Titled

After a while it started to feel...tight. A little pressure around the waist. Some shortness of breath, barely noticeable unless you had to run between offices. And of course, just a tiny bit more cleavage. Must have shrunk a little in the wash, right? No big deal. With only one set of outfits offered per year, it was better to stick with them through a little oddness, even if it was strange how each piece seemed affected the exact same way.

So you kept telling yourself, even as it got a little worse with every passing day, until one morning you looked in the mirror and instead of breasts you had tits.

They hadn't grown, per se, but what you were seeing was definitely not on the right side of professional. In some tops they were practically spilling out, in others outlined a little too well, in a couple pushed up and together in a way that made them look entirely too fuckable, but in all of them the sort of obscene that seemed like it'd make you hard to take seriously.

Having spent too long shuffling through outfits to find one that didn't make you look like a sexy parody of yourself, you had no choice but to hustle out the door, trying your best to ignore the heaving.

It was less than thirty minutes before you were called into your boss's office.

"Surely you must realise that this is unacceptable," she says, gesturing at your...everything.

"I-"

"I don't want to hear it. We go to all the trouble of getting a whole wardrobe custom-made for you, and this is what you do? Cinch it up to show off those tits of yours?"

"But-"

"Quiet! It's always the same with you new hires. We give you an inch and you take..."

She pauses, staring emphatically at the sinful amount of cleavage you're putting on display.

"...a mile. Well, unfortunately for you, we have ways to remedy the situation."

She hands you a pair of what look like the detached half-cups of the bra you're wearing.

"Put these over your tits and maybe you'll stop giving every client who walks in the impression that we hire shameless sluts, hm? Five minutes."

With that, she walks out of the office and closes the door behind her. She doesn't bother to lock it.

Flustered, you quickly free your tits (that's what they are, aren't they?) and try placing the half-cups over them. Nothing happens at first, but then there's an odd sort of hum and they suddenly shrink. You don't feel any compression, but with the five minutes almost up you hurriedly stuff yourself back into your blouse just in time for the door to open again.

It's one of your coworkers. "Boss says time's up!" he laughs. "C'mon, that'll have to do, our team meeting is about to start."

You hurry down the hall after him, suddenly self-conscious and trying not to think about the amount of heaving that's still happening.

As you take your seat, your boss looks you up and down with narrowed eyes before turning away without a word. She opens the meeting's agenda, but you're only half paying attention; the suddenness of the whole thing has you rattled and even with the weird devices you still feel a lot closer to the wrong side of professional than you did last week.

Something brushes your nipple. You manage to keep from letting out a squeak, but the sudden jump in your seat still makes everyone turn to look at you.

"Ah, sorry! Please continue..."

Your boss gives you another Look before turning back to the projector. The second brush comes as less of a surprise, but that only lets you better take in the absurdity of the situation; was there something in those things she made you wear? No, there can't have been. They were perfectly smooth and even now the fit seems so snug that there wouldn't be any room.

You're still trying to puzzle it out when you're asked somewhat condescendingly for your update. Just as you stand to address the room there's a sharp tug that causes you to stumble forward, followed by the unmistakable sensation of licking.

Doing your best to ignore the snickering you stutter your way quickly through your report, one of your verbal hiccups turning into something close enough to a moan that your face flushes. You sit back down, a little unsteady but glad to no longer be the center of attention.

A few agonizingly, deliciously slow minutes pass, and when you manage to avoid attracting any more attention you start to think maybe you'll be able to get out of this (whatever it is) with some measure of pride intact.

There's another tug, sharper than before. You lurch forward onto the table, your tits displayed prominently against the hard surface.

Your boss turns to your co-worker. "Deal with her," she says curtly, and he escorts you firmly out of the room and back to her office. There's kissing and sucking on your shouldn't-be-exposed flesh the whole way.

He closes the door. It's locked, this time.

"Couldn't resist, huh?" he grins at you, taking a step forward. You try to cover your tits with your arms, but the sensations don't stop and he just laughs.

"Hey, I'm not doing anything," he says easily. "You're the one who keeps sharin' the goods with anyone who cares to look, aren'tcha?"

"N-no!" You stutter. It sounds unconvincing even to you, turning into a gasp halfway through as the distinct pinch of a clamp closes around both nipples at once. God, is that a chain between them? You shake your head and keep going, doing your best to avoid eye contact. "It was...m-my clothes, they..."

