puppy

Looking down, you warily regard the black harsh material as the weight settles down onto your hips and upper body. All the other boys in this class are in similar situations, most of their simulated weights smaller than yours, and are now laughing about how silly you all look. You join them, shaking off the slight pang of dysphoria as the heavy simulated breasts press down on your chest.

Fifteen awkward minutes of waddling around with your classmates passes pretty quickly and you’re just about at your limit of carrying all this weight before your back really starts to hurt. You all shuffle to the front, ready to get un-velcro-ed and slip out of the fake bellies.

The instructor meets your eyes and his expression changes in alarm.

“Woah! Slow down there, don’t want to kick anything off prematurely!” his eyebrows crease further with worry, “Didn’t I tell you to skip this class period? No need to reiterate things you’re probably plenty familiar with.”

He trails off with a laugh like he’s saying some kind of inside joke. You can only stare at him in confusion.

“What? I don’t really get it, if that’s some kind of weird…” it’s your turn to trail off, as your hands reach to start dismantling the complicated vest holding the weight tight to your body.

What you expect to meet is rough polyester but what you find is the soft cotton of your hoodie. Confusion building, you trace along the hoodie pocket down to where it slips over the simulated belly. You could have sworn that the bump was on over your hoodie…?

Your hands grab the fabric’s edge and start peeling it up where it sits tight over the fake belly. As you work it over the midpoint, it suddenly springs up, pulled by tension and snagging on something that makes you jump.

Your hands now rest on a smooth expanse of… warm skin? With angry red stretch marks? Your heart sinks as you register the feeling with the tips of your fingers and along the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen.

Shifting upwards you can feel what your hoodie snagged on moments ago, your obscenely popped out belly button. A shudder runs through you at the foreign sensation that goes straight to between your legs.

“Seems like you’re due to size up,” your professor remarks, grinning and moving to help the other boys remove their still-fake bellies, “and forgive my phrasing, no pun intended!”

The horror in you grows as your hands move up further still, trailing up over where your hoodie is bunched over the fake-now-real belly hanging off of you.

Your hands graze the underside of the previously fake breasts, and the shock of arousal shoots through you again, this time edged with uncomfortable near-pain. You cup what feels like porn star tits and press inwards to yourself, internally pleading that this isn’t happening. You feel the long-forgotten sensation of breasts attached to you, much larger than you’d ever experienced and further amplifying the discomfort and pressure building in you.

“No, no, no, no,” you mumble, staggering back into a desk, changing course, and then waddling as fast as you can to exit the classroom.

“Hopefully see you next class!” you hear behind you from your professor, an afterthought in the maelstrom of your thoughts.

Each step to bring you to the bathroom was just as heavy as the prior 15 minutes, but now you can more intimately feel the recoil of your boobs and belly. You realize that your entire lower body seems to jiggle and rub in a completely unfamiliar way, coated in baby fat.

You’re completely overtaken by panic by the time you reach the closest men’s bathroom, leaning over the sink and breathing rapidly. You’re sweating like crazy, and look unaccountably exhausted. Significantly more than you should be for the 90 or so seconds of frantically shuffling to the bathroom.

Hesitantly looking up, you see your body in the mirror, horrifically confirming what’s happened.

Your belly is just as big and heavy as the simulation had been, and painted shades of pink, red, and purple by markings and veins. The skin is strained and the mass of you is larger than it should be, with the information you’d just learned in class. You’re far beyond overdue. What you can see beyond the expanse of swollen gut shows your flanks in a similar state. They’re plumped out farther than you can ever remember them being and also covered in stretch marks.

Catching and holding your breath, your eyes move up to where your hoodie sits atop your heaving belly. You need to confirm that this is real, and so you grab the edge of your hoodie once more and drag it upwards.

Your huge breasts spring out from under the fabric, areolas dominating the front with thick, swollen nipples jutting painfully in the center. They’re dark and irritated looking, and as your hoodie settles back down below your neck, you can see why.

The pressure building comes to a head and bursts out of you, milk dribbling from each nipple. In a mortified effort to stop this nightmare you slap your hands down over them, sending milk spraying into the mirror, as white hot arousal almost brings you to your knees.

Clutching your milky tits, you teeter back into an empty stall, collapsing backward onto a (thankfully closed) toilet, the door swinging shut in front of you.

You sit there miserably, the sensation of your fat thighs squishing out and supporting your fecund gut. Lowering your head only succeeds in squeezing your heavy breasts between your face and your lap full of belly. This sends another cascade of milk dribbling down your front and sides.

You can feel yourself start to cry. How could this happen, why are you so enormous? Is this real?

Fitfully, you wrap your arms around yourself, much less effectively than normal due to your added girth.