Nellie's Past III

The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the cold metal table where Nellie sat, her wrists bound to the armrests of the chair. Across from her, two agents loomed, their faces impassive as they rifled through a thick stack of documents. But it wasn’t the questions that made her skin crawl—it was the clinical indifference of the medical personnel who circled her like vultures, their gloved hands cold and impersonal against her bare skin.

She flinched as one of the doctors prodded her left breast with a metal caliper, the device clicking as it measured the obscene fullness of her swollen flesh. Another doctor hovered nearby, jotting down notes on a clipboard, his gaze fixed on the way her breasts hung heavily against her chest, the veins bulging beneath the surface from the endless cycle of ****-induced growth.

“Subject 47,” the lead interrogator intoned, barely glancing up from his papers. “When did you first notice the changes in your body? Describe the symptoms, the exact timeline.”

Nellie bit her lip, trying to focus on the question despite the invasive touches that made her stomach turn. She could feel the latex-clad fingers of another doctor lifting her other breast, weighing it in his hand as if she were nothing more than a piece of meat. Her nipples, already tender from the constant milking, throbbed under the rough examination, and she had to fight back the urge to pull away.

“I… I noticed it a few weeks after the first injection,” she stammered, her voice trembling as the interrogator’s cold eyes met hers. “They said it was normal, that the swelling would mean I was producing more milk, that it was a sign the **** were working.”

The interrogator’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded for the doctor to continue, and Nellie gasped as the cold metal of a stethoscope pressed against her overworked flesh, tracing the engorged veins that snaked across her breasts. The doctor’s hand lingered on her nipple, pinching it slightly, causing her to wince in pain.

“Is this normal, subject?” the doctor asked in a detached tone, noting her reaction. “Any tenderness? Discomfort?”

Nellie swallowed hard, nodding despite the lump in her throat. The humiliation was overwhelming, but she **** herself to stay calm. She had to endure this, to protect what was left of her dignity, even as they reduced her to nothing more than a specimen on display, prodded and measured for their own cold purposes.

The interrogator leaned forward, his voice low and threatening. “Tell us everything, subject 47. Every detail. We already know the truth. This is your last chance to cooperate.”

Nellie’s eyes filled with tears, but she held back the sob that threatened to escape. She would endure this, she told herself, no matter what they did to her. She had to believe in Lucian, in the mission, in the promise that it had all been worth it.

The road stretched out endlessly before them, a ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through the barren desert. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, distorted shadows that danced on the horizon. The car, an old rusted heap of metal barely held together, rattled and wheezed as it moved forward, as if every mile was a struggle.

Nellie sat in the passenger seat, her large frame awkwardly squeezed into the tiny space. Her knees pressed against the dashboard, and the seatbelt dug uncomfortably into her chest. The fabric of her thin, worn dress clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her enormous breasts, once her pride and now her burden, strained against the material, making her discomfort all the more acute.

Beside her, the driver—a grizzled old man with a leering smile—kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. His hands, rough and calloused, gripped the steering wheel loosely, but every so often, one would slide over to brush against her thigh or squeeze her knee. Each touch made her stomach churn, but she kept her eyes fixed on the road, too exhausted to resist.

The encounter at the gas station earlier that day had been exhausting and humiliating. She had been ****, standing by the roadside with no money and nowhere to go, when the old man had pulled up, his car spewing smoke from the exhaust. He’d offered her a ride, but not before dragging her behind the gas station, where he banged her between the dumpsters, his coarse laughter echoing in her ears as he zipped up his pants afterward.

Now, as the sun dipped lower in the sky, Nellie felt a growing sense of dread. She had no idea where they were going, only that this was the end of the line. The driver hadn’t said much since they left the gas station, but the way his eyes lingered on her body told her everything she needed to know.

The days following the raid on LactiTech had been a blur of harsh lights, cold metal chairs, and endless questions. Nellie had been interrogated relentlessly, the agents grilling her about every detail of her work, her involvement in the experimental program, and the **** that had transformed her body. Each session was a new form of torment, as they tore apart everything she had believed in.

The humiliation didn’t end there. The scandal exploded across Mammopolis, the press hounding her at every turn. They painted her as a willing participant in the illegal experiments, a cautionary tale of ambition gone wrong. Her once-promising career as a Dairy Queen was reduced to tabloid fodder, her name dragged through the mud alongside the fall of LactiTech.

Lucian Kaine’s trial had been the final blow. She had watched in disbelief as he confessed to everything—the illegal ****, the unethical experiments, the manipulation of his Dairy Queens. But Nellie hadn’t bought it for a second. To her, Lucian was still a misunderstood genius, a man who had dared to dream too big in a world that wasn’t ready for him. She was convinced he had only admitted guilt under duress, a scapegoat for the real villains: the rival corporations who had orchestrated LactiTech’s downfall.