"...were perfectly tailored to you, yeah? Sure doesn't look like it now, does it, slut?"

You try to give him a reproachful look, but another gasp turns it into something more simpering. He laughs again.

"Well what else should I call someone who ruins a perfectly good set of custom work clothes to show themselves off to everyone?"

"I d-didn't! They, they changed shape or something, and then she brought me in here and put these things on me and-"

He takes two deliberate steps towards your boss's table and knocks on it five times. You have a brief moment to wonder dazedly why he's tapping out "shave and a haircut" before it's repeated in a series of pulls on what's apparently your nipple chain. The last one is so much stronger that you let out a full on yelp and stumble to your knees.

He crosses the room in unhurried strides, placing a hand gently but firmly on your head as you struggle to rise.

"What, you don't think we do social media checks on our new hires?" he says with an audible smirk. "Yeah, the boss told me aaaaaaall about you..."

The implications don't even have time to sink in before he reaches down and shoves on one of your tits, the device attached to it reshaping seamlessly to flatten itself against your chest. There's a weird bobbing sensation that distracts you for long enough for him to do the same to the other one.

Almost immediately, the clamps come off and are replaced by a rhythmic, mechanical suction. The change in stimulus finally forces an unambiguous moan out of you, and the only thing that stops you from dropping onto all fours is your face burying itself into his crotch.

You jerk backward, his warmth and size lingering on your cheek. He laughs.

"Don't worry, slut," he says in that condescending voice, circling you with measured steps. "We'll get you a loaner pair."

He chuckles again as he reaches into your top from behind, placing one hand on each of the devices. With a pull and a squeeze your bra fills out again...but you can't feel anything.

Well, not from what's currently hanging off your chest, anyway. If anything, the sucking is getting stronger.

You take several seconds to catch up to reality. You reach into your blouse tentatively; your finger registers the sensation you expect, but the flesh you touched doesn't. You reach down to where the nipple should be, trying your best to reconcile the conflicting messages your eyes and nerves are giving you.

Your hand brushes over something swollen and puffy...then the cold metal of a piercing. You jerk your arm up in surprise. There's milk on your fingertips.

"Done groping yourself, then?" your coworker says smugly. He's in front of you again, openly leering at...whatever these are.

"...they aren't mine!"

"They're on your chest."

"T-they're pierced! And...and leaking!"

"They're from the future," he says with an uncharacteristically straight face. It's the last straw; of all the absurdity that's taken place, the fact of having to seriously consider time-travelling udders being attached to you (with the milk to prove it) brings the rest of it crashing in all at once.

Where are your tits? What are they doing to them? What are they going to do to them? What's filling your bra? Is this really what's going to happen to you? What was the deal with all your clothes in the first place???

He watches as half-baked theories and disbelief chase each other through your mind for a few seconds...then bursts out laughing again, because of course he does.

You're almost to annoyed when the sudden removal of the suction jolts your thoughts again.

"Alright, we've spent enough time in here. Back to work!" he says jovially, as though the two of you were just finishing up a friendly chat. He unlocks the door, opens it, and gestures you through; you hesitate, uncertain, but what else are you supposed to do? Maybe if their attention drifts away from you for long enough you can find a way out of this mess.

You walk over to your cubicle, everything seeming incongruously normal even as you feel his eyes on you the whole way.

The instant you're out of sight, the pressure around your waist suddenly increases. You let out a little gasp, then poke your head back out; he looks like he's chuckling at something on his phone. He looks up and sees you, but his thumb stays on the screen; your impromptu corset loosens again, but it's still a bit tighter than before.

He gives you a wave and a grin. You duck back into the relative privacy of your allotted four beige walls and sit down, wondering what to do next.

There's a pamphlet on your desk that wasn't there before.

The exterior gives away nothing about its contents, but with how your day's been going they can't be anything good. You reach out and open it up.

It's a Morse code reference.

What?

There's a sudden short tug on one of your nipples, followed by two long tugs on the other one.

...oh they cannot be serious.

Three long tugs. You guess they are.

You collapse back into your chair and start giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. It turns quickly into gasping, between the tightness around your waist and the continued pulling; short, long, short, then a break, then long, short, long.

Then a sudden shock that makes you jump.

Then they start over.

You hurriedly bend forward, grabbing a pen and marking the letters. W...then O...then R...oh, it's "work"! Your victory is short-lived as another jolt runs through your tits.

