Lisa is overcome by strange new feelings and desires which concern her cubicle mate and his breast obsession.
"We come to love not by finding a perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly."
I think it all started one night when I had an orgasm in my sleep.
It was the first time that had ever happened to me and it woke me up. I found myself sweaty and quivering, curled up in a ball as it coursed through my body.
What had I been dreaming about? I wondered. The threads of the dream whispered through my mind. I ran though the possibilities. Sex? Spankings? Hairy chests? I went through the list of things which I normally found exciting.
Men? That felt right. Yes, there were certainly men in my dream. Breasts? Men staring at my breasts? Suddenly, I rose to a new climax, smaller this time, but still toe-curlingly delicious. Afterwards, I spent some time massaging my chest, which, for some reason, seemed to need it.
Men, staring at my breasts ... that was new for me. I had never dreamt about that before. But there was no denying how horny it made me feel. I rolled over and drifted back to sleep.
I'm an imprint. That is, I have the imprint gene IMPT4 on chromosome 13, near BRAC2 (the breast cancer gene).
I'm not the first imprint, as it turns out. My mother is an imprint, as was her mother, and my great-grand, as are about three-quarters of my aunts, cousins, and sisters (all of my 5 siblings are girls). We are quite the object of scientific study. "A new evolutionary stage for the human species," said Time Magazine. "Where will it lead?"
Fortunately the details of my imprinting have stayed out of the tabloid press. I am merely known as "Case-7" in scientific journals. My private life is jealously guarded and none of the news media have gotten wind of who I am.
Thank goodness, for I would surely die of shame if details of my imprinting were made public.
'Complimentary Bra Fitting, ' read the sign at the local Victoria's Secret. 'Let our Bra Specialists determine your perfect fit!'
Why not? I thought, and the saleslady, Sally, was happy to help.
"You're a 36C," she informed me. "The perfect size."
"What?" I said, shocked. "C? No wait ... are you sure?"
"Uh..." she hesitated, taken aback. "Well, here, let me check again..." she ran the tape measure again twice over my chest, once above my breasts and then a second time at the fullest part.
"No... 36... 38 and three quarters ... this is correct. I mean, technically you're probably a B+, or a B++, but you're supposed to round up if you're an in-between size. Why, are you surprised?"
"I've ... it's just ... I've always been a B," I responded, still trying to wrap my head around this new development. "A small B, actually. I've never thought of myself as a C. That's just ... I just ... I just don't know what to think."
"Oh, you are so not alone. Most women don't know how to determine their size. They're always getting a band size which is too big and a cup size which is too small, trying to come to a good fit. It's totally understandable. Do you normally wear a 38 B?"
"Uh ... no, actually ... normally a 36B, sometimes even a 36A, which is why this is so ... well I don't know what it is."
"Would you like to try on a few 36 C's? I think you'll discover that they'll fit you quite comfortably."
"I ... I guess I should," I replied, letting Sally lead me deeper into the store.
Two hours later and I left the store with several new bras, a couple new sexy T's in vibrant colors, and some replacement panties. Sally was a delight.
"Oh, that fits you so well!" she said, smiling. "And the best part is, it's such a classy fabric that you can easily wear it to work."
"Work?" I shuddered, looking at how the T-shirt hugged my new 36C's. "Oh, I don't think so."
"Well..." I looked around the store, "My cubicle mate ... he stares."
"Ohhhhh..." Sally responded knowingly. "I understand. I get that sometimes."
"Doesn't it just creep you out?"
"Oh, I don't know. I mean, sure, of course it does when he's being too obvious. But if he's just checking me out, and if he's cute ... I guess I just take it as a compliment. Besides, I figure I should wear what makes me feel good, and the rest of the world will just have to deal."
"I wish I could be like that," I said, wistfully.
"You can," Sally pointed out, grinning. "Just wear that T-shirt to work. Wish granted."
"I couldn't!" I said, shocked.
"Of course you can. When you wake up tomorrow morning, open the drawer, take out that shirt and put it on. Then go to work. Easy peasy."
"I'm a C," I kept saying to myself for the rest of the day. "I've got C's".
