Date: Wed, 18 May 2016 19:05:31 +0000
From: white collar <white_collar@hotmail.com>
Subject: Tit-Slave - Part 2 - (M/M, Milking, B&D, MC, Modification)

Any comments will be gladly received at white_collar@hotmal.com

Note: Any resemblance to real people is strictly coincidental.  No real
people are depicted in this piece of fiction.  This story contains explicit
male to male sex, domination and bondage.  If you don't enjoy reading this
sort of material or are under the age of 21, DO NOT CONTINUE READING.  If
you regard this type of material as depraved then flee from here and don't
look back!


Prologue:

Standing in front of the mirror, I look at the reflection of my tits: how
large they've become.  How did it happen?  I know, of course, but must
admit it was never something I'd expected, nor wanted, but now... well, I
wouldn't have them any other way.  I pump a small dollop of facial lotion
with hyoluronic acid onto my left index fingertip, dab at with my right
index finger and then apply it to the tips of my titties.  My breath
catches and, as I spread the lotion over the tips and shafts of my tits, an
extended grunt emmanates from deep in my throat and my back arches and
shivers.  I pull from the base of my titties to the tips, reveling in the
feel of being milked.  I'm lost in tit lust.  Then I apply the almond milk
hand cream to the rims of my Supplenips - 4XLs now - and apply them to
those big locuses of lust and need on my chest, my chest-dicks he's told me
to call them, and manipulate the cups until they're fully expanded, moaning
as they knead my nips.

# # #

Tit-Slave - Chapter 3

I came out of the darkness and glanced at the clock.  It was 2:15.  I'd
been out of it for over an hour.  And my nips were so sore that every time
I turned, dragging my shirt across their points, I flinched.  What the hell
had gone on for the last hour?  I tried to think back: Greg had been in my
office, talking about... what?  Oh yes, the report we had to have completed
by next week.  Then he'd said something to me; what was it?  Hard as I
tried, I couldn't remember.  But that was the end of my conscious memory
until just this moment when I awoke.  I must've had a really bad night last
night to have blacked out and, so it seems, taken a nap at work.  I never
do that!

I managed to finish my appointments for the day, though some kept staring
at the double protrusions sticking out of my shirt.  I tried to lean
forward with my elbows on the desk as much as possible, but sometimes, it
would have seemed very strange to be posed that way, so I just had to
swallow it and let them wonder why I was sprouting these nipples.  I was
going to have to buy some less-tailored shirts!  When my mind wandered, I
could see myself with even larger tits; points an inch long and thick like
fingers hanging from my pecs.  My mouth watered at the idea and I had to
tear myself away from my reverie and come back to the meeting.

Finally, the day was over.  I said goodnight to my admin, Roger, said I'd
be staying for a little while and told him to go on his way.  When I heard
him leave, I got up, closed the door, locked it and went back to my laptop.
I opened my private e-mail account and immediately saw what I was looking
for: a new message from Ted.  The subject was "Relax like a good boy."
Darkness swept me away with a rush of sound.

I don't know whether I'd dreamt or had hallucinations or a vision, or what?
I saw countless male chests; tits, pecs, big and firm and dripping.  I saw
huge aureoles with huge nipples protruding from them: dark and beautiful,
pale pink and alluring, brown and enticing.  I wanted nipples like that;
that much I knew.  There was a voice; Ted's voice I think, so familiar, yet
so foreign, that told me my body was changing; that my titties were going
to grow longer and larger and that my areolas were going to increase in
diameter.  I had to have nipples like that.  As they swam in and out of my
dream, my cock grew larger and harder until, feeling mouths on my nipples
and sucking on one of the man tits in my dream, I exploded and the vision
faded.

