Patron Request: Shades of Swell (Ghosts, BE, Breast Play)
Tale starts of a girl, always desired a chest ever since high school but never grew an inch. Once old she died without being in peace, her wish, her own desire never fulfilled and that was to grow at least a bit in the chest department. Her own life unfulfilled ended up turning her soul into a ghost but something was different, she was young again and she had breasts! But small ones, at least she had something she thought but not enough to satisfy her…so since she is a ghost, she had an idea. To go on a search for a perfect host to take over and make her host grow until she was happy enough. After long search she finally found the perfect host that desired the same as her. As soon as she is about to possess her, something goes wrong and ends up in a different body. So now she is stuck in that body while the soul of that girl is still in control and conscious over her original body, the ghost ignores the girl so she just goes to work on growing her breasts.
Note: I took some liberties with this request. While I didn’t adhere to the strictest letter of it, there was a story about the anger and loathing of our own regrets here waiting to happen. That’s what I went with, with a peppering of accepting our own inevitability. As such, the work comes off a bit harsh at the start. Stick with it, dear deviants. Likewise, I’d love to hear your thoughts.-J
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I hate to break it to you, but there’s no heaven.
Okay, so there might be. There might be a hell too. There’s probably a lot of other places I could be right now-but I’m here. Living and dying, they’re one and the same really. You spend every moment wishing you were anywhere else. Anyone else. Then poof-you close your eyes a final time, and that’s it. Times up. You’re done. Maybe you’re a rockstar, maybe you’re a shithead. But in death, everyone’s the same. Every life is the same.
I mean, unless you’re greedy. Unless you’re selfish. If you’re tuned up when you croak, congrats. You’ve cracked the code to immortality. There won’t be a white light or hellfire. No prompt chorus of angels, no cackling demons. That blink, it extends for one long moment. Then you never need to blink again.
Hi. I’m Phillis. “Phil” if you want. I’m a shade.
Oh, don’t shit your pants on me. I’ve heard all the scooby doo bullshit about “ectoplasm”, readings and all that. No, you’re not going to see me. You’re not going to feel me. I can yell until my non-existent lungs collapse. You’re not going to hear a peep unless I want you to. And I do want you to-but this? This, this ain’t a haunting okay?
It’s a warning.
See, I’ve got my eyes on that life support over there. That bouncing green line. The thing pumping with every breath. Those machines, that’s all that’s keeping you alive. It’s the only reason you’re here still at all. You could have been someone important before now. Maybe you gave your life to charity. You’re an organ donor. Or maybe you’re pure fucking evil, man. More than likely though? You’re just like me. Just like everyone else.
What I’m trying to say is, it’s coming. The great equalizer. It might be taking it’s time, but it ain’t stopping ‘til you do. So look, stop bug-eying me and listen up. What I’m gonna tell you, it’s the difference between heaven and hell. Between a waiting room and finality.
You don’t wanna live forever, right?
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Back when I was still a meat sack? Shit, there was driftwood curvier than me.
You’ve read “Sarah Plain and Tall”, right? No? The hell is wrong with you, it’s a classic. Okay, whatever. Point is, that title describes me to a tee. Six feet even, flat as asphalt. Puberty coughed in my general direction, then went it’s merry way. I got the height and hair, but none of the bounty. Oh, all the other girls did. That’s how they got husbands and wives. People, they say “love isn’t about appearances”, but some G-cups sure as hell get a conversation started. It’s not that I hated the others, not really. I mean, it’s a petty thing, hating someone for their body.
The truth is? I just hated myself. I hated how thin I was, hated stuffing my bra. I hated all those little tricks your friends tell you. “Just get a push up bra,” they’d say. “Oh, try these water bras!” they would mutter. Thing is, for a bra to be worth a shit? Ya’ had to have something to hold up. It had to be forty five degrees outside for anyone to even notice I might be a woman. Do you know what that does to someone? Day in, day fuckin’ out all these fucking gazongas bouncing around you. And there you are, still as skinny as when you were five.
Plane and tall. Right up until I died.
It’s petty to hate someone for their looks. But I say it’s damned human to hate yourself for it. Nobodies really happy with themselves, I think-but at least they could make due. They could take those tricks, those countless underwires and be somebody. When I finally croaked, ya’ think there was a husband or a wifey there? A bunch of kids surrounding the bed, clutching my hand?
