The Runaway Bride (Patreon)

Oh fuck, why the hell can’t I even run like… like a normal fucking guy instead of some goddamn girl?! This chest, these hips swaying under the dress — how the hell does all of this annoy me so much!

But I keep running anyway. Running as best I can, hearing the sharp clack-clack-clack of heels hammering the cobblestones, feeling with every step how these tits, these cursed, heavy, bouncing globes, that leap upward, slap brutally against my ribs from underneath, stretch the already torturous corset to its absolute limit. The damn neckline is barely holding on; the lace is creaking, my nipples scrape against the fabric with every jolt, and it feels like the whole thing is about to spill out right in front of everyone.

— Adeline?! Adeline, stop! — Marco’s deafening shout explodes behind me. My so-called “fiancé”. Fuck him.

I grit my teeth. Adeline. That’s me now, huh? Goddamn it, of course it’s me. I remember hearing once that Mom wanted to name a daughter Adeline if I’d been born a girl instead. Well, isn’t that just fucking poetic.

— Go to hell, Marcus! — I yell back over my shoulder, hearing my own voice — high, ringing, cracking slightly, exactly like some hysterical girl losing her shit. — I just wanted to help a friend, I didn’t…

I suck in a sharp breath, trying to keep running, trying to ignore how my breasts leap and whip me from the inside with every stride, but I still wince because there’s no ignoring this:

— …I DIDN’T SIGN UP TO BECOME SOME BIG-TITTED BRIDE!

Yesterday. Fucking yesterday I was just sitting with Marcus, my childhood buddy, at The Crown on the corner of 10th and Brownie, listening to his usual endless whining about “nobody loves me, I’m so alone”, and of course I was just trying to prop him up, ordering round after round.

“Marcus, for fuck’s sake, I swear, if I could, I’d become your goddamn bride myself just so you’d stop whimpering like a kicked puppy!” I blurted out, already pretty drunk, smacking him on the shoulder so hard he nearly toppled off the stool.

Fucking hell. I only said it as a joke. To snap him out of his pathetic moping. Not so that… not so I’d wake up this morning with tits that have a life of their own, a waist cinched by a corset, and an ass that jiggles and sways with every step like I’m trying to twerk on every goddamn cobblestone!

— ADEEEEELINE! — Marco’s roar is closer now, way too close, even though I’m sprinting with everything I’ve got. — Please STOP! EXPLAIN what’s wrong! I LOVE you!

Love. He said love. For a split second my legs actually buckle and my heart, that already hammering like crazy, starts pounding even harder. Right then the heel catches a stone at a bad angle, the dress makes a tearing sound at the hip, and my breasts slam up under my ribs so violently I hiss out a breath.

But I don’t fall.

— LOVE?! — I scream, voice raw from running, from rage, from despair, from everything at once. — You… YOU LOVE ME?!

— ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?! — I shriek, and the sound comes out like some engineered hybrid of panic and feminine ultrasonic wailing. — LOVE?! You LOVE me?!

But I already know. I fucking know that in this twisted reality I’m his precious “Adeline”. The one he, apparently, loves.

He loves me.

Jesus fucking Christ.

— MARCUS GO FUCK YOURSELF! — I bellow so loud my voice cracks into a piercing squeal, bounces off the alley walls and comes back to mock me.

But my legs are done. The heel snags another crack, my knee buckles, and I pitch forward, crashing down onto all fours. My lace-gloved palms slap the rough cobblestones. The dress rides up to my waist, exposing everything — my ass thrust upward, panties stretched tight and wedged deep between my cheeks while my heavy breasts hang like ripe fruit, almost grazing the ground. A violent shudder races through my whole body. I arch harder without meaning to, pushing my hips back, as though I’m already waiting for what comes next.

God… Adeline. I really am her here. That fucking Adeline. And back there, in the church, my parents are sitting in the pews, probably in absolute shock that their “sweet little daughter” suddenly bolted from the altar and tore off down the street in her white dress like a madwoman. Mom’s surely got her hand pressed to her mouth, eyes swimming, whispering “Lord, what’s wrong with her?”, while Dad sits there like stone, fists clenched on his knees, thinking: “This is all Marco’s fault, that son of a bitch did something to my girl.”

And me… I’m here in this alley on all fours, ass in the air, panties cutting so deep into the cleft that every breath sends a throb straight through what used to be—fuck—my clit. My tits hang and swing heavily, nipples scraping the rough cobblestones through the lace, sending shivers racing up my spine and making my hips twitch in tiny, involuntary up-and-down jerks. I don’t want this. I don’t want to believe any of it is real.

— A… Adeline?.. — Marco’s voice comes from right behind me, so close the skin on my back instantly prickles with cold.

Fuck! He… he’s seeing my bare ass right now?!

It’s like lightning shoots through me, but I can’t move. I just clench my cheeks so hard I could probably crack a walnut between them. Eyes screwed shut like I could will myself out of existence. My lace-gloved fingers curl into useless little fists, those long fake nails scraping faintly against the stone.

Shit. Shit shit shit! What kind of nightmare is this?!

And still I hear his step behind my upturned ass. Soft, deliberate, like he’s walking across the shredded remains of whatever was left of my male pride, grinding it smaller with every second.

— Sweetheart?..

He says it quieter this time, and somehow that gentle word hits even harder; goosebumps explode across my whole body. Sweetheart. God damn you.

— Did you… fall? Are you… hurt?

For fuck’s sake, just leave me alone!!!

But the words won’t come out. Instead I swallow the thick knot of panic and shame lodged in my throat, and—slowly, like some rusted old machine—I turn my head to the side.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him towering over me in the narrow alley. That’s enough. I snap my face forward again and, with a sharp jerk, shift my position: knees slam together, squeezing the heavy, soft globes of my breasts between them in a desperate, ridiculous attempt to hide them.

The corset instantly retaliates, crushing inward, biting into tender skin, forcing a low, helpless, unmistakably feminine whimper out of me.

God… is this really happening? Is this actually my life now?!