With no other options presenting themselves, you quickly log into your computer and open up the document you were working on yesterday. The pulling is replaced by gentle vibrating (though not so gentle you don't have to worry about moaning again), and there are no more shocks.

You breathe a sigh of relief, leaning back and closing your eyes for a moment.

A sudden hot sensation pulls your eyes open. Are they dripping wax on you?? You raise your arms over your chest protectively, but of course it does nothing. Your fingers find the keyboard again and the burning drops cut out immediately.

Hands trembling only a little, you get to work.

The vibrations are distracting, but not overly so; it fades into a constant background hum as you focus on your daily tasks. You're surprised at how easy it is to fall back on routine, even with how...nonstandard your morning has been. An hour passes, then two, and the lack of further disruptions begins to lull you into a sense of security.

"Got lunch for ya!" your coworker grins around the cubicle wall, a tray in his hands. You turn around with some trepidation, but when no punishment is forthcoming you head over to take it from him. You half expect to be made to drop it, or for him to do something to you, but he just waves off your distracted thanks and saunters away.

You eat slowly (the cafeteria food here is worth savouring; another one of their strangely generous perks), but even after taking a quick break to get some cold water nothing changes. Not wanting to push it, you get back to work without dallying too much longer.

The computer won't log on.

You let out a soft laugh. Really? Today, of all days? You turn to pick up the phone and dial the IT department, hoping this still counts as "work".

You haven't had to do this before, but it seems like they're taking a while to pick up. The hold music is a weird sort of buzzing drone, but there's a definite melody to it that's surprisingly pleasant. You can feel your body start to heat up; you'd been so focused on your workday that you hadn't realised how wet the constant stimulation was making you.

Your left hand starts to wander down your body, slipping into the waistband of your skirt...your fingertips brush against your swollen clit...you let out a low moan into the receiver as you start to rub...

"Good girl," says a voice on the other end. You don't recognise it. You note with dull amusement that you've finally stopped jumping every time something new happens, but the thought is quickly washed away by the waves of pleasure spreading across your body.

You're openly masturbating at your desk now, but you can't bring yourself to care. The vibrating has stopped and your tits are being groped and kneaded as something warm and hard slides between them, but at this point it just makes you even hornier. You dip two fingers into yourself, then three, your hand working frantically as you lose yourself in bliss...

A dial tone suddenly plays through the receiver and this time you do jump a little, the headset clattering to the table as you drop it in surprise. You look down and see "your" udders spilling out of your bra, one pressed lewdly against your blouse, the other hanging out of it entirely, both staining it with milk. The heart-shaped piece of metal surrounding and piercing the nipple in front of you confuses you for a moment, but you quickly compose yourself enough to stuff the udders back into your bra and make yourself...if not decent, then at least a little less indecent.

Your lust-addled brain finally puts together that your tits are obviously being fucked. You try to cover them again, and when it doesn't work you can almost hear your coworker's laugh ringing in your ears.

Wait, you can hear it. Distant and tinny, like it's coming through a speaker, but at this point it's unmistakable.

You hurriedly sit up straight, putting the phone back in place and turning to your computer. You log in without thinking, but you barely have time to be surprised that it worked before there's a knock on your cubicle.

She leans over you to read, her own tastefully-covered breasts a stark contrast to the milky udders you're currently sporting but no less distracting for it when pressed against your shoulder. You struggle not to squirm as she reaches down to page through the file, your clit seeming to throb sympathetically with every touch of her deft finger on the scroll wheel. She must know everything, right? What is she even...

Your thoughts are interrupted by a noise of approval from far too close to your ear. "This is good work," she says as much to herself and the phone as you. "You owe me twenty bucks, Craig."

Familiar laughter emerges from the phone before your boss cuts it off with a jab of her thumb, just a little too slowly to stop you from hearing it turn into a soft groan. Something warm splatters across your tits as your boss spins your chair around, looking down at your flushed face with a blank expression.

She looks casually down at her phone and taps a few times. There's another low hum and suddenly your tits are back, nipples red and sore, covered predictably in cum and a few drops of red wax.

You can't even bring yourself to be shocked or surprised anymore; you just stare down at them, almost as disoriented by the lack of sensation as you were by its constant presence for the last several hours.

She swipes a couple times, not even bothering to look up, and with another tap you can feel your panties rubbing themselves against you. The sudden sensation startles you into a gasp, even as soft as it is, with another following shortly after as your blouse firms up unnaturally to put your cum-covered cleavage on full display.

