Nothing Half-Way

The dorm room smelled of stale coffee and the faint, sweet smoke of the cheap incense Samantha kept burning on the windowsill. Rain tapped the glass in a lazy rhythm, and the two of them sat across from each other in mismatched desk chairs, knees nearly brushing in the cramped space between their beds. A half-empty bottle of wine sat on the floor between their feet. Cyndalia had been quiet for a while, rolling the stem of her glass between her fingers, before she said it.

"I'm a witch."

Samantha snorted into her wine. "Right. And I'm the queen of fucking Sheba."

"I'm serious."

"Sure you are." Samantha stretched, arching her back until her shirt pulled tight across her chest. "So what can you do with your witchcraft? Conjure me a better boyfriend? Turn this rain into vodka?"

Cyndalia didn't laugh. She set her glass down and fixed Samantha with a look that was too steady, too calm for the joke to keep working. For a few seconds she just thought, her lips pressed together, and then she said, "I can change any aspect of your body."

Samantha blinked. The wine had gone warm in her chest, and the whole thing still felt like a bit, some elaborate deadpan Cyndalia was trying to land. So she played along, grinning wide and throwing her hands up.

"Okay. Give me huge breasts."

Cyndalia's expression shifted. Skeptical. Almost disappointed. "You don't believe me."

"Not even a little."

"Fine." Cyndalia sat up straighter, and something in the air changed — a pressure, like the moment before a thunderclap. "But I don't do anything half-way."

She raised her hands.

Samantha opened her mouth to make another joke, but the words died in her throat. Cyndalia's eyes began to glow. A deep, electric blue, bright enough to cast shadows on the walls. Then her hands caught the same light, blue fire licking up her fingers without heat. The air hummed.

Samantha felt it before she understood it. A swelling pressure in her chest, a tightness that turned to heat, then to weight. She looked down.

Her breasts were growing.

They pushed outward against her shirt, the fabric straining, seams creaking. Her B cups swelled past C, past D, the soft flesh firming and rounding as if inflated by some impossible force. The pressure was dizzying, a deep ache that bordered on pleasure. By the time the glow faded from Cyndalia's hands, Samantha's shirt was stretched to its limit, and two heavy, perfect F cups sat high on her chest.

"Holy shit," she whispered.

Cyndalia lowered her hands, but her eyes still held a flicker of blue. "Believe me now?"

Samantha couldn't answer. She just stared, hands hovering over her own body like she was afraid to touch it. The weight was real. The heat was real. Her nipples pressed hard against the inside of her bra, but it wasn't the same bra. Somewhere in that impossible surge, the simple white cotton thing with its two hooks had been replaced. Now a black lace creation hugged her, the cups cut deep and scandalous, the underwire cradling every ounce of her new heaviness. She reached back and felt the band: six hooks, six gleaming little fasteners holding it all together, like the bra had grown up right along with her.

Cyndalia watched her for a long moment, and something in her face hardened. Annoyance, maybe. Or pride with an edge. "You doubted me," she said. "I think you need a more thorough demonstration."

"What? Cyndalia, wait—"

But Cyndalia was already raising her hands again, the glow already returning. Samantha's heart slammed against her ribs. She didn't know what was coming, but she knew it was too late to stop it.

"Cyndalia, what are you doing?"

"Making sure you never doubt me again."

Before Samantha could get another word out, the light flared. A hot, electric pulse rolled through her chest, sinking deep into the flesh, into the very structure of her. It didn't hurt. It was worse than pain — it was permanence. She felt something lock into place, some invisible seal closing around the new shape of her. The change was no longer temporary. It was her now.

Cyndalia's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. "There. Now it's permanent."

"Permanent?" Samantha's voice cracked. "Cyndalia, we said—"

"I know what we said. But you needed proof."

Samantha's mind reeled. Permanent. The word echoed in her skull. But before she could process it, Cyndalia began to wiggle her fingers, and Samantha felt something else.

Her bra moved.

Behind her back, one by one, the six hooks of the band unfastened themselves. She felt each one pop free, a series of tiny releases that sent a shiver up her spine. At the same time, the shoulder straps unhooked from the cups with a soft click, and the whole garment slid down her body and dropped to the floor.

The air hit her bare skin, and she gasped, the sensation sharp and unfamiliar against the newly freed flesh. But the gasp turned into a shudder as she felt the rough cotton of her t-shirt brush against her nipples. They had gone hard instantly, pebbled and aching, and every small movement made the fabric drag across them in a way that sent jolts straight through her. She shifted her weight, and her heavy breasts swayed beneath the shirt, the soft weight of them rolling against the material, the friction almost too much. She could feel every thread of the cotton through the hypersensitive skin, each brush a tiny electric shock that made her breath catch.

