside — then, suddenly yanking at thin air in a sharp pulling motion. Nick felt his tailbone shoot out of his rear-end, sending a painful jolt through his spinal cord. He whipped around. He had a tail. But not just any tail…

The Ancient Ones laughed.

“That’s a nice tail you got there, lassy…“

Another statue snapped its fingers. Nick’s hair coiled into a series of elegant purple coifs, matching the buoyant ringlets of his new tail. Nick screamed. He looked like… Rarity. His LEAST favorite pony from a show he hadn’t even watched in years.

Another statue shook its head.

“So sad to see… but the you’ll be much better off this way…“

“Much better for us, anyhow!“

The statue punched the air in an uppercut. With a sensation like getting kicked in the nuts and punched in the gut at once, Nick felt his dick turn inside-out, his entire body’s internal organization scrambled into femaleness. She collapsed to the floor.

When she woke up, Nicole was lying in her bed at home. Standing up, her leg was brushed by the soft plume of her tail. Rushing to the mirror, she stifled a meek little gasp at her appearance — no longer the geeky boy she had been what seemed like only moments prior, her body traced a gentle hourglass shape in the hanging fabric of her pajamas. A unicorn horn jutted from her skull. She had breasts — about a C cup.

She shrieked.

Her parents, startled awake by their daughter’s hysteria, hustled to comfort her from another one of her night terrors.

“Hush now,” they consoled her. They assured her that she had always been a girl, that her persistent memories of being a boy were only a delusion. When she complained about her horn and tail, they gently reminded her of the unusual genetic disorder she had been diagnosed with as a little girl. “Go back to sleep, sweetie.“

She did.

Her dreams were filled with cackling, malicious laughter.

The next day, morning rays of sunlight stirred Nicole to wake. Immediately, something else felt… off. She scratched at her nipples. They felt… swollen. Clutching her breasts, she bolted upright, feeling their weight. When she tried putting on her bra, the fatty top-halves of her tits jiggled defiantly up from the too-small cups, spilling out all around the rims like fat, overcompressed rolls of dough.

“M-mom…!“

Nicole was forced to skip class that morning as her mother drove her to the lingerie shop to pick up a couple new bras, struggling in vain to explain to her panicked daughter that little growth spurts like this were completely natural for a young woman her age. Nicole was dissatisfied. Throughout the day, she could feel the eyes of her classmates glued to the upper half of her school uniform, which was beginning to rub her E cup bust uncomfortably. Her boobs felt itchy. She felt compelled to scratch under them constantly.

More mindless laughter in the night.

The next morning, Nicole ran into her parents’ bedroom, sobbing with terror, clutching at her bosom. To her horror, she’d discovered that her brand-new bras no longer fit — her chest had grown again in the night. They were as big as cantaloupes. And so Nicole’s concerned father drove his disconsolate daughter to see the gynecologist, who immediately diagnosed her with something like sudden-onset macromastia — not that it was any comfort to Nicole. The doctor’s only advice was to wait — things would probably slow down soon, he said. And so another new bra was purchased, and Nicole was back in school by early afternoon.

Steering her now-H cup bust through the halls, Nicole trained her eyes straight-ahead, avoiding the stares. Her breasts — squashed tight against the buttoned-up fabric of her uniform — felt like two painfully overfilled waterballoons, bouncing and jostling in their sweaty holster as she sashayed from history to math class, her violet, glistening tail bounding in an arc behind her. Her back (and her pride) ached. She couldn’t wait to get back home to crawl in bed.

That night, she heard the taunting sound of mocking moos — followed by more derisive laughter.

The cruel voices echoed in her head for hours.

It was the intolerable sensation of wetness against her skin which awoke her early the next day. Nicole’s upper torso was soaked with a clammy wet substance, gluing her pajamas to her flesh. When she stood up, she nearly fell over — her equilibrium had shifted. Rushing to the restroom, feeling the floppy weight of her chest rebounding against her midsection, Nicole gasped to confirm that her breasts had nearly doubled in size — and, worse yet, she was lactating. Brushing her fingertips against the angry, strained flesh of her bloated, walnut-sized nipples, Nicole stifled a yelp at their sensitivity. They were leaking a faint, sticky fluid — breastmilk. Her tits looked like fat teardrops in the mirror, wobbling against her chest wall with her body’s every motion. They were bigger than volleyballs.

Nicole broke down.

Her parents let her stay home from school that day — and the next day too — but that Friday she walked down the driveway with a sour expression on her face, sporting an impressive pair of basketball-sized assets which strained at the hem of her school uniform, warping the fabric to an obscene degree. Her rush-ordered specialty-size nursing bra had arrived that morning, but it just barely fit over the bulk of her globe-sized melons — each lobe was easily bigger than her head. The black, satiny cradle of her bra carried extra-absorbent nursing pads to sop up periodic squirts of milk (which inevitable buckled Nicole’s legs when they happened) — these would need to be replaced hourly.

Nicole grunted with humiliation as she stood at the bus stop, fiddling with the strap of her bookbag to avoid the ogling stare of a boy nearby. The hem of her skirt tickled her leg in the cool, grey wind of the morning. Her breathing came in short, shallow gasps as her uniform squeezed the overripe lobes of her tits, her buttons threatening to burst at any moment should she draw any one breath too deeply. Her mind felt hazy. The thick, heavy straps of her gigantic nursing bra were digging into her shoulders. Echoes of distant laughter resounded in her head.

At long last, the boy standing next to her tore his gaze away from Nicole’s heaving bust. He looked her in the eye, grinning faintly.

“Hey, uh… you wanna skip school and come back to my place? My parents are out today.“

Nicole opened her mouth to say “NO,” but instead her lips betrayed her.

“Yeah… ok.“

What the hell was going on??

She breathed in sharply, causing her shirt button to rip as the burden of her enormous jugs slouched forwards another inch, filling out the newly-available space, pulling apart the front seam and revealing a whisper of deep, dark cleavage. She sighed, a blank, exasperated look in her eyes. Almost imperceptibly, the boy’s gaze glanced down quickly at the clear outline of Nicole’s N cup nursing bra, easily visible beneath her stretched shirt. Raw hunger flickered across his face.

He smiled.

Nicole blushed involuntarily… then blushed further, crimson with self-conscious shame.

The boy grasped her hand to lead her to his house. She could see an erection bulging in his pants already. In her mind, she struggled to form the words that would tell him “never mind,” but her mouth refused to obey. Her brain screamed at her legs to stop, but they only walked on. Her pussy was wet. She couldn’t help it.

Why couldn’t she escape??

Grim cackles of triumphant laughter resounded deep in her eardrums.

She looked around — nothing to be seen.

Nicole looked up at the boy whose hand now led her across the threshold of his bedroom, his eager palms sweaty with anticipation. And there, on his forehead, she saw something.

She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

…

It may have been a mere hallucination, but for the briefest of moments she could have sworn she saw the sigla of the Ancient Ones she had seen in dreams on the crest of his forehead. Nicole’s lower lip trembled.

The boy unzipped his pants.

“Take it off,” he commanded, pointing at her straining top.

She complied.

(another outtake from an upcoming story)