I couldn't believe it and I couldn't help but be proud of them. My new C's. I wanted to hold them, play with them, dress them up, and look at them in the mirror - all of which I did once I got home. I even had a nice little orgasm, playing with them while imagining men ogling me.
And never, not one single time, did I ever consider that perhaps my new-found size was not simply due to some early measurement error. At no time did I think that perhaps there was another reason why I suddenly had larger breasts.
Not once did I consider that perhaps they were growing.
There has been so much wild speculation in the blogosphere about 'how to recognize an Imprint'. All I can say is, from experience, everything written about the subject is wrong, without exception.
Of course no one cares about Imprints after they've imprinted. They want to find them before, preferably right before, ignoring the fact that even if you could recognize someone who was in the process of imprinting it would already be too late.
The truth is that before imprinting I was a completely ordinary young woman. I went on dates, I broke up with boyfriends, I went to college, I got my degree in design, and then went to work as a web designer.
My only concern was to work hard, do a good job, and make something of myself. All of which just goes to show how powerful the imprint gene is, and how much it changes you.
"That's, uh, a really nice shirt," John said.
"Really? You like it?" I replied, sitting up. I felt a warm glow run through me.
John's eyes drifted lower, his gaze settling on my breasts which were clearly outlined by my new tight, turtleneck T. I could actually feel his eyes, as if they were little laser points, drifting across my chest, tracing feather light circles over my curves.
"Y-yes", he stammered, struggling to lift his eyes up. "I'm sorry!" he said quickly, turning away.
"No, no, it's okay!" I said, blushing furiously. "I shouldn't have ... I mean ... Oh, never mind."
Why did I do that? I thought to myself, angrily. Why am I wearing this shirt to work? I thought back to when I had gotten dressed this morning. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. I was so bored of wearing those ugly, baggy, office-blouses.
I have always known that John, my cubicle mate had a perverted tendency for staring. When we first met, he openly leered at my breasts until I slapped him. Yes, I actually slapped him across the face. It was harsh medicine, but it taught him quickly how to behave.
Since then, I've been wearing mostly drapey, concealing clothes with sports bras and nipple minimizers. Nothing revealing or tight. Nothing tempting or curvaceous. Nothing that would unduly draw the eye. And John has mostly behaved.
Oh sure, a couple of times he couldn't help himself, but then I would just cover my chest with my arms and glare at him, and he would utter a bashful "sorry" and then quickly turn back to work.
But what was wrong with me today?? I practically begged him to ogle me! I had thrust my boobies right out there and had enjoyed it when he looked! Hell, it even turned me on a bit.
And what was with this outfit? Wasn't it enough that my breasts were feeling tender and swollen? Did I have to put on that push-up bra from Victoria's secret and then this too-tight T-shirt? I cursed Sally for goading me into it.
I put on the cardigan I always keep at work, ignoring John's little sigh of disappointment.
Unfortunately, I hadn't counted on the air conditioning. Since our project was so far behind, John and I were forced to work late, and at 5:30 pm, like clockwork, the air-conditioning shuts down. And to make matters worse, our cubicle has five computers all pumping out heat.
I was fine until 6.
From 6 to 6:30 it was bearable.
But then I began to sweat.
"Don't think I'm doing this for you," I cautioned, taking off my cardigan.
"Of course not," John replied, his eyes drifting ... just a bit.
"Good, it's only because I'm hot," John's sudden grin made me realize my wording was unfortunate. "What I meant is, it's only because it's hot in this cubicle," I said, with a huff. "I'm not trying to show off, or undress for your benefit, or increase the level of intimacy between us, or tease you, or display my assets, or encourage you in any way..." I trailed off, realizing how ridiculous I sounded.
"Of course, of course!" John replied, "I would never think any of those things. You're just taking off your sweater."
"That's right," I said, with emphasis. "Just removing my sweater."
I turned back to my computer, relieved that I was now feeling cooler, but embarrassed by my rambling.
If only my breasts didn't feel so constricted! I rolled my shoulders, trying to get them comfortable.
.... There is more of this story ...