Get dressed

Mrs. Davison's eyes were like chips of ice, her impatience a physical force in the room. "I'm waiting, Evie. The class is waiting."

My mind was a blank wall of terror. There was no way out. No explanation. I couldn't say, "A pervy boy wished a slutty thong and a dildo into my locker." I'd be sent to the counselor, or worse, the principal's office, where this nightmare would only be magnified.

"Sorry, Coach," I mumbled, my voice a thin, shaky thread. I had to do something. I had to move.

My hand trembled as I reached into the tiny handbag I'd managed to grab. It was a foolish hope. The dildo was monstrously large, a grotesque parody of anatomy. There was no way it would fit. I tried to shove it in sideways, the rubbery material resisting, the obscene shape bulging against the cheap vinyl. It was useless. It wouldn't go.

"Evie!" Mrs. Davison's voice cracked like a whip.

Panic surged, hot and sharp. I couldn't carry it. I couldn't hide it. My eyes darted around the locker room, desperate. The shower. The toilets. No time. There was only one option left, the one he had so cruelly designed for me. With a sob of pure revulsion, I yanked the thong aside. My fingers, slick with sweat, fumbled with the base of the butt plug, twisting it. It came free with a sickening, wet pop, a wave of relief so intense it almost brought me to my knees. I had to be fast. I had to replace it with the other thing.

I positioned the dildo at my entrance, its blunt, rubbery head cold and alien. I squeezed my eyes shut, a single tear tracing a path through the caked-on makeup on my cheek, and pushed. It was a brutal, invasive stretch, a burning, full-body humiliation that stole my breath. My body, traitorously, seemed to yield, and the obscene object slid into place, its weight settling deep and heavy inside me. I was a puppet, and he was pulling the strings.

I pulled the thong back into place, the thin lace doing nothing to conceal the base of the monstrous thing now lodged within me. I stood up, my legs trembling, my body a vessel of shame. I was ready. As ready as I would ever be.

I took a step towards the door, my movements awkward and pained. The heels, the thong, the thing inside me—it was a symphony of discomfort. And then, it happened again. That silent, sickening lurch. That feeling of reality being rewritten without my consent.

It wasn't in my clothes this time. It was in me.

A strange, pulling sensation started in my chest, a deep, internal ache that blossomed into a bizarre, tingling pressure. It was like my breasts were being inflated, like balloons being filled with warm water. I gasped, my hands flying to my chest. I could feel it happening under my palms, feel the skin stretching, the flesh swelling, growing heavier, fuller by the second. The delicate string of the thong's top, which had been resting against my ribcage, was now digging into the soft, expanding tissue underneath.

I looked down. What had been my normal, B-cup breasts were now… not. They were huge. They were round and heavy and absurdly large, seeming to defy gravity as they thrust out from my chest. They strained against my palms, warm and alien and utterly, horrifyingly real. DD cups. The thought slammed into my mind, not as a guess, but as a fact, as if he had whispered the new dimension directly into my soul.

They jiggled with every ragged breath I took, a new, unfamiliar weight that threw off my balance completely. I staggered, my hands flying from my chest to the lockers to steady myself. The movement sent a fresh wave of sensation from the dildo, a painful reminder that I was now being violated from the inside out.

"Evie, I swear to God, if you don't get out here right now, you're running laps for the entire period!" Mrs. Davison's voice was a fury from the gymnasium.

I had to go. I had to walk out there. Like this. With these… these things on my chest, a testament to his power, a beacon of his perversion. I pushed myself away from the lockers, my new center of balance making me feel like a newborn foal on stilts. I took a step. The heavy breasts swung. The dildo shifted. The heels wobbled.

I was no longer just Evie. I was a caricature. A joke. A living, breathing sex doll, crafted to his exact, humiliating specifications. And I had no choice but to walk out into the bright lights of the gym and show the world what he had made me.