When I came to, my shirt-tail was out of my pants and my shirt was
unbuttoned, my tie flung over my shoulder.  My nips were quite sore.  I
reached for them and winced when my fingers came in contact.  I looked down
and saw that my nipples were chafed, puffy and red; obviously they'd had a
good mauling.  The clock on my desk read 7:21.  I'd been unaware for over
two hours.  Trailing my hand down my chest, my fingers encountered a cool,
runny mess on my belly; I had come after all.  That much had not been a
dream.  I lifted my sticky fingers to my lips and licked them, then stuck
them in my mouth and sucked on them like a calf sucking a teat.  More, I
wanted more.  I dipped them into the liquefying mess on my belly and
suckled again, savoring the flavor that, to this point, I'd never tasted.
As if moved by an unknown force, I once again dipped my fingers into the
remnant stickiness and rubbed it into my sore tits.  The pain-mixed thrill
shot down my spine, straight into my dick and made it throb.  I gripped my
sore knobs and twisted, knowing that this additional torture would leave me
with a very sore chest tomorrow, but for some reason. I didn't care; I just
kept on.

Later that night, I sat down to supper and winced as I raised my wine glass
and brushed my aching right tit with my arm.  I rubbed my sore nipples with
my hands and stiffened and arched my back in pleasure/pain.

I got up and went in to get ready for bed.  After doing my night-time
"maintenance", I climbed into bed.  Lying on my back, my hands resting on
my chest, I felt compelled to brush my fingers over my erect, sore titties.
I flicked them with my index fingers and again, my back arched and I moaned
in pleasure/pain. I flicked with my middle fingers, then ring and finally
my pinkies in a ritual of stimulation.  Then I grabbed hold of them and
stretched them toward the ceiling until I couldn't take it anymore.  I
built to a tit climax and collapsed back on the bed, my breath coming in
ragged gasps from the electrical storm that had shot up and down my spine.
Finally, I drifted off to sleep.


Chapter 4

When I arose in the morning, I found my tits were very, very sore and
sensitive.  I finally took my tee shirt off because I couldn't stand the
friction and pressure of the soft fabric against my nubs.  The cool air in
my apartment took away some of the burn.  I went to the bathroom and
searched for some lotion and found a bottle in the linen closet that had
come from one of the hotels I'd stayed in during my business travels.
Covering the opening with my right index finger, I flipped the bottle,
leaving a dollop on my finger-tip.  I repeated the motion with my left
hand, I had finger-tips coated with cool lotion.  I raised my fingers to my
nipples and gasped when soothing flesh met raw flesh.  I rubbed the lotion
in with ginger motions, not wanting to apply too much pressure to my abused
nipples, or titties, as I was now thinking of them.  God, that's so gay, I
thought.  What kind of man calls his nipples "titties"?  Only fags, and,
though I'm comfortably gay, I never considered myself a fag.  Yet, here I
was, rubbing lotion into my "titties".  I gently pressed my titties between
my thumbs and fingers, pulling from base to tip.  "Fag", I thought.

When they felt a little better, I dropped my shorts and climbed into the
shower.  I should say that I've shaved in the shower for years.  I mean,
why not?  My face is already wet with hot water, so my beard is soft and
why waste extra time and water shaving before or after my shower?  It's not
like I can't get a good shave by feel; I don't need to see myself in the
mirror.  So after lathering up, I grabbed my razor and shaved my face.
Then, something very strange happened.  For some reason I couldn't explain,
I applied the razor to my chest.  I started at the top of my sternum and
drew it downward, shaving a clean swath through my chest hair.  Then I
shaved the fur from both pecs, leaving my chest as smooth as it had been
before I had begun to sprout the fur in high-school.  I'd always been so
proud of my chest and belly fur: it proved I was a man.  And to a gay boy,
or, I should say "gay kid", proving your masculinity is crucial.  But now I
was removing that external sign of my masculinity.  Why?  What the hell was
happening?  I had no answers, but I kept right on, as though some unseen,
unknown being was controlling my actions.  Something had changed in my
internal sense of myself: I was losing my masculinity.

When I'd finished with my chest, being very careful around my sensitive
titties, I removed the fur from my armpits, then my belly and lastly, my
pubes, cock, and balls and ass crack.  I watched the fur circle and
disappear down the drain and felt that my proud manhood was disappearing
with it.  Was I becoming a fag?  At this stage in my life?  I didn't want
to be a fag.  But I was doing these things that pointed to that.  I was
becoming a fag.  And then the words found their way into my consciousness:
"Tit fag.  Tit slave".  Someone or something was taking control over me and
there was nothing I could do to stop it.  Even if I'd had an idea who or
what "it" was, there was nothing I could do to stop it; of that much I was
sure.  And I was equally sure that I didn't really want to.