"I'll still need to make a few adjustments, though."

"T-to what?"

"The document, dear," she says, raising an eyebrow. "What else?"

You go to stand up, but she pushes you back down with a hand on your collarbone. "No need for that," she says, reaching over you again to press the arrow on the side of the desk. It whirs upwards, far too slowly given that your face is now buried in her breasts, and when it's at standing height she straightens up and begins working.

You sit there dumbly for a few moments, still trying to adjust to the feeling of fabric rubbing against your clit when she taps one shoe against your chair and it practically rockets out from under you.

After a short fall backwards you find yourself sitting under the desk, staring up your boss's skirt. Its work-appropriate length does little to obscure her underwear; she's practically standing right above you now, still typing away.

It seems...familiar. Have you seen them somewhere before?

There's a low hum, and her skirt is suddenly tented by something artificial and phallic. The pamphlet flutters gently to the floor. Your traitorous panties rub briefly against your clit three times, then pause.

You don't wait for the rest; you recognise that letter and there's only one thing she could be asking for anyway. You lean forward on your knees and straighten up under her, slipping the fake cock into your mouth before you can find out what happens when the word ends. God, are you really this well trained already?

Slowly, you start to move your head back and forth.

It's the closest to clear-headed you've been in a while, as strange as that is. You might look incredibly slutty, your tits having tumbled free to rub and press your nipples against your blouse with every bob of your head, fresh cum slowly dripping down your front, your lips wrapped obscenely around a piece of silicone as you start to relax your throat to take in more...

...clear-headed. Right. You're not being punished or teased; the strange devices are laying inert in your bra cups, and even your underwear has stopped toying with you. All that's left is the brush of fabric against your oversensitized chest as you suck off your boss's strap...

...which is surprisingly nice, come to think of it. You begin to move faster, moaning a little as the toy loosens up your throat, before remembering that your hands are free! Feeling a little silly, you reach down to finish what you started on the phone...you'll be able to think straight after that, right?

You hear a low hum, and your fingers press against something firm and unyielding.

You try to look down, but your mouth is impaled on cock.

...what?

You can feel it throbbing through your lips (are they more sensitive than usual?). There's no denying it; you're on your knees sucking dick, moaning around it, rubbing your tits against your clothes and pawing uselessly at your pussy in an attempt to get off. You try to slip your fingers into your panties, but they've conformed to your body perfectly. You reach up to rub your nipples instead, and the direct stimulation prompts a deep, throaty groan that reverberates inside you.

You start groping yourself desperately, humping against nothing and sucking faster and faster as your hands speed up. Your sense of time dims. The cock in your mouth cums down your throat, making you gasp with surprise. You reflexively begin to swallow. There's another low hum. The cock in your mouth is still hard and throbbing. Your panties ripple, giving your clit a heavenly squeeze, and it's enough to prompt another long, slutty, cock-muffled moan.

You're too far gone to make sense of it anymore; all you can register is that getting her off makes you feel good, so you stop sucking and start giving head. You bring up one hand to stroke the base of her shaft, the feel of her panties behind the dick you're pleasuring completely failing to seem odd. You swirl your tongue around the tip. You touch your nose to her crotch before releasing her dick with a lewd pop and a gasp.

You dive back in immediately, kissing the tip before swallowing it and feeling precum leak into your mouth. You work the shaft from different angles, dipping it into your throat and moaning around it as you squeeze your tits through your sluttily half-open blouse. Cum floods your throat again. You hump desperately as your clit is teased. It only makes you more cock-hungry.

Your surroundings fall away. You bob your head and work your hands to earn load after load, moaning shamelessly as you're rewarded. You reach down as another orgasm is poured into you and find that you can rub yourself through your panties while they're stimulating you. It sends you into a frenzy, your fingertips practically flying to your crotch every time. Reality shrinks down to the next cock, the next reward, and the frantic nipple play in between.

There's a low hum, and the cock disappears. She turns around and walks briskly away, leaving you staring vacantly at the back of her skirt, still on your knees with your tits hanging out.

She pauses at the cubicle's exit without turning. "Get yourself cleaned up," she says before rounding the wall and disappearing out of sight.

