“And don’t make bad choices.” Chase’s wife yelled out the door as he climbed into the Uber heading for the airport. Chase smiled as he left to meet his friend Marcus at the airport. The Vegas wedding of his friend David and his fiance Jessica was going to be wild.
After a night of heavy drinking, carousing and gambling, Marcus slapped the key card against the suite door, laughing as it flashed green. "Told you! Platinum package, baby!" He stumbled inside, kicking off loafers that sailed past a heart-shaped tub. "Jess is gonna lose her mind tomorrow. Velvet ropes! Champagne fountains!" His voice bounced off ceiling-high mirrors, sharp with bourbon and envy. "Should’ve seen her in that dress yesterday. Like two ripe melons,” his hands floating in front of his own chest in simulation.
David, a mutual friend of Chase and Marcus, was betrothed to Jessica, a was woman that Marcus had an unsettling lust about. It bothered Chase that Marcus carried on about her so much given that she belonged to David. Chase trailed him, rubbing his temples. Neon lights from the Strip pulsed behind his eyes. There had been too many toasts and too many of Marcus’s loud sighs about Jessica’s curves. It all made much of Chase’s own body ache with a hollow throb deep in his gut. There was something else.
He froze. On a crystal dresser, draped like shed skin, lay a slip of fabric, pale as bone and thin as vapor.
Marcus lurched toward it. "Whoa." He snatched it up, holding a gossamer to the chandelier light. It was sheer and fragile, with straps like spider silk. The sheer garment had twin cups, deep and generous. "This looks like Jess’s size," he slurred. His grin flickered as confusion wrinkled his brow. "Why’s it here?,” his voice inflected on the last word suspiciously.
Chase’s skin prickled. Something sharp twisted beneath his ribs. He reached toward Marcus's wrist. "Put it down," he mumbled thickly. His own voice sounded distant. "Feels, bad."
Marcus ignored him. He draped the lace against his own chest. "Man, these cups are huge! Jess must've popped a seam while laughing."
The words dissolved as Chase felt a queer feeling in his stomach, “Marcus! Put it down! Something’s wrong!”
Marcus hesitated, then tossed the negligee back onto the mahogany surface. It landed with a soft sigh, the delicate cups collapsing inward like deflated balloons. "Lighten up, Chase," Marcus mumbled, though his eyes slid away unnaturally fast. He rubbed his palms against his polyester slacks, leaving damp streaks. "Just Vegas weirdness. Probably...complimentary? When I originally booked this, I had a date coming with me, guess I never updated it."
Chase didn’t answer. The suite’s air thickened, tasting of ozone and spilled perfume. Pressure built behind his sternum with a dull, insistent throb, like roots pushing through packed earth. His vision gently blurred, but when Chase removed his glasses he found his vision was now perfect! His jaw tingled oddly. He massaged it, startled to find bone shifting subtly beneath his fingertips, softening, rounding. His Adam's apple bobbled, marking a slight catch in his throat as it smoothed away the lower register of his voice leaving him sounding slightly pale and nasally. Sweat prickled his scalp, cool against suddenly finer hair follicles.
He glanced down. His button-down shirt pulled strangely across his chest. It wasn’t a tightness, but something definitely unfamiliar. Fabric whispered against buds swelling tenderly beneath cotton. Every brush sent jolts down his spine, feeling sharper where his waist narrowed, softer where hips flared unseen beneath denim. The breathing grew shallow. His ribs felt fragile, rearranging themselves with silent pops, shortening his torso. Chase gripped the dresser edge, knuckles whitening as pelvis bones ground wider, with deeper sockets. Balance tilted. Heels lifted instinctively in worn trainers. Muscle memory misfired and his stride shortened, becoming hesitant.
“Marcus”, Chase said tentatively, “I think something weird is happening to me,” but Marcus just kept walking to the bathroom
Marcus turned, annoyance flashing across his face, but it froze mid-snarl as he registered Chase’s transformed silhouette against the mahogany dresser. The breath hissed between his teeth, not a gasp, but the sound of air escaping a punctured tire. Chase’s shoulders had shed their angularity, softening into slopes beneath the stretched cotton shirt. Blonde strands clung to a dampening forehead reaching almost to his eyes and past his ears where Chase’s own wiry brown hair should’ve been. His jawline had melted into something rounded, and delicate. Facial stubble vanished entirely, replaced by skin like poured cream.
Chase clenched his fists against the wood, knuckles ground against the polished surface as they clicked and reshaped into smaller fingers that tapered, his freckled skin fading to a porcelain perfection. A gentle ripple surged through his torso. Two gently budding arcs pushed gently and seemed to be forming under his pectoral muscles against his button-down, subtly pressing against the seams of his oxford shirt with each faltering breath.
He gasped, a sound too light, too melodic to be his own, similar to a fluted gasp as his ribs compacted like folded paper. "Marcus, it's." His voice cracked as he cleared his throat, straining for his deeper tone, but only producing a faintly nasal resonance. The sensation grew insistent beneath the fabric with softly burgeoning pads of flesh, tender and tingly, swollen as if infused with heated nectar. He pressed a trembling palm against his chest, shocked to find soft mounds yielding beneath his touch with distinct fullness. A bead of sweat rolled between his plumping pectorals. Chase stammered, "Marcus, something is, happening to my chest." The words fluttered out, lilting and fragile.