I got out of the shower and stared at my body in the mirror.  Where there
had been fur, there was now smooth skin.  Where there had previously been
rather normal, unremarkable nipples, there was now the beginnings of
titties: points that were already showing signs of increased length and
girth.  And was it my imagination, or were the brown circles of my areolas
increasing in diameter?  Or was it the new exposure because I had removed
the hair that had covered them for so long?  I touched them and stretched
them between my fingers, trying to figure out whether or not they were
actually getting bigger.  Then, glancing at the clock, I realized I had a
meeting scheduled in an hour and needed to get my ass in gear.

I made my meeting after which Greg and I went back to our endeavors on the
report.  Greg was like he always was: efficient, friendly, and insightful
about the executives' concerns.  But there was something just a bit
different about him today.  He kept looking at my chest, smiling ever so
slightly, with a glint in his eye.  Could it be?  Was Greg gay?  Funny that
he and I had never talked about our personal lives.  I had no idea whether
he was gay or straight, partnered or single.  I knew viritually nothing
about this good-looking man that I'd worked with for several years now.  I
made my mind up to change that; I'd invite him out for a drink.

"Greg?"

"Yah?" he answered absently, reading over some figures.

"We've worked together for quite a while now, but I feel like I don't even
know you."

"Yah..." he answered, looking up.

"Well, how about we get together after work for a drink?  Maybe dinner?  I
mean, I'm unattached, so I always eat by myself anyway and I'd like to get
to know you a little better."

"A little better!"  Hah.  How about get to know you at all, seeing as how
you're a complete cypher to me.

"Sure," he answered, smiling.  "I'm 'unattached' too, so that would be
nice.  Tonight?"

"Sounds great," I said, beaming.

So Greg was "unattached" too.  So who knows?  Maybe he's gay like I am.  I
do have to say, he's a good-looking guy and smart as a whip.  I felt my
cock beginning to harden and my tit's beginning to erect.  I had to remind
myself to stop: we're colleagues and colleagues don't get involved with one
another; too many issues when there's fraternization in the workplace.  But
the thought never completely left my mind.  I began to find myself noticing
things about him: the shape of his ass as the fabric of his trousers molded
itself around his globes; the outline of the substantial bulge in his
crotch when I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of his remarkably
well-outlined and big, thick cock, all the while trying not to be caught
stealing a glance; the outlines of his pecs and the points of his nipples
when his shirt clung to his chest.  And when I noticed these things, my
cock would harden of its own accord.

I asked Roger to order me some lunch and when he brought it in, he brought
along a shipping envelop and placed it next to my lunch.

"Came this morning," he said.

The return on the envelop was only an address, so I wasn't absolutely sure
what it was, but I waited until Roger left for lunch to open it up.  I had
an idea it was my nipple cups.  I locked my door, opened the package and
pulled out four smaller plastic ziplocs, each with a pair of translucent
silicone cups in it: a graduated set from small to extra-large.  I took out
the smallest pair, holding them in my hand.

"These," I thought, "will be taking me somewhere I'd never planned on
going.  But I want to go there; I do want to go there."

I don't know how I'd come to know this, but I'd gone to the drugstore on
the way in this morning, and picked up a bottle of body lotion with an
ingredient called hyoluronic acid.  I'd read on the web that this
ingredient makes skin flexible and supple, so it would make my nipples
supple too.  I'd also picked up a jar of hand cream from Burt, the Bee guy,
with almond milk in it.  It was thick and would provide a good seal on the
cups.