No.
No there wasn’t.
I barely made the sheet rise beneath it. The orderlies, they were surprised when they walked in. Until they looked at the mattress, they thought the machine was malfunctioning.
My life, it wasn’t something a bra could fix. It wasn’t something countless rolls of toilet paper was gonna make better. “You have a great personality” wasn’t going to fill out my ass or tits. No amount of makeup was resistant to tears. Every time I drew a breath, the rise of my shirt so shallow? It was just another reminder. Just another moment nobody heard me but myself.
Death makes us equal.
But sometimes, if you’re living like me? It frees you, too.
You know how in the movies, they make death look all dramatic right? Or maybe they make it super sexy, like in Meet Joe Black? Look, I know this isn’t what you wanna hear. Especially as close as you are. But death, it’s neither. It happens, and then you’re done. You rattle one final time, shit your pants, and that’s it. Someone comes in to clean you up, and it’s over. Maybe you go somewhere better, maybe not.
But I’d be willing to bet, sitting here in this hospital bed, you’ve things on your mind don’t you? Between the pills and the morphine, the light flicker still. Memories bright as super eights in the back of your head. Every triumph, every fuck up. You can’t even skip to the next scene.
I was like that.
Wanna know what my movies looked like?
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Self love and self loathing, they’re kinda the same thing.
We’re all equal at that final breath. The curtain comes down, and it doesn’t make a damn if you’re Ron Pearlman or Ron Jeremy.
Those super eights in my head, they’re filled with hours of porn.
Take a guess which kind.
Macromastia. That’s what it’s called, but it’s not sexy enough to market. Instead, they say “plumpers”, “whoppers”, “hangers”, “Saggers”. Every damned thing they can so it’s got a pretty bow for public consumption. The real thing is too cold and clinical. No, even in porn, you can’t get away from Joe Black. I watched it all. Hitomi Tanaka, Samantha 38g. Every no-name who could make their boyfriend’s cock disappear. If they were over a D-cup, they flickered on my screen while I was knuckle deep.
Death and sex, hate and love.
If you live a full, happy life? You never taste these baselines.
I’d watch these girls lift their tits. They would pull them right up to their lips for a suck. I watched as they smacked against their stomachs. How they would clap as they were getting fucked. The whole time, I had the sound off. The only thing I would hear is the squelch of my own cunt, the ragged inhale of every breath. The things I said as I smacked chest.
“Whore,” I sputter, “You don’t fucking deserve those,”
“Fucking bit-tittied slut,” I’d say, shoving another finger in.
The more fervant my phrasing got? The harder I came. It got to a point I couldn’t even orgasm unless I was practically spitting at the screen. I’d get off work, come home, and lock the door. I’d go into my room, and pull out my laptop. Then I’d curse. I’d scream. “Cunt!” I’d yell, “You fucking cunt! You like that, those fucking funbags getting sucked?”
The super at my building got called so many times he eventually stopped caring. My neighbors stopped talking to me at all. They would just pass me by as I left my apartment. Eyes at the floor, in such a damned hurry all the sudden. I knew why. I got it, I understood. My life, it wasn’t so pretty for them. They didn’t like what they heard, what they saw.
Yelling and screaming like that, it was the only time I felt alive. That I mattered. Plane and tall, but still here with my blood pumping. With my cunt shuddering as I soaked the sheets, I’d scream.
“Bitch! Fucking big tittied fucking bitch!”
Some people go to confession for that. They turn to god, they turn to meditation.
My nirvana was in my right hand.
Then the tumor finally won.
I started losing track of time when I came. First it was an hour here, a few there. I just assumed it was exhaustion. Between work and my self communions, I was running thin. Then it was an entire day. The first time it happened, I woke up on sunday morning. Samantha 38G was screaming as she took a twelve inch cock. My eyes fluttered, and I peeled myself from my sheets. I stared at the screen, watching her get pounded by a guy who spoke only in grunts. “Ooooh, fuck me! fuck me! fuck me!” she said. Every thrust made her breasts smack against her stomach. It might as well have been a hammer against my skull.
I clutched my temple, and closed the laptop. I turned towards the night stand, and picked up my phone.
It was at ten percent power, and a day off. I blinked, and got up to find my charger. I figured it was just acting screwy because of the battery-phones do that, right? I swung my feet over the mattress, and rose.