After a while it started to feel...tight. A little pressure around the waist. Some shortness of breath, barely noticeable unless you had to run between offices. And of course, just a tiny bit more cleavage. Must have shrunk a little in the wash, right? No big deal. With only one set of outfits offered per year, it was better to stick with them through a little oddness, even if it was strange how each piece seemed affected the exact same way.

So you kept telling yourself, even as it got a little worse with every passing day, until one morning you looked in the mirror and instead of breasts you had tits.

They hadn't grown, per se, but what you were seeing was definitely not on the right side of professional. In some tops they were practically spilling out, in others outlined a little too well, in a couple pushed up and together in a way that made them look entirely too fuckable, but in all of them the sort of obscene that seemed like it'd make you hard to take seriously.

Having spent too long shuffling through outfits to find one that didn't make you look like a sexy parody of yourself, you had no choice but to hustle out the door, trying your best to ignore the heaving.

It was less than thirty minutes before you were called into your boss's office.

"Surely you must realise that this is unacceptable," she says, gesturing at your...everything.

"I-"

"I don't want to hear it. We go to all the trouble of getting a whole wardrobe custom-made for you, and this is what you do? Cinch it up to show off those tits of yours?"

"But-"

"Quiet! It's always the same with you new hires. We give you an inch and you take..."

She pauses, staring emphatically at the sinful amount of cleavage you're putting on display.

"...a mile. Well, unfortunately for you, we have ways to remedy the situation."

She hands you a pair of what look like the detached half-cups of the bra you're wearing.

"Put these over your tits and maybe you'll stop giving every client who walks in the impression that we hire shameless sluts, hm? Five minutes."

With that, she walks out of the office and closes the door behind her. She doesn't bother to lock it.

Flustered, you quickly free your tits (that's what they are, aren't they?) and try placing the half-cups over them. Nothing happens at first, but then there's an odd sort of hum and they suddenly shrink. You don't feel any compression, but with the five minutes almost up you hurriedly stuff yourself back into your blouse just in time for the door to open again.

It's one of your coworkers. "Boss says time's up!" he laughs. "C'mon, that'll have to do, our team meeting is about to start."

You hurry down the hall after him, suddenly self-conscious and trying not to think about the amount of heaving that's still happening.

As you take your seat, your boss looks you up and down with narrowed eyes before turning away without a word. She opens the meeting's agenda, but you're only half paying attention; the suddenness of the whole thing has you rattled and even with the weird devices you still feel a lot closer to the wrong side of professional than you did last week.

Something brushes your nipple. You manage to keep from letting out a squeak, but the sudden jump in your seat still makes everyone turn to look at you.

"Ah, sorry! Please continue..."

Your boss gives you another Look before turning back to the projector. The second brush comes as less of a surprise, but that only lets you better take in the absurdity of the situation; was there something in those things she made you wear? No, there can't have been. They were perfectly smooth and even now the fit seems so snug that there wouldn't be any room.

You're still trying to puzzle it out when you're asked somewhat condescendingly for your update. Just as you stand to address the room there's a sharp tug that causes you to stumble forward, followed by the unmistakable sensation of licking.

Doing your best to ignore the snickering you stutter your way quickly through your report, one of your verbal hiccups turning into something close enough to a moan that your face flushes. You sit back down, a little unsteady but glad to no longer be the center of attention.

A few agonizingly, deliciously slow minutes pass, and when you manage to avoid attracting any more attention you start to think maybe you'll be able to get out of this (whatever it is) with some measure of pride intact.

There's another tug, sharper than before. You lurch forward onto the table, your tits displayed prominently against the hard surface.

Your boss turns to your co-worker. "Deal with her," she says curtly, and he escorts you firmly out of the room and back to her office. There's kissing and sucking on your shouldn't-be-exposed flesh the whole way.

He closes the door. It's locked, this time.

"Couldn't resist, huh?" he grins at you, taking a step forward. You try to cover your tits with your arms, but the sensations don't stop and he just laughs.

"Hey, I'm not doing anything," he says easily. "You're the one who keeps sharin' the goods with anyone who cares to look, aren'tcha?"

"N-no!" You stutter. It sounds unconvincing even to you, turning into a gasp halfway through as the distinct pinch of a clamp closes around both nipples at once. God, is that a chain between them? You shake your head and keep going, doing your best to avoid eye contact. "It was...m-my clothes, they..."

"...were perfectly tailored to you, yeah? Sure doesn't look like it now, does it, slut?"

You try to give him a reproachful look, but another gasp turns it into something more simpering. He laughs again.