I threw my tie over my shoulder, unbuttoned my shirt and pulled up my
athletic tee, exposing my newly shaved chest and belly.  I opened the
bottle of lotion.  I capped the opening with my index finger and tipped the
bottle, leaving a coating of lotion on my finger-tip, which I touched to my
left index finger.  I brought both finger-tips to my titties and inhaled
sharply at the touch of the cold lotion on my hungry points.  I was glad I
was sitting, because my knees went weak.  Rubbing the lotion around and
pulling on my nips, I almost drifted off.  But I wanted those cups on my
titties.  I coated the flanges of the cups with a thing layer of hand cream
and squeezing them, placed them on my smallish points.  When I released the
cups from my grip, they began to expand, pulling my nips inside.  I was
inpatient to see them fully expanded and kneaded the flattened cups between
my fingers, causing them, in turn, to knead my nipples.  I groaned and
leaned back in my chair, my cock hardening with the stimulation on my
titties.  Soon they were fully expanded and I looked down to see my nipples
nearly twice the length they had been.  Of course, that was because of the
vacuum, and I knew they would return to their more-or-less normal size when
I removed the cups.  But I also realized that if I wore the cups all day,
every day, my nipples, my titties, would grown permanently.  I squeezed the
cups again to increase the pump and my nipples expanded incrementally more.

I wanted so much to play with them, but I had meetings after lunch and an
apointment with Greg to continue work on the report, so I reassembled my
clothes and tried to focus on my lunch.  But my hands kept wandering up to
my suctioned nipples.  I could see that the cups created significant
protrusions under my shirt, but, at this point, I didn't care.  I was going
to get titties.  I was a happy fag.

Oh, that word!  Why did that word come into my consciousness again?  Tit
fag.  Tit slave.  What the hell was happening to me?  But as I rolled the
terms around in my brain, I found my dick getting harder and noticed a wet
spot growing on my pants.  I was getting really turned on by the idea of
becoming a tit fag.  And submitting.  Submitting to what?  To whom?  I'd
never considered myself submissive.  To be honest, I'd never really thought
about that aspect of my sexuality.  As I've said, I was pretty vanilla,
straight-arrow, for a gay man.  I guess I was vaguely aware that world was
out there, but it wasn't something I'd thought very much about.  But now, I
was finding myself thinking about it more and more and even acting on it,
though I didn't know why, and I didn't know who was pulling the strings.
Ted?  Was that who it was?  I became aware that all this had begun when I'd
visited his website.  Was he the one dominating me?  All I could remember
was that each night, I get home, eat my dinner and go to my laptop and find
that e-mail from Ted and that's it.  Nothing more.  I awaken the next
morning with sort tits and these undeniable urges to do things; resulting
in my titties being the subject of an expansion project.  There has to be a
connection with Ted.  But how could he, whoever he is, be doing this to me?
It's like I was being hypnotized.  But I don't believe in hypnosis!  It's
just a silly thing that some gullible people believe in.  I guess if you do
believe in it and it can help you overcome problems like smoking or
over-eating, that's fine.  But I don't believe in it!  And yet, here I was
with suction cups on my nipples and words like "tit fag" and "tit slave"
creeping into my consciousness.


Chapter 5

I got through the afternoon's meetings without any loss of awareness, at
least not that I was aware of.  I suppose you might consider that a
tautology: if I'd lost awareness, how would I be aware of it?  But there
were no time gaps in the day, as there had been yesterday, when time passed
that I hadn't been knowledgeable about.  Let me tell you: that's profoundly
disturbing.  You're going about your workday and then you wake up and
realize that a couple of hours have gone by and you have no idea what
happened.  But you know that your tits hurt.  I tried to push this out of
my mind; no use obsessing over periods of time you don't recall: they're
not going to come back to you.  My work session with Greg went fine; no
intuitions on my part that something was amiss.  I was still having trouble
keeping my hands off my titties and a couple of times, Greg's glances went
over me and he'd have had to have been blind not to see.  Each time, I
quickly pulled my hands away and busied them with something on the desk,
but I was sure he saw and each time, I was sure I flushed deeply with
embarrassment.  Greg, however, said nothing, though I could swear I saw the
creases at the corners of his eyes crinkle up, as though he were stiflling
a grin.

We were finishing up and it was getting close to 5:00.

"How about that drink?" I asked, trying to sound relaxed, though, truth be
told, I was wound tighter than a main spring.