The first sign something was off was my legs. It wasn’t that they were unsteady-I always wobbled a bit when I got up. No, it was the fact they didn’t want to work at all. I hobbled around, my arms flailing as everything became a blur. I shot a hand out, my palm smacking against the wall. I was breathing fast-way too damned fast.
Then my stomach rolled and I vomited.
I pulled my phone to my ear, and dialed 911. The operator on the line, they spoke to me. I remember that much. When I tried to talk though, all that came out was word salad. Things I’d said so much over the last few months they rolled from my tongue on instinct.
“Bitch, big bapping whore, you fucking like this don’t you? Fucking tits,”
Love and hate.
Life or death.
As I laid there, vomit still warm beneath me, I reached up. I rolled my hands over my chest, and looked down as the operator assured me someone was on their way. As they pleaded with me to stay on the line. I sat there, smacking my chest so loud it clapped.
“Cunt! Fucking fat tit cunt!”
One slap, two. My skin was tender and red, each slap so hard it left a print. Looking down at it, I thought for a second the marks were cupped in prayer. As the operator told me they were sending the police, the camera roll changed.
The light flickered, and a different film started playing.
One of me when I was twelve, and on my knees praying to god for boobs. Just like the other girls.
Another slap, the operator’s voice crying that I had so much to live for.
Jeremy, Pearlman.
Confession, masturbation.
When death comes creeping, when that equalizer gives the first gasp down your neck?
It doesn’t make a damn if those paramedics find you seeking your own way to heaven. Right there, reeking of spent sweat, dried cum and vommit. Screaming “Whore! Fucking WHORE!” as you shudder one last time, squirting all over their uniforms. It comes all the same despite your planning. Despite your assumptions, despite all those hopes you might have stored away.
Just like love.
I do wonder though if they wish they’d sent a priest.
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Breathe.
Take as deep a breath as you can, and hold it. Keep it in your lungs until they start to strain. Good, that’s good. Just like that.
Taking that breath, it’s something you do every day. Your life is measured by it. You don’t think about it. You just do it.
But three minutes without oxygen, and you’re dead. Okay, so technically you can be revived six minutes after. But the point remains. Something so small that it doesn’t warrant a thought can kill you in less time than it takes to get a burger. How long did that feel just now? Between the morphine bouts you’ve clarity still. So tell me. How long did that actually feel?
Forty-five seconds.
It felt like hours, didn’t it?
The things we take for granted, the things we ignore? They’re in it for the long game, and they’ve far, far more patience than you.
My body-my plane and tall body-it waited twenty-four years to kill me. The tumor had attached itself against my brain stem. The passing out? Yeah. That had been going on for over a year. Looking back now, I realize they weren’t just afternoon naps. I’d pass out and forget to breathe. Forget to do the one basic thing we all need.
All because my focus was elsewhere.
Being dead, being a shade? It didn’t dull the brightness of those super eights in my skull. It didn’t quell the echoing din of their slapping. My hands were still smacking my chest when I opened my eyes.
When I looked down.
When I saw them try to revive me.
The first thought I had wasn’t “oh shit, I must be dead”. They do that in the movies all the fucking time. Someone dies, and they freak out seeing themselves. These shows, they try to make death out as this trauma. This psychological scarring that leads to things like me. But do you know what I thought when I looked down?
That I needed to shave.
That I’d never stop laughing about the paramedics faces.
I knew I was dead-there wasn’t a turn back. I knew right away how it happened, too. I mean, I didn’t stick around to see them open me at the morgue. Didn’t have to, really. The realization was right there, filling the same spot the tumor did. I knew, and that was enough.
I spent the first three minutes just standing there. Just watching them work. Listening to them swear, and talk about where they were getting lunch. Then I was on a gurney and wheeled away. They shut the door behind them, and flicked the lock.
Then I tried to move. I could get around easy enough. It was the simple things, though. Picking up my phone just wasn’t gonna happen. The TV flicked on, but all that came on was static. When’s the last time THAT was a thing? The lights popped as I passed beneath them. You would think I knew this was going to happen, but it was a massive pain in the ass. I even tried to flip the breakers, all that. If my fingers didn’t slip right through, things just didn’t work.