"Well what else should I call someone who ruins a perfectly good set of custom work clothes to show themselves off to everyone?"

"I d-didn't! They, they changed shape or something, and then she brought me in here and put these things on me and-"

He takes two deliberate steps towards your boss's table and knocks on it five times. You have a brief moment to wonder dazedly why he's tapping out "shave and a haircut" before it's repeated in a series of pulls on what's apparently your nipple chain. The last one is so much stronger that you let out a full on yelp and stumble to your knees.

He crosses the room in unhurried strides, placing a hand gently but firmly on your head as you struggle to rise.

"What, you don't think we do social media checks on our new hires?" he says with an audible smirk. "Yeah, the boss told me aaaaaaall about you..."

The implications don't even have time to sink in before he reaches down and shoves on one of your tits, the device attached to it reshaping seamlessly to flatten itself against your chest. There's a weird bobbing sensation that distracts you for long enough for him to do the same to the other one.

Almost immediately, the clamps come off and are replaced by a rhythmic, mechanical suction. The change in stimulus finally forces an unambiguous moan out of you, and the only thing that stops you from dropping onto all fours is your face burying itself into his crotch.

You jerk backward, his warmth and size lingering on your cheek. He laughs.

"Don't worry, slut," he says in that condescending voice, circling you with measured steps. "We'll get you a loaner pair."

He chuckles again as he reaches into your top from behind, placing one hand on each of the devices. With a pull and a squeeze your bra fills out again...but you can't feel anything.

Well, not from what's currently hanging off your chest, anyway. If anything, the sucking is getting stronger.

You take several seconds to catch up to reality. You reach into your blouse tentatively; your finger registers the sensation you expect, but the flesh you touched doesn't. You reach down to where the nipple should be, trying your best to reconcile the conflicting messages your eyes and nerves are giving you.

Your hand brushes over something swollen and puffy...then the cold metal of a piercing. You jerk your arm up in surprise. There's milk on your fingertips.

"Done groping yourself, then?" your coworker says smugly. He's in front of you again, openly leering at...whatever these are.

"...they aren't mine!"

"They're on your chest."

"T-they're pierced! And...and leaking!"

"They're from the future," he says with an uncharacteristically straight face. It's the last straw; of all the absurdity that's taken place, the fact of having to seriously consider time-travelling udders being attached to you (with the milk to prove it) brings the rest of it crashing in all at once.

Where are your tits? What are they doing to them? What are they going to do to them? What's filling your bra? Is this really what's going to happen to you? What was the deal with all your clothes in the first place???

He watches as half-baked theories and disbelief chase each other through your mind for a few seconds...then bursts out laughing again, because of course he does.

You're almost to annoyed when the sudden removal of the suction jolts your thoughts again.

"Alright, we've spent enough time in here. Back to work!" he says jovially, as though the two of you were just finishing up a friendly chat. He unlocks the door, opens it, and gestures you through; you hesitate, uncertain, but what else are you supposed to do? Maybe if their attention drifts away from you for long enough you can find a way out of this mess.

You walk over to your cubicle, everything seeming incongruously normal even as you feel his eyes on you the whole way.

The instant you're out of sight, the pressure around your waist suddenly increases. You let out a little gasp, then poke your head back out; he looks like he's chuckling at something on his phone. He looks up and sees you, but his thumb stays on the screen; your impromptu corset loosens again, but it's still a bit tighter than before.

He gives you a wave and a grin. You duck back into the relative privacy of your allotted four beige walls and sit down, wondering what to do next.

There's a pamphlet on your desk that wasn't there before.

The exterior gives away nothing about its contents, but with how your day's been going they can't be anything good. You reach out and open it up.

It's a Morse code reference.

What?

There's a sudden short tug on one of your nipples, followed by two long tugs on the other one.

...oh they cannot be serious.

Three long tugs. You guess they are.

You collapse back into your chair and start giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. It turns quickly into gasping, between the tightness around your waist and the continued pulling; short, long, short, then a break, then long, short, long.

Then a sudden shock that makes you jump.

Then they start over.

You hurriedly bend forward, grabbing a pen and marking the letters. W...then O...then R...oh, it's "work"! Your victory is short-lived as another jolt runs through your tits.

With no other options presenting themselves, you quickly log into your computer and open up the document you were working on yesterday. The pulling is replaced by gentle vibrating (though not so gentle you don't have to worry about moaning again), and there are no more shocks.

