Chapter 2

I wake up to a strange weight pressing down on my chest, like someone’s tossed a warm, heavy blanket over me while I slept. My eyes snap open, and I glance down. Oh, right. Tits. Big, perky C-cups, still straining against my t-shirt, the fabric stretched tight over their curves. For a split second, panic jolts through me. Did I really fall asleep without swapping back? My heart thuds, but then the memories crash in like a wave: the device, the swaps, Cindy’s chest now mine. A slow, wicked grin spreads across my face. I did that. I’ve got my sister’s boobs, and no one knows but me.

I stretch my arms overhead, feeling them shift with the motion, the soft weight tugging at my skin. A thrill zips down my spine, electric and sharp. Might as well enjoy it while I’ve got them. I slide my hands up, cupping them through the thin cotton, and squeeze gently. A low groan slips out before I can stop it. They’re so soft, so fucking responsive. Every touch sends a spark straight to my dick, waking it up fast. I tease my nipples, pinching lightly through the fabric, and bite my lip hard to keep quiet. Fuck, that’s good. Too good. I could get used to this. Hell, I might already be hooked.

But I can’t just lie here fondling myself all day. I’ve got shit to do. A new game’s dropping at the mall today, a sci-fi shooter I’ve been hyped for weeks, and my controller’s been acting up, dropping inputs like it’s drunk. I need a new one. Plus, as much as I’m loving these tits right now, walking around with them all day might get old. They’re fun to play with, but the constant jiggle and weight? Not exactly practical. I need to swap back with Cindy before I head out.

I roll out of bed, and the boobs bounce with the motion, a little slap of flesh against my ribs. I wince. Okay, that’s going to take some getting used to. It’s distracting, demanding my attention like they’ve got a mind of their own. I shuffle to the bathroom, catching sight of myself in the mirror as I pass. Damn. I look ridiculous: my lean, guy frame, narrow shoulders, flat stomach, with these full, feminine mounds stretching my shirt. It’s hot in a messed-up, surreal way, but I can’t go out like this. Not without drawing stares. Or maybe I could, since reality bends to make it normal. Still, I’d rather not deal with the hassle.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to shake the fog of sleep and arousal. My chest brushes the counter. Another jolt of sensation I wasn’t ready for courses through me. I grip the porcelain, staring at my reflection. First things first: find Cindy and swap back. I dry my hands and wander downstairs, each step making my chest bounce like it’s mocking me. It’s annoying as hell, and I have to fight the urge to grab them and hold them still. The hardwood creaks under my feet, and I can’t tell if I’m imagining the extra sway in my stride.

Mom’s in the kitchen, sipping coffee at the counter. Her generous curves are tucked under a loose blouse, but even that can’t hide her figure. She glances up, smiling like it’s any other morning. “Morning, James. Sleep well?”

“Yeah, fine,” I mutter, scanning the room for Cindy. My eyes dart to the empty living room, the closed back door. “Where’s Cindy?”

“She left early. Said something about spending the day with her boyfriend.” Mom shrugs, oblivious as she swirls her mug. “Think they were heading to the lake or something.”

Shit. Of course she’s gone. My stomach twists, frustration bubbling up hot and fast. I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. I can’t exactly call her and demand she come back without sounding like a lunatic. “Hey, sis, I need to give your tits back, pronto!” Yeah, that’d go over great. I glance at Mom, sizing her up without meaning to. Her chest is even bigger—those heavy DDs would be a nightmare bouncing around all day. I imagine them on me, sagging under their own weight, and shudder. No thanks. Hard pass.

“Everything okay?” Mom asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, just forgot she was out.” I force a smile, backing toward the stairs. “Gonna head to the mall later. Need some stuff.”

“Don’t spend all your money,” she calls after me, already turning back to her coffee.

I trudge upstairs, the bounce in my step more pronounced than I’d like. Looks like I’m stuck with Cindy’s tits for now. I sigh, resigned, and flop onto my bed. The mattress jostles them again, and I groan, half irritation, half something else. Might as well get dressed and go. I can swap back when Cindy’s home later. For now, I’ve got to deal with these and grab my game and controller.

I dig through my closet, tossing aside my usual t-shirts. They’re too tight now, clinging to every curve like a spotlight. My fingers snag on an old hoodie—oversized, baggy, perfect. I pull it on, the thick fabric swallowing my frame. It helps a bit, but the chest still presses out, a subtle swell even under the layers. I zip it up to my chin, hoping it’ll minimize the jiggle. Pants are next—jeans seem safe, nothing flashy. I shimmy them on, adjusting myself in the front, and glance in the mirror. The hoodie hides most of it, but if I move wrong, the outline’s still there. Whatever. It’ll have to do.