That’s why I say “shade” instead of “ghost”, you know. Ghosts, they can make shit float. They toss lamps around rooms. People hear them. See them, feel them. Whatever mortality they’ve shed, they’re still human. They interact, they’re part of the world still.
Shades aren’t.
We can’t do any of those things, but we’re here still. A half-life between the cradle and the grave. Love, hate. Always afraid, always hopeful.
It’s not like we wanted to live forever-we knew we were gonna die. We knew we were dead. But who the hell plans for this?
Hold on, hold on. I know what you’re thinking. “Hurrdurr if I that’s true then how are you here?”
Well, I’m not.
All this you see, it’s not me. Not a single jiggling inch of it. I’m flat, remember?
Can you raise your hand still? Good.
Take a deep breath, and feel me. Touch me, caress me. Feel how warm I am. Hold that breath, and keep squeezing.
You can’t see us, you can’t hear us. Us shades, we’re pretty damn limited. But there is one thing we can do. It’s so very, very easy.
Squeeze a little tighter-here, let me free them okay?
Shades can do the one thing they never could in the flesh. Our flesh, at least.
We can be happy.
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I could pass through walls like a voyeur’s wettest dream. All those people who annoy you on their phone in public? It was so easy. I just had to walk by them. Poof, their calls dropped. All of this was amusing for a hot minute. I gave thought about doing crazy stuff. Go to the white house, go to Area 51. See what Brad Pitt was up to. Thing was though, it wasn’t like I could fly. Oh, yeah-hate to disappoint you. Ghosts don’t float, and good luck if there’s a body of water. It’s like hitting a brick wall. You’ll make it right to the edge but no further. When I thought about how I’d have to walk everywhere, well.
Shit, it was just exhausting. Do you know just how tenuous something has to be to make me tired? I can’t even physically FEEL anything anymore.
With all that dashed, I decided to sit down and think. Try and work it out, you know? I mean, I’m no genius. Lack of grip didn’t help with that. But I could shadow people-stand right behind them, read over their shoulder. It’s creepy, I know-the first few times I did it, I approached all slow. I’d tip toe behind somebody, and lean as far as I could. I kept being afraid they would feel me. Like a cold chill, or something. But-but then they didn’t. They didn’t give the slightest tell at all. So I stopped being careful. I snooped full time.
Old habits, rules of common courtesy-these go with you well beyond death. If you were ever worried a ghost was watching you jack off? At least a few turn their backs.
I kept looking for people to shadow. Goth types, with their inverted crosses and horror shirts. The over worked that constantly looked up suicide hotlines on their phones. Our town had one or two self-proclaimed psychics. I shadowed them-and found them to just be very tired cat owners. It was all a gamble, really. Shadowing people. I kept chasing all the folks you would think-only to strike out. The goths just liked angry music and spikey shit. The corporate drones thought “Ghost Adventures” was real. So I took a shotgun approach.
The library was great for this-when I got lucky. I figured if I hung around the paranormal section, I’d get the odd goofball or two. Libraries, though? They’re more day cares for like, grandmas who read cozy mystery novels. The kind of people who use public wifi to surreptitiously look at porn in the corner. Trust me, happens more often than you would think. Those same psychics I shadowed, they would show up. Brow knit, jaw clenched. I thought they were ready for serious ghosty shit.
They would pass right by the paranormal section for the Harlequin romances.
I got so fucking mad at them that I balled up my fist, and swung at one.
Now, you’ve got to understand something. Being a shade, a ghost? You grasp the basics really quickly. It’s not all torment and rattling chains. You’re here, not there. It’s a lot like it was, but it isn’t anymore. You learn by doing just like before. So when I swung at her, I thought it would land.
I swung, and watched as I whiffed right through. The lady stiffened up, sucked in some air. She stood there, Raunchy Ranch Hands firm in her grip. Her weave shivered, and her head twisted to look at me.
If I still had bowels, they probably would have dropped it all right then. She stood there, her eyes frantic as she looked down the aisle. I took a step back, and put my hands up.
“Whoooooaaa there,” I said, my voice strange. It sounded like an echo at the bottom of a well. I hadn’t spoken in months-to people, to myself. Every syllable was frantic and garbled as I tried to think.
“H-hey, there’s no reason we can’t be friendly, okay?” I said.