"Sounds good," Greg said.  "Where shall we go?"

"I guess I don't go out much anymore.  Do you know of a place?"

"There's a nice little bar on Christopher St. in the Village.  Want to go
there?"

"Sure.  Is it quiet, so we can talk?"

"At this hour, it should be; it's early and it's a week-night."

"OK, what's the address?"

"It's just west of Bleecker.  A place called 'Ty's'.  We can get a beer and
sit and talk.  The owner won't bother us.".

"Sounds good.  Walk, cab, or train?"

"How would it be if we walked?  It's twenty minutes, but I've been cooped
up all day and feel like stretching my legs."

I laughed.

"Sure.  Cooped up with me?  Has that been a hardship?"

Greg laughed too.

"No, no, not at all.  You're easy on the eyes.  But it's a nice afternoon
and it'll be good to get some air and exercise."

"You got it," I answered, grabbing my jacket.

As I slipped my jacket on, I realized my cups were significantly poking
through my shirt and tried to hide the fact that I was wearing something
under my clothes.  Had Greg noticed?  I saw his eyes fastened onto my
chest, and I knew that he'd seen it.  But maybe he didn't know what he was
seeing and would leave it alone.

We hit the street and started walking uptown.  The blocks slid past as we
talked about office politics and who got which plum assignments and who
didn't, and why.  Greg was pretty accurate in his estimate: in roughly 20
minutes, we turned left onto Christopher St. and found Ty's halfway down
the block.  We went in, ordered a couple of beers and sat down at a table
in the back.  It's not a big place, so we were lucky it was early and, as
Greg said, mid-week, so there weren't a lot of customers.  Ty's has been
around a long time and I suspect that it attracts its regulars, the older
gay crowd.  It didn't strike me as a hip place, and obviously didn't want
to be, or try to be.  It's old Greenwich Village gay scene, and happy to
stay that way.

"So, Greg... As I said, we've been working together for a while, and I'm
ashamed to say, I feel like I don't even know you.  I mean, I don't know
what you like or dislike.  I haven't the least idea what sorts of things
you're into.  I suppose you could say that's none of my business, but I'd
like to get to know you better and have you get to know me.  I mean..."

I looked down at the table, suddenly feeling self-conscious, and my hands
wandered up to my pumped titties.

"I mean... You see, I've lived here all my adult life, at least since
college, and I don't have any friends.  Can you believe that?  No friends.
My fanily's in the mid-west, so I don't see them much and it... it just
gets kind of lonely."

I'd blurted all this out without intending to.  But once I began my
confession, I found it impossible to stop.  Greg gently placed his hand on
mine.

"It's OK Hank.  I get it.  You see, I'm gay too."

My eyes flew up and locked on his.  How did he know with such certainty?
Was I that obvious.

"Oh don't get nervous Hank; it's that old gaydar thing.  Remember that?
Guys hardly even talk about it anymore with all the social media.  Who
needs gaydar when you have Grindr to find guys for you?  If you asked me,
it's a skill that will be missed in the future."

I laughed nervously.

"Yah, I suppose so.  But how did you know?"

"Same way you know; you just sense it.  You notice things about the way a
guy looks at other guys, the way he carries himself, the way he acts."

"But..."

"Don't get me wrong Hank; you're not in the least bit obvious.  Very
straight acting.  Except you can't help but look at men and women?  You
definitely don't look at women the way straight men do.  So I figured it
out a long time ago.  And then, there's this..."

Greg dropped his eyes to my chest and raised his hands, taking my suctioned
nipples between his thumbs and fingers.  I closed my eyes and groaned as he
squeezed.

"This is something only a gay man would do.  So tell me I'm wrong Hank.
Tell me your not a tit fag."

His words swept over me like a tsunami.  "Tit fag", the word that had crept
into my consciousness and changed me forever.  "Tit fag".  Greg had said it
to me, had named me.  And I suddenly knew the "how" of how all this
happened.  My comlete awareness was now focused on those swelling bits of
flesh on my chest.

"Yes sir.  I'm a tit fag."

"Good Hanky,"

And I was gone.


To be continued.