When they told you what they were planning, you thought the breasts would be the worst part. And you were right.
You adore boobs, tits, tatas, or whatever you want to call them. In fact, you’d call yourself a breast connoisseur, having spent years admiring and fondling them... occasionally without their owners’ express permission.
“Can you blame me?” you’d quip at the bar. “Who can resist a good pair of titties? They’re practically public property.”
But now, you have a pair of your own that sway, jiggle, and bounce with every step. They’re mesmerizing. You find it difficult to tear your eyes away from them in the mirror (which is too small to display your newfound voluptuousness effectively). You lift and admire their soft weight in your hands. The once small and unremarkable nipples have grown dark and prominent, tempting you to touch them. When you do, their newfound sensitivity is startling.
It’s hard to get used to—mainly because it wasn’t your choice. The women in charge of your transformation have been watching you gleefully, claiming it was a much-needed dose of empathy.
“You’ll see what it’s like to be objectified, vulnerable, and exposed. Deep down, people like you have never known love. You know only power and how to take what you want without caring for the people you hurt.”
At first, you tried to plead your case. “It was harmless fun! I’m not a bad guy, I swear.”
But they wouldn’t listen. Or, rather, they listened but didn’t care.
The cocktail of hormones altered the rest of you as well. In fact, the changes to your ass, thighs, and arms are in some ways more drastic than the blossoming of your breasts. See, to ease your boredom, you took to exercising. Unfortunately, when your blood is 50% estrogen (a slight exaggeration, but your mood swings make it feel that way), the body responds to stress in strange ways. Instead of developing lean, chiseled muscles, your body plumped up, filling out in all the “right” places. Your ass became ample. Your once-thin thighs are now thick. Meanwhile, your arms grew supple.
Still, the breasts are the worst part. Because, well, they’re the best part. You’re obsessed with them, captivated by every movement they make, every new sensation they elicit. You’ve begrudgingly (and somewhat guiltily) come to love them.
This has confused the hell out of your captors. “Bigger? We can’t make them bigger!” they exclaimed, shocked at your unexpected request. Their entire plan was to make you understand the pain you’d caused, not indulge your fantasies.
“He’s a lost cause,” they finally agreed. “We thought this would teach him a lesson, but the bastard is actually enjoying it!”
Eventually, they let you go. “Maybe a couple of weeks in the real world will change your mind.”
They expected the stares and catcalls would break you. Instead, you couldn’t wait to wear low-cut tops and tight dresses, flaunting your new assets with pride. Because those ladies were correct. You’d never known love — or power, for that matter. You only knew how to take and covet what wasn’t yours.
Now, as you walk down the street, your head held high and your ass swaying with a confident stride, you feel the gaze of others upon you. And you relish it. The attention, the desire—it’s intoxicating. Your body has become a work of art, and your breasts, the pièce de résistance. They deserve to be shared with the world.
After all, you may be many things, but a hypocrite isn’t one of them. Breasts are, in fact, public property.