She turned her head from the aisle, and went back to facing the stacks. Nothing said, no indication she had so much as seen me. I stood there a long while. Trying to hold my breath, trying to give in to an old habit.
Trying to live again.
I can’t say what motivated me to touch her once more. The fact I got any reaction at all, probably. But I did, and my hands sunk right through her with the same ease they had all else. Then I snagged on something. Well, snag isn’t the right word. It was like my fingertips reached a point they felt sucked in. Like right towards the center of this woman was an event horizon. She had been standing there, breathing way too hard over ranch hands until then.
But when I touched that-when I got snagged on her most inner self? She went rigid. Her breathing slowed, the tips of my fingers pulling closer towards it. Soooooo I figured, hey. Can’t die again right?
This existence, it’s a lot like the one before. You learn by doing.
I found out I could possess people by being a fuck up.
Story of my life, eh?
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This nurse-this lady you see, right now? Her name’s Tina, right?
God, I hope so. That’s the trouble with possession, you know. It’s you inside-not them. Their memories, their ideas, feelings? When your fingers snag, it’s not on any of that. It feels more like pouring through a sieve. The pressure, it’s small but sure. A crack on their heart that lets you in. Sometimes it’s easy-there’s hardly any tug. I just slip right in, slip right out. Other times though, it’s just this tiny little thing. A black hole in someone’s chest pulling towards destruction.
It’s not so easy getting out of people like that. When I’m in them, it’s what I bet drowning is like. Their skin feels stretched so tight over you, and their heart just pounds.
I’m really glad Tina was one of the easy ones. If that’s her actual name.
Little things like that, they’re three minute killers too. Especially when people have family, especially with their friends. You can keep the act up for a while, but then you inevitably get “Hey, are you alright? You’re acting weird,”
The first time, you blame it on a cold.
The second time, you’re having an off day.
But that third time, they sit you down. They spill their guts to you, and you’re sitting there trying to meander through someone else’s trauma. The post mortem of someone else’s foul ups. It’s so, so damned awkward that now I hunt instead of slipping in whoever I like.
That-and, well. The changes.
Imagine having the freedom to put yourself through hell. To rob a bank, to do all the lines you ever wanted. You can check out at any time, scott free. I did both, and laughed when I slipped out. I couldn’t help it, okay? When you’re staring down eternity, when every single moment blurs into just holding on? You take what you can get. The value of those around you, it takes on way less meaning. People, consequence don’t scare you anymore.
It’s time. It’s realizing how long your death really is going to be. That’s what scares you. So you run from it. You bury it in sensation and try not to think. The drugs, the thrills-it’s all so fun at first.
But then you need something a little more. Sex and death, they’re a serpent eating it’s own tail.
I decided it was time to chase mine. Find something a little long term. It was going to take the perfect storm to make it work.
I needed someone single, or dating at the worst. I needed someone in fairly decent health. And I wanted someone hot. In a lot of ways, finding the ideal candidate was a lot like buying a used car. I’d shadow them, watch their routine. Watch their entire day. Their friends, their associates, their work. What they did when no one was looking. All for the slightest ding, the slightest scratch. I can’t tell you how many people made it right to the end-only for me to find out they smoke. They’ve a diagnosis they haven’t told anyone about. Their ride, it looked fine on the outside. The moment I was ready to strap in though, I saw the wear. The rot.
Times like that I thought about my own body. I wondered if I’d been buried, and where. Then I’d go possess a degenerate and fuck off from the planet.
No, don’t worry-Tina’s not weird. I think. She’s just temporary.
Above all this though, I needed someone I could improve. Someone that, if I wanted, I could mold. A life borrowed-then made to fit.
If you think that’s reeking of entitlement, you’re damn right it is. An entire fucking life ignored, only for my afterlife to be the same? Nah. Nah, fuck that. And fuck you for thinking it’s entitled. After all the shit I had to deal with only to die alone? I earned a better take. A second fucking chance, one I couldn’t screw up this time. Sure as shit wasn’t a shortage of options.
I went for the men first. Men, with their physiques, their cocks. For a while that was fun. But after the first month it just made my stomach twist. I had to be smart and funy, a brute in the sheets. I had to fuck like a porn star with a dad bod. I had to know how to repair any damned thing someone needed, and I had to do it all without complaining. No amount of jerking off is worth that.