Marcus spun fully now, whiskey-glazed eyes widening as he took in the ambiguous silhouette Chase presented. Marcus stared for a bit, “You definitely look more, and I don’t mean to sound weird but, it looks like you're developing into a young woman, does it hurt? Do you want me to call a doctor?”
Chase considered his answer carefully “No, I don’t think so, but my pants feel like they’re shrinking” said Chase as he turned sideways and looked over his shoulder toward his ass, it seemed fuller, a bit longer, both higher and lower on his torso than it was. He looked down at the legs of his pants and they seemed tighter around his calves.
Marcus stared at Chase’s pants, “Have you lost height?”
Chase looked at his pants which seemed longer than they used to be, pooling at his ankles slightly, “I guess a little?”
Marcus asked cautiously “Do you feel alright?”
Chase looked at Marcus “Yes, why?”
Marcus stammered “Your face.”
Chase reached a hand toward his chin and was shocked to find it was not hairy and bristly, it was soft and smooth like his sister's chin felt when they were kids. He noticed his fingers were different, thinner and more delicate. Chase gasped as his fingers traced the curve of a jawline that shouldn't exist; smooth, rounded, utterly alien. Panic spiked like a fever. He shoved past Marcus, stumbling toward the bathroom, with his legs tangling in suddenly baggy jeans. The marble floor was cold against his soles. His hips swayed unnaturally with each step, like a strange counterbalance to the burgeoning weight dragging at his chest.
The bathroom mirror swallowed him whole. Chase looked at his reflection, androgynous leaning toward feminine with what looked like a budding female figure. His hair was no longer the short tight crew cut, but hung down in a sort of pixie cut past his jawline. His eyes no longer colored hazel but not quite sapphire, and there was something about the nose and the bow lips that reminded him of Jessica. Oh crap! Was he somehow impossibly slowly turning into her doppelganger?
Chase stared, or rather, she stared at the impossible creature in the glass. Blonde hair tangled past delicate shoulders, framing a face that mirrored Jessica’s soft angles: the heart-shaped jaw, the Cupid’s-bow lips, the wide eyes now glittering sapphire beneath long, dark lashes. A choked sob escaped unfamiliar vocal cords. They were high, musical notes of terror. She clawed at her shirt, buttons straining over swelling curves that pressed urgently against the cotton. Below, her hips flared very slightly beneath the loosened waistband of his jeans, while tighter and rounder in the seat. Every inch hummed with raw sensation. There was the rasp of denim on hypersensitive thighs, the heavy pull of nascent breasts, the dizzying tilt of gravity shifting through slightly widened hips. Everything felt strange and foreign.
"Marcus," her voice trembled, thin and melodic. "I'm, I'm starting to look like, like Jess?" The question hung poisoned in the air. She turned, staggering against the cold marble sink, her movements instinctively fluid and awkward at once. The hips were shifting and shoulders rolling backward to accommodate the new center of gravity.
Marcus stood frozen in the doorway, knuckles white on the jamb. His gaze crawled over her, lingering on the straining shirt buttons, with the impossible swell beneath. Hunger warred with revulsion in his expression. "Chase?" he breathed, stepping closer. He reached out, fingers trembling toward her cheekbone, catching the faint scent of bourbon and jasmine clinging to her skin. His thumb brushed the curve of her jaw, impossibly smooth beneath his calloused touch. "Hell. I think you’re right!”
Chase tore open the shirt, feeling her nipples crinkle with a surge of erotic pleasure as a cool draft brushed the sensitive flesh, newly swollen and pink-tipped. Her breath hitched as she looked down, and the sight punched the air from her lungs. Twin mounds, now at least a B cup, perched high and firm on his chest, his sapphire eyes wide with disbelief staring back at him through his, or was it her reflection?. Chase saw Marcus’s reflection in the mirror, staring at his chest. His hands flew up reflexively, covering the new sensitive flesh in a reflexive female gesture. He used his foot to close the door on Marcus’s lustful gaze.
Behind the locked door, Chase leaned against cold marble, her breaths ragged. Every sensation amplified. The fullness of his denim jeans was now almost painful. She stripped out of them and stood in front of the bathroom mirror in boxers. She didn’t need to strip them off to know that the scrotum no longer occupied the front pouch of his underwear. She touched her thighs: smooth, hairless, softly sculpted. Below, the feet arched higher, toes curling against chilly tile as the old trainers gaped loose and useless, she kicked them off. Her boxers sagged loosely at the waist, but clung tighter over hips now unmistakably feminine; wider, rounder, shifting her center of gravity with every tremble. She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers tracing the lush curve of her ass. It was plump, yielding flesh that hadn’t existed an hour ago. Above, her breasts throbbed coldly in the bathroom chill, heavy B-cup mounds pert and slowly gaining mass with each breath, the pink nipples stiffening against the air conditioning. It was too much, too fast. Chase sobbