Waterlogged (Patreon)

She came to with water already in her mouth.

The hose was thick, green, and forced deep enough that her teeth caught on the metal fitting. Cold water poured straight down her throat in a steady, unrelenting stream. She gagged and tried to turn her head, but something held her in place against the slick curve of the tub. Her hands slipped on the porcelain. When she finally managed to open her eyes, the tiled wall above her was already blurred with spray.

The pressure started low in her chest and then moved. She felt it fill the soft weight of her breasts first—slow at first, then faster. Each pulse of water stretched the skin tighter. Her nipples stiffened and darkened as the flesh rounded and lifted, then kept going. The underside of each breast grew heavy against her ribs. Veins rose under the surface. The water kept coming. Her back arched without her meaning to. The hose jumped against her teeth. She made a wet, choked sound around it and watched her own chest rise into two enormous, shining swells that nearly filled the width of the tub.

It stopped all at once.

The hose jerked free. Water spilled from her lips and ran down her chin, over the tops of her breasts, and into the water already standing around her waist. She coughed hard, one hand braced on the rim. Her breasts swayed with the motion—huge, taut, and far too heavy. The skin looked stretched thin and faintly flushed, almost translucent in places where the light hit. Droplets clung and slid. She stayed still for a moment, breathing through her mouth, then slowly pushed herself upright. Every shift made the new weight pull and drag. Getting one leg over the side of the tub took both hands and most of her strength. She stood on the wet tile with her knees shaking, arms crossed under the undersides of her breasts just to keep them from swinging.

The bathroom door opened.

Two figures in white hazmat suits stepped in without a word. Their face shields were down. One of them carried a black case; the other already had blue gloves on. They moved around her like she was equipment. One crouched in front of her while the other stayed to her side. Gloved fingers pressed into the outer curve of her left breast, then her right, testing the give. She flinched. The skin was hot and drum-tight. A finger traced a raised vein from the base of one breast up toward the nipple. The scientist with the case opened it and set something small and dark against the underside of her right breast. She felt a brief, clinical pressure, then the tool was gone. Neither of them spoke. Their shields reflected the overhead light and the pale, swollen shapes of her chest. Water still dripped from her hair onto the floor between their boots.

They finished. One closed the case. The other gave her right breast one last firm squeeze—testing, measuring—then let go. Both turned and left. The door clicked shut behind them.

She stood there a second longer, arms still supporting the weight, then took a careful step toward the door. Her breasts shifted and pulled with every movement. She was almost there when the air changed. A sharp, chemical sweetness hit the back of her throat. Her next breath went wrong. The room tilted. Her knees gave. She dropped hard onto the tile, the enormous weight of her breasts slamming down in front of her and forcing her torso forward. Her cheek landed against the hot, stretched skin of one of them. The last thing she saw before the edges of her vision went dark was the white leg of a suit stepping back into the room and the black nozzle of a hose lowering toward the floor beside her.