And besides, your prostate is in your ass. Never been a fan of anal and I’m sure as shit not starting.
Smile. You’re safe.
I could have been absolutely anyone else. Anyone at all, but after six months with a dick? I craved the familiar. I still wanted them healthy, hot and homely enough to make a glow-up rewarding. I had my eyes set on this red-headed, five foot nothing brunette. Mop-topped and freckled, she was damned adorable. Beneath her clothes was a set of perky b-cups. I’d wanted double D, but exceptions breed exceptions on exceptions. Her ass helped to balance it out too. It jiggled, but not so much it was laughable.
What I saw wasn’t a fun afternoon, a few lines. It wasn’t sensory overload until I got tired.
It was my take two. Another start, already set up with wiggle room to mold.
At least, she was going to be.
Sally-that was her name-Sally had a nice life. Friends that seemed not to pry, family a few states over she called once a week. She didn’t go out for drinks, didn’t hang out at weird places. No, she woke up, went to work, and came home. She watched TV and ate whatever BlueApron had sent. A perfect blank.
I decided to get her while she was sleeping one night. She had already dressed down for the night-an oversized college shirt, plane cotton panties. She was texting on the couch while Big Bang Theory bled into NCIS. Every time a show ended, I’d check the clock. She’d check her phone. Every stroke of the minute hand made me want to grin. Sally finally put her phone down, and got up. She was going towards the bathroom.
I couldn’t wait another minute.
If I still had a heart, it would have matched the machine gun fire blaring from the living room. I reached out, fingers spreading as I graced that college shirt.
Then the phone rang.
Sally turned on her heel, and I dove head first through a Yale logo. Sally jogged towards the living room, and there I was. Arms flailing, my first grasp at a real life a hack job.
Only it wasn’t.
Remember when I said you learn by doing? Being a shade, there’s no guides. No cutesy Pinterest posts with simple how-tos. No clickbait possession posts with “just one neat trick”. No, you do. Then you fuck up, and learn what not to do. Possessing Sally wasn’t what I would call a fuck up-not quite. And I’ll be honest with you. Shit, you’re dying. We’ve come this far. You deserve it.
I just slipped out of her body Monday.
This wednesday would have been two years. Before her, the longest I’d been with anybody was a month. So no, I wouldn’t say Sally was a fuck up. Not by a long, long stretch. But I learned a hell of a lot that night.
Like the fact I didn’t need the entire host.
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In hindsight, it’s a silly thing. One so many fucking people would laugh at. Being upset that I didn’t have tits, pre-worm bait. But the thing is, tits weren’t just that. They weren’t something I could just ignore. Love and hate, life and death. Chasing my own damned tail any way I could, but it didn’t matter.
Nobody cared because my shirts weren’t filled out.
Sally, she was a B. Not massive, but not much. But she did have her share of looks, stares. The occasional cat call. All this seems so absurd to envy, but if I’d been above ground? I would have hated her for it. Because these, pert nipples and all?
All the crap she endured because of them?
It was life. The good, the bad. The love and the hate of it all, it was hers. She could cup all that potential right against her palm and smile.
At least, she did. For a while, Sally was really, really happy.
Then came my learning.
Until that night, when I possessed people? I took the whole thing. Head and flesh. Their hands, their feet, their breasts, their swinging dicks. I took it all in stride, every second of breath held on to as long as I could. Every sensation a private, separate heaven away from the void. But when Sally turned, when I landed smack dab into her tits?
It was all I needed. All I’d wanted, even. Round and supple, every step making them-making me-bounce. It was damned confusing at first. Being boobs, it lacked the autonomy of the whole. Then Sally would lay in bed, her shirt forgotten on the floor. She would reach a hand up cup me. She’d pinch, she would tweak me as the other hand slipped past her panties. Every caress, every touch sent shudders through me. I’d grow so warm against her finger tips. So tight, and Sally would just tug harder. She’d slip another finger in, pulling her hand away as she reached for the night stand. She’d pull the first drawer out, her hand smacking blind as she rode herself.
Then she would pull out the clamps. The suckers. All stuff I’d never had a reason to use. Stuff that made me snarl when I saw it.
Something I know now that I didn’t then is storing. Some call ’em “chakras”. Those psychic cat ladies in our town, they called it “latent energy” or something. Me, I go with storing. It’s nice, it’s simple, and that’s exactly what it is. Basically, us shades? We’re leeches. Hey, it’s true. We attach ourselves to people, and feed off their lives. We use them up, and as soon as we’re satiated we’re out. I hadn’t thought of it until now, but that didn’t change the tugging of Sally. It didn’t hold back every nerve ending firing off, the radiating warmth of life pulsing through me.
Even cumming didn’t stop that. Sally was a hell of a squirter too.
No, no matter what Sally did, I just kept holding and writhing. Every rub, every adjustment in a finicky bra, I felt. I reveled in. I held on to it all as much as I could.
Then her bras started getting tighter. She went through quite a few B-cups before finally going for something bigger. Poor girl worked herself nearly to death at the gym. She thought she was getting fatter. She was-just in one very, very specific spot.
She would come home, sweat dripping from every pore. But it wasn’t a shower she sought.
Sally, poor thing. She would peel right out of her sports bra, and I’d smack right against her.
Heavy hangers. Saggers. These cute little B cups, they were becoming something more. Something I’d always wanted-and something Sally fed as often as she could. She cup them, stretch marks and all. She would lift them right to her lips. At first, she had to reach with her tongue. Roll it right over her nipples. Lapping away at me, at herself.
I’d hold on to those moments. Store them. After a while, those licks turned to suckles. Then smacks right against her face as she rode her toys. She even had to get bigger clamps.
The slight looks, the tilt of the head turned into full-on staring. Sally would blush and the warmth would go right to me. The catcalls grew more frequent, the whistling longer. Three minutes without oxygen can kill you-Sally and I, we were damned lucky we didn’t commit manslaughter.
When she couldn’t find bras in her size anymore, she just stopped. She let me hang free and full, the hem of her shirt nothing against a summer breeze. The slightest draft would send it flying up, and there I’d be. Bathing in every single second of the glow.
Men came. With their hands, with their cocks. They would smack right between me, squeezing tight as they grunted and thrust. Just like on my computer screen so long ago. When they came, their loads would pelt all over me. All over Sally. Every drop would soak right in, and Sally would just shiver.
She joked about doing porn. We almost did, too.
Sally-cute but bland Sally, with her itty-bitty B cups-she was the first I didn’t feel like a parasite in. The first to revel in what I did to her, to us.
I didn’t cut her free because I was done. Far from it, actually. I was having a damned good time. Not, it was for a much simpler reason than that.
But before we get to that, I need you to do something.
Take a deep breath for me. Ignore the beep of your vitals. It’s coming, whether you want it or not.
Hold on to that breath, and just listen.
People say all the time that life is short. It’s so fucking trite to hear that. It’s not what you want to hear, I know. We’re so caught up in our own personal tragedies that quaint, greeting card wisdom just isn’t enough. So we try to take it into our own hands. I did, at least.
But that wasn’t a life. This, for all the fun I’m having, it ain’t one either.
What’s yours been like?
You don’t want to live forever, right?
But if you lay there, if you lay and watch all those super eights in the basement of your mind, you’re going to be just like me. Fumble-fucking around even post-mortem, trying to make sense of it all. It’s not hell, but it’s no heaven either. Just one, long continuous hitch in your lungs.
So after all this, I want to make you an offer.
Sally’s had a great life. She’s going to die well. When she does, I’m hoping I go too. The tits were what drove me all this time, but I’m starting to think now it’s her. Not just her body-her. I’m still around because she’s what I need to focus on, what I can pin my happiness and healing with. But I can’t do that at the risk of placing her right here. Of making her just like me. She’s changed so much-but she’s still her. Still a girl trying to be happy with her body. To be noticed, to live as full as each long second can give.
Damned if I can’t relate.
Can that thing of yours still get up? Yeah? Good. I’m going to slip out of Tina here. She’s probably gonna be real confused-just tell her to check your vitals. I’m cutting her loose, and I’m getting back in Sally.
Then I’m coming right up here, and the three of us are gonna make damned sure none of us stay shades.
Death didn’t give me much. But what it’s given me without the tire of flesh is clarity. The realization that staying in my apartment, spouting pure diesel madness and slapping my tits wasn’t a life. No, that’s made with people. With happy moments.
Don’t we all deserve that?
That breath you’ve been holding in?
Let go.