I grab my wallet and keys, shoving them into my pockets, and head out. The walk to the bus stop is a fucking experience. Every step sends my tits bouncing, a soft, rhythmic thud against my ribs. I’m hyper-aware of them, like they’re screaming for attention. A guy passes me on the sidewalk, nodding hello, and I swear his eyes flick to my chest, but he doesn’t react. To him, it’s normal. This is my reality now, warped to fit. Still, I hunch my shoulders, trying to shrink into myself.

The bus rumbles up, and I climb aboard, finding a seat near the back. I slump down, crossing my arms over my chest. The pressure feels good, almost grounding, but it also reminds me what I’m carrying. My reflection stares back from the window: hunched, awkward, like I’m trying to disappear. It’s ridiculous. I’m a guy with boobs, and no one cares but me. The bus lurches forward, and the motion makes them shift again. I grit my teeth. This is going to be a long day.

I linger near the center of the mall, the hum of chatter and the clatter of footsteps echoing off the glossy tiles. The air conditioning blasts overhead, but it’s not enough to cut through the stifling heat trapped beneath my sweater. Sweat beads along my spine, the thick fabric clinging to my skin like a damp, suffocating shroud. With a frustrated huff, I tug the zipper down and peel the sweater off, tying it loosely around my waist. Cool air brushes my arms, a fleeting relief, until I glance down and see what I’ve unleashed.

My once-baggy t-shirt hugs my chest now, stretched tight over the swell of Cindy’s C-cups—my new, borrowed curves. They jut out, unmistakable and unrestrained, the thin cotton outlining every contour. My nipples, hypersensitive from the constant friction, stand erect, poking through the fabric like twin signals begging for attention. Heat floods my face as I cross my arms, but that only presses the shirt tighter, making the problem worse. Each step sends my breasts bouncing, a jarring, uncontrolled motion that tugs at my shoulders and sparks a dull ache in my lower back. Oh, I realize, embarrassment and revelation crashing into me at once. This is why women wear bras.

For a moment, I consider the device. My gaze darts through the crowd, landing on a petite woman browsing a storefront. Her chest is modest, barely a hint of curve beneath her blouse, her movements light and unburdened. Then I spot a guy in a loose tank top, flat and free of any jiggle. Temptation gnaws at me—swap with one of them, ditch this discomfort. But I freeze, guilt curling in my gut. If I swap, Cindy’s perfect tits might be gone forever. She wouldn’t know, sure, but I would. And one day with boobs? I can tough it out. Probably.

Resigned, I set my jaw and head toward the department store’s lingerie section, cheeks burning. The aisles loom ahead, a labyrinth of lace and satin, each rack brimming with options I’ve never dreamed of navigating. Bras dangle from hangers in every color and style—push-up, plunge, sports, sheer—and I feel utterly out of my depth. Trying to look nonchalant, I drift toward a display that seems promising, fingers brushing over tags until I find a few marked “C.” I grab a plain black bra, a lacy pink one with a flirty bow, and a stretchy gray sports bra, then make a beeline for the fitting rooms.

The unisex stalls are a godsend—no awkward explanations needed. I slip inside, lock the door, and face the triple mirrors. Setting the bras on the bench, I peel off my t-shirt, cool air kissing my skin. My reflection stares back: broad shoulders, familiar jawline, and those perky, alien curves dominating my chest. I swallow hard and reach for the black bra first.

It’s simple, with adjustable straps and a back clasp. I slide my arms through, fumbling behind me to hook it. My fingers slip twice before the clasps catch, and I tug the straps into place. The fit’s snug, the cups lifting my breasts, easing the strain on my back. I run my hands over the smooth fabric, marveling at the support—no more bouncing, just a secure, cradled feeling. It’s strange, but damn if it doesn’t feel good.

Next comes the pink lace. I wrestle with the clasp again, cursing under my breath until it clicks. This one’s tighter, squeezing my chest together, the lace tickling my skin. In the mirror, cleavage blooms between the cups, framed by delicate patterns. My pulse quickens, a flush creeping up my neck. It’s erotic as hell—my rugged frame softened by this feminine touch—and a traitorous heat stirs below my belt. I shake it off, focusing on the task.

Finally, the sports bra. I pull it over my head, the stretchy material snapping into place. It compresses my chest slightly, locking everything down with no frills, just pure function. I take a few experimental steps, relieved at the stillness. Practicality wins out—I’ll wear this one for the day. I yank my t-shirt back on, the sports bra’s outline subtle but effective, and gather the others to buy.