The blacklisting came swiftly. Every former Dairy Queen associated with LactiTech was marked as unemployable, their reputations permanently stained. No one in the city would hire them, not even for the most menial tasks. With no prospects left, Nellie had been **** to leave the city, her dreams crushed under the weight of her own ambition.

As the car bumped along the uneven road, Nellie’s thoughts were interrupted by the driver’s rough voice. “We’re almost there,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. “Hope you don’t mind a little detour, sweetheart. Got a nice place for you to rest those tired feet.”

Nellie said nothing, her eyes once again fixed on the road ahead. She could feel his gaze crawling over her body, lingering on her massive chest, the way it strained against the fabric of her dress. He reached over, his hand sliding up her thigh, squeezing it with possessive familiarity.

“Relax, doll,” he murmured, his fingers digging into her flesh. “You’ll be in good hands soon.”

Nellie’s heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of fear and resignation washing over her. She had no fight left in her. The past few months had stripped her of everything—her hope, her dignity, her will to resist. She was nothing more than a broken shell, drifting from one humiliating encounter to the next.

The car began to slow as they turned off the main road, the landscape shifting from endless desert to dry, barren farmland. The old man’s grip tightened on her thigh, his excitement palpable as they approached a rundown farmhouse in the distance.

The rusted car screeched to a halt in front of the dilapidated farmhouse, kicking up a cloud of dust that lingered in the hot, still air. The building was barely standing—peeling paint, sagging roof, windows boarded up. It looked more like a place where things went to die than a home.

“Here we are,” the old man said, his voice thick with smoke and years of hard living, his eyes glued to the sight of her breasts, straining against the tight fabric of her shirt. His gaze roamed over her, lingering on the way her nipples poked through the thin, sweat-dampened material.

Nellie just nodded, already feeling the frustration build. She reached for the door handle, eager to escape the cramped car, but the moment she tried to slide out, she realized with a sigh that she was stuck. Her oversized hips and breasts, always too much for anything designed for normal-sized people, wouldn’t fit through the narrow opening.

“Figures,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. This wasn’t the first time she’d been caught in a situation like this, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

The old man chuckled, his tone oozing with something Nellie had come to expect. “Looks like you could use some help there, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighed, her tone flat as she braced herself for what was coming next.

He was on her in a second, his hands rough as they grabbed her hips, pretending to help but taking full advantage of her predicament. His touch was familiar in the worst way—greedy, possessive, and entirely unwelcome. She didn’t bother to struggle; she knew it wouldn’t get her anywhere. Instead, she stared out at the farmhouse, her mind already moving past this, focusing on what she needed to do next.

“You wouldn't leave without paying, would you?” he rasped, his voice a low growl in her ear as he pressed himself against her, his intentions painfully clear. His hands slid up from her hips, one squeezing her ass while the other groped her breasts through her shirt, his fingers pinching her nipples with a roughness that was more annoying than painful.

“Just get it over with,” Nellie muttered, her tone carrying more exasperation than fear. She shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable, but there was no real comfort to be had. The man took it as encouragement, his breath quickening as he fumbled with her shirt, pulling it down to expose her breasts fully. Nellie just sighed, staring out at the desolate landscape, trying to tune out the feel of his hands on her body. This was just another lousy stop on a long, lousy road.

“Hold still,” he grunted, not bothering to hide his intentions. He pushed her forward roughly, enough to yank her thong down to her knees with a single swift motion. Then he unzipped his pants, the sound loud and jarring in the otherwise silent car. “Whatever,” she said flatly, her mind elsewhere. She let him have his way, knowing it was easier this way.

Nellie stared out at the farmhouse, her eyes dull, as he fumbled behind her. She heard him spit into his hand before he shoved himself inside her, not caring about her discomfort or the roughness of his actions. His grip on her hips was bruising, his thrusts quick and ****, driven by nothing more than his own need.

She didn’t make a sound, didn’t move. There was no point. It was over almost as soon as it started. He grunted, shuddered, and then it was done.

The old man zipped up his pants with a satisfied grunt, shoving her roughly the rest of the way out of the car. Nellie fell face first, catching herself on the doorframe as she tried to pull her thong back up at the same time, but before she could, he slammed the door shut behind her.

“Thanks for the ride,” she muttered, but he was already stepping on the gas, the tires spinning in the dirt as he sped away. She barely had time to straighten her clothes before the dust cloud engulfed her, leaving her coughing in its wake.

As the car disappeared down the road, Nellie turned to face the farmhouse, her thong still around her knees, her mind already trying to prepare for whatever was waiting for her inside.

She pulled her thong up and adjusted her clothes with a practiced indifference. The sting of the old man’s roughness lingered, but she ignored it, focusing instead on the crumbling building in front of her.

This was just another stop on the long, winding road her life had become. Another place where she’d have to endure whatever was thrown at her.