She looked down. Her huge, new breasts were still riding high on her chest, impossibly firm, not sagging even without support of the bra that lay at her feet on the floor. The weight should have pulled them down, but they defied gravity like they were carved from something denser than flesh.

She glanced at Cyndalia, eyes wide.

Cyndalia's smile deepened. "They're supernaturally firm," she said. "They'll never sag. You can wear a bra if you want — as a fashion accessory — but you'll never need one for support."

Samantha's breath came shallow. Her skin felt electric, every inch of her new flesh humming with a strange, raw awareness.

"And as you can feel," Cyndalia added, her voice dropping lower, "they're supernaturally sensitive. Normal breasts lose sensitivity when they grow. Yours gained it. The entire surface has five times the nerve endings. Your areolas and nipples have ten times."

Samantha's mouth went dry. She could already feel it — the brush of air against her nipples was almost too much, a sharp, sweet ache that made her thighs press together.

She lifted a trembling hand, fingertips hovering an inch from her own skin, afraid to touch. When she finally did, a gasp tore from her throat; the sensation arced through her like lightning, pooling low in her belly. Cyndalia watched, patient and knowing. "Imagine what he'll feel," she murmured, "when you finally let him touch them." Samantha's eyes fluttered shut, and she understood, with a shiver that ran from her scalp to her toes, that she would never be the same. She was already addicted.

The glow on Cyndalia's hands increased.

Samantha saw it from the corner of her eye, that deep electric blue deepening, spreading from Cyndalia's palms up through her fingers until each one burned like a lit match. And then Cyndalia started flexing her fingers, slow and deliberate, and moving her hands in small, lazy circles in the air.

Samantha opened her mouth to ask what now, but the question never made it out.

Something touched her.

She looked down in shock. Her breasts were being squeezed by invisible hands. She could feel them, warm, solid, unmistakably hands, cupping the heavy undersides of her new flesh and pressing in. But there was nothing there. Just her own stretched shirt, and beneath it, the impossible shape of her, moving.

"Oh fuck," she breathed.

She could see the outlines of several pairs of hands moving under her shirt. The fabric shifted and dimpled, stretched tight over her new F cups, and now it rippled with the shapes of fingers and palms that weren't hers, weren't anyone's. The cotton pulled in one place, released in another, as if a crowd of ghosts had decided to grope her all at once.

Two pairs alternated between stroking the sides and bottoms of each breast and squeezing and pumping them. One set of hands would slide up the outer curve, fingers spread wide, tracing the full round weight of her, and then another set would close in from below, lifting and kneading with a slow, insistent rhythm. Squeeze. Release. Pump. The pressure was firm but not rough, like someone who knew exactly how much she could take and was determined to find the edge of it.

Samantha's hips jerked. Her thighs clenched. The sensation was beyond anything she'd ever felt, and she'd just touched herself a minute ago, thought she understood what ten times the nerve endings meant. She'd been wrong. This was something else entirely. Every stroke sent a wave of heat rolling through her, sharp and sweet, pooling low in her belly and then lower still.

"Cyndalia," she gasped. "What, "

Cyndalia didn't answer. Her gaze stayed fixed on Samantha's chest, lips slightly parted, fingers still tracing those slow circles in the air. The blue glow from her hands spilled across the space between their chairs, throwing long, dancing shadows onto the wall behind Samantha, a silhouette of her new figure, all curves and impossible swell, outlined in shifting light that seemed to move with every breath she took. The glow painted her shoulders, her collarbones, the proud jut of her breasts, and Samantha caught herself staring at her own shadow, at the way it didn't look like her anymore, at the way it looked like someone else entirely.

Then another pair of hands started to gently twist, squeeze, and pull her nipples.

Samantha cried out. Her back arched off the chair. The invisible fingers found her nipples through the thin fabric of her shirt, already hard, already aching from the air and the attention, and rolled them between thumb and forefinger with a terrible, perfect precision. Twist. Squeeze. Pull. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make her see stars.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, "

Her hands flew to her own chest, but there was nothing to grab, nothing to stop. Her fingers closed over the invisible ones and passed through empty air. The hands kept working. They didn't care that she was shaking, that her breath had gone ragged, that her hips were grinding against the seat cushion without her permission.

The two pairs kept stroking and pumping while the third pair worked her nipples, and the combination was overwhelming. Every squeeze of the lower hands pushed her breasts up, made them bounce and jiggle in ways that should have been impossible for flesh this firm. Every pull on her nipples sent a bolt of lightning straight to her clit. She was soaked. She could feel it through her jeans, a hot, pulsing ache that matched the rhythm of the invisible hands.

The pressure built until her spine bowed of its own accord, her back arching hard against the chair's back, the worn leather digging into her shoulder blades as her chest thrust up into the empty air. Her head fell back, mouth open, a strangled gasp tearing loose. It was too much, all of it, the relentless squeezing and the electric pulls and the weight of her own new breasts swaying with every shudder.