You breathe a sigh of relief, leaning back and closing your eyes for a moment.

A sudden hot sensation pulls your eyes open. Are they dripping wax on you?? You raise your arms over your chest protectively, but of course it does nothing. Your fingers find the keyboard again and the burning drops cut out immediately.

Hands trembling only a little, you get to work.

The vibrations are distracting, but not overly so; it fades into a constant background hum as you focus on your daily tasks. You're surprised at how easy it is to fall back on routine, even with how...nonstandard your morning has been. An hour passes, then two, and the lack of further disruptions begins to lull you into a sense of security.

"Got lunch for ya!" your coworker grins around the cubicle wall, a tray in his hands. You turn around with some trepidation, but when no punishment is forthcoming you head over to take it from him. You half expect to be made to drop it, or for him to do something to you, but he just waves off your distracted thanks and saunters away.

You eat slowly (the cafeteria food here is worth savouring; another one of their strangely generous perks), but even after taking a quick break to get some cold water nothing changes. Not wanting to push it, you get back to work without dallying too much longer.

The computer won't log on.

You let out a soft laugh. Really? Today, of all days? You turn to pick up the phone and dial the IT department, hoping this still counts as "work".

You haven't had to do this before, but it seems like they're taking a while to pick up. The hold music is a weird sort of buzzing drone, but there's a definite melody to it that's surprisingly pleasant. You can feel your body start to heat up; you'd been so focused on your workday that you hadn't realised how wet the constant stimulation was making you.

Your left hand starts to wander down your body, slipping into the waistband of your skirt...your fingertips brush against your swollen clit...you let out a low moan into the receiver as you start to rub...

"Good girl," says a voice on the other end. You don't recognise it. You note with dull amusement that you've finally stopped jumping every time something new happens, but the thought is quickly washed away by the waves of pleasure spreading across your body.

You're openly masturbating at your desk now, but you can't bring yourself to care. The vibrating has stopped and your tits are being groped and kneaded as something warm and hard slides between them, but at this point it just makes you even hornier. You dip two fingers into yourself, then three, your hand working frantically as you lose yourself in bliss...

A dial tone suddenly plays through the receiver and this time you do jump a little, the headset clattering to the table as you drop it in surprise. You look down and see "your" udders spilling out of your bra, one pressed lewdly against your blouse, the other hanging out of it entirely, both staining it with milk. The heart-shaped piece of metal surrounding and piercing the nipple in front of you confuses you for a moment, but you quickly compose yourself enough to stuff the udders back into your bra and make yourself...if not decent, then at least a little less indecent.

Your lust-addled brain finally puts together that your tits are obviously being fucked. You try to cover them again, and when it doesn't work you can almost hear your coworker's laugh ringing in your ears.

Wait, you can hear it. Distant and tinny, like it's coming through a speaker, but at this point it's unmistakable.

You hurriedly sit up straight, putting the phone back in place and turning to your computer. You log in without thinking, but you barely have time to be surprised that it worked before there's a knock on your cubicle.

After a while it started to feel...tight. A little pressure around the waist. Some shortness of breath, barely noticeable unless you had to run between offices. And of course, just a tiny bit more cleavage. Must have shrunk a little in the wash, right? No big deal. With only one set of outfits offered per year, it was better to stick with them through a little oddness, even if it was strange how each piece seemed affected the exact same way.

So you kept telling yourself, even as it got a little worse with every passing day, until one morning you looked in the mirror and instead of breasts you had tits.

They hadn't grown, per se, but what you were seeing was definitely not on the right side of professional. In some tops they were practically spilling out, in others outlined a little too well, in a couple pushed up and together in a way that made them look entirely too fuckable, but in all of them the sort of obscene that seemed like it'd make you hard to take seriously.

Having spent too long shuffling through outfits to find one that didn't make you look like a sexy parody of yourself, you had no choice but to hustle out the door, trying your best to ignore the heaving.

It was less than thirty minutes before you were called into your boss's office.

"Surely you must realise that this is unacceptable," she says, gesturing at your...everything.

"I-"

"I don't want to hear it. We go to all the trouble of getting a whole wardrobe custom-made for you, and this is what you do? Cinch it up to show off those tits of yours?"

"But-"

"Quiet! It's always the same with you new hires. We give you an inch and you take..."

She pauses, staring emphatically at the sinful amount of cleavage you're putting on display.

"...a mile. Well, unfortunately for you, we have ways to remedy the situation."

She hands you a pair of what look like the detached half-cups of the bra you're wearing.

"Put these over your tits and maybe you'll stop giving every client who walks in the impression that we hire shameless sluts, hm? Five minutes."

With that, she walks out of the office and closes the door behind her. She doesn't bother to lock it.

Flustered, you quickly free your tits (that's what they are, aren't they?) and try placing the half-cups over them. Nothing happens at first, but then there's an odd sort of hum and they suddenly shrink. You don't feel any compression, but with the five minutes almost up you hurriedly stuff yourself back into your blouse just in time for the door to open again.

It's one of your coworkers. "Boss says time's up!" he laughs. "C'mon, that'll have to do, our team meeting is about to start."

You hurry down the hall after him, suddenly self-conscious and trying not to think about the amount of heaving that's still happening.

As you take your seat, your boss looks you up and down with narrowed eyes before turning away without a word. She opens the meeting's agenda, but you're only half paying attention; the suddenness of the whole thing has you rattled and even with the weird devices you still feel a lot closer to the wrong side of professional than you did last week.

Something brushes your nipple. You manage to keep from letting out a squeak, but the sudden jump in your seat still makes everyone turn to look at you.

"Ah, sorry! Please continue..."

Your boss gives you another Look before turning back to the projector. The second brush comes as less of a surprise, but that only lets you better take in the absurdity of the situation; was there something in those things she made you wear? No, there can't have been. They were perfectly smooth and even now the fit seems so snug that there wouldn't be any room.

You're still trying to puzzle it out when you're asked somewhat condescendingly for your update. Just as you stand to address the room there's a sharp tug that causes you to stumble forward, followed by the unmistakable sensation of licking.

Doing your best to ignore the snickering you stutter your way quickly through your report, one of your verbal hiccups turning into something close enough to a moan that your face flushes. You sit back down, a little unsteady but glad to no longer be the center of attention.

A few agonizingly, deliciously slow minutes pass, and when you manage to avoid attracting any more attention you start to think maybe you'll be able to get out of this (whatever it is) with some measure of pride intact.

There's another tug, sharper than before. You lurch forward onto the table, your tits displayed prominently against the hard surface.

Your boss turns to your co-worker. "Deal with her," she says curtly, and he escorts you firmly out of the room and back to her office. There's kissing and sucking on your shouldn't-be-exposed flesh the whole way.

He closes the door. It's locked, this time.

"Couldn't resist, huh?" he grins at you, taking a step forward. You try to cover your tits with your arms, but the sensations don't stop and he just laughs.

"Hey, I'm not doing anything," he says easily. "You're the one who keeps sharin' the goods with anyone who cares to look, aren'tcha?"

"N-no!" You stutter. It sounds unconvincing even to you, turning into a gasp halfway through as the distinct pinch of a clamp closes around both nipples at once. God, is that a chain between them? You shake your head and keep going, doing your best to avoid eye contact. "It was...m-my clothes, they..."

"...were perfectly tailored to you, yeah? Sure doesn't look like it now, does it, slut?"

You try to give him a reproachful look, but another gasp turns it into something more simpering. He laughs again.

"Well what else should I call someone who ruins a perfectly good set of custom work clothes to show themselves off to everyone?"

"I d-didn't! They, they changed shape or something, and then she brought me in here and put these things on me and-"

He takes two deliberate steps towards your boss's table and knocks on it five times. You have a brief moment to wonder dazedly why he's tapping out "shave and a haircut" before it's repeated in a series of pulls on what's apparently your nipple chain. The last one is so much stronger that you let out a full on yelp and stumble to your knees.

He crosses the room in unhurried strides, placing a hand gently but firmly on your head as you struggle to rise.

"What, you don't think we do social media checks on our new hires?" he says with an audible smirk. "Yeah, the boss told me aaaaaaall about you..."

The implications don't even have time to sink in before he reaches down and shoves on one of your tits, the device attached to it reshaping seamlessly to flatten itself against your chest. There's a weird bobbing sensation that distracts you for long enough for him to do the same to the other one.

Almost immediately, the clamps come off and are replaced by a rhythmic, mechanical suction. The change in stimulus finally forces an unambiguous moan out of you, and the only thing that stops you from dropping onto all fours is your face burying itself into his crotch.

You jerk backward, his warmth and size lingering on your cheek. He laughs.