Cyndalia flicked her wrist, a casual, dismissive gesture, and Samantha felt the damp cotton of her shirt peel away from her skin. The hem slid up her stomach, over her ribs, and the whole thing lifted off her like it had been plucked by a breeze. It fluttered to the floor beside the chair, leaving her bare from the waist up. The cool air hit her nipples, and they tightened further, painfully hard, and the invisible hands seemed to redouble their efforts now that there was nothing between them and her flesh.

"Look at you," Cyndalia murmured. Her voice was low and thick, almost reverent. "You can't even sit still."

Samantha tried to glare at her, but her eyes kept rolling back. "You're, oh god, you're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

Cyndalia's fingers curled, and the hands responded. The ones on Samantha's right breast squeezed harder, milking the full weight of it, while the ones on her left slid up to circle the nipple, slow and teasing. The pair on her nipples switched tactics, pinching lightly, then rolling, then tugging upward until Samantha's whole chest arched upward.

She moaned. Loud and broken, a sound she didn't recognize coming out of her own throat. With her shirt gone, there was nothing left to hide the show. She could see every detail of what was happening to her, the way the invisible fingers dimpled her skin, the way her nipples stood out like hard little stones, the way her breasts moved and swayed under the attention. She arched her back over the edge of the chair's back, pushing her chest up into the empty air, offering herself to hands she couldn't see. The supernatural firmness Cyndalia had promised held her breasts high and proud, each bounce and jiggle perfectly visible as the unseen grip worked her flesh.

"Please," she heard herself say. She didn't know what she was asking for. More. Less. For Cyndalia to stop. For her to never stop.

Cyndalia tilted her head, considering. "Please what?"

Samantha's jaw clenched. Her pride warred with the heat building in her, and the heat was winning. "Please.. don't stop."

The smile that spread across Cyndalia's face was slow and deeply satisfied. "I wasn't going to."

The hands kept working. Stroking, squeezing, pumping, twisting, pulling. Samantha stopped trying to fight it. She let her head fall back, let her body move with the rhythm, let the moans spill out of her unchecked. The rain hammered against the windows, and the incense smoke curled through the air, and somewhere in the back of her mind she understood that this was only the beginning.

With her back arched over the chair, Samantha's supernaturally firm breasts stood up proud and firm, capped with hard, dark pink nipples. Seeing them being vigorously massaged and her nipples being teased and tugged by invisible hands gave Cyndalia a salacious idea. Cyndalia's fingers curled again, and the hands below Samantha's waist answered. Two warm, invisible palms slid down her stomach, hooked into the waistband of her jeans, and tugged. The button popped, the zipper hissed, and then those hands were inside, pushing the denim down over her hips, dragging her soaked underwear with it. Cool air hit her skin, and then the hands returned, one sliding up her inner thigh, the other pressing flat against her mound, fingers parting her slick folds with an almost clinical patience.

Samantha's hips bucked. "Cyndalia, please, "

"Shh." Cyndalia's voice was soft, almost kind. Samantha's hips lifted off the chair and she realized what Cyndalia has in mind.

Samantha had never been particularly adventurous in bed, and what little experience she had was mostly forgettable. But this was something else entirely. The pleasure building inside her was a slow, gathering tide, and each wave was bigger than the last. The sparks that had started as gentle warmth had grown into bolts of electric sensation that shot up her spine, and the pressure coiling low in her belly felt enormous, almost too much to bear.

Cyndalia curled a finger, and the hand between Samantha's legs responded instantly. A finger slid inside her, curling to press firmly against that spot deep within, rubbing with steady, knowing pressure that sent Samantha careening toward the edge. The orgasm ripped through her like a storm breaking, and she cried out, her back arching, her hips bucking wildly against the invisible hand.

Cyndalia clenched her own hands, and Samantha's body went still, frozen mid-pleasure. The wave crashed over her, and for what felt like a full minute, she saw white sparks behind her eyes, her mind blank except for the relentless pulse of sensation. Cyndalia had muted her voice too, so that no sound escaped the room, and Samantha was grateful for that small mercy, because she knew she would have been screaming.

When the last tremors faded, Cyndalia released her, and Samantha slumped back into the chair, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. She blinked, trying to gather herself, and slowly her breathing evened out. She looked down at her new breasts, still impossibly firm and high on her chest, and ran her hands over them. Her own touch wasn't much of a turn-on, but the hypersensitive flesh tingled beneath her fingertips, a pleasant hum of sensation.

She looked up at Cyndalia, who watched her with a knowing smile and a raised eyebrow. Samantha considered for a moment, then smiled back. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her arms behind her head and arched her back, pushing her breasts forward in silent invitation.

Cyndalia's grin widened. She raised her hands, and the blue glow returned, gathering around her fingers as she summoned her magic.

It was going to be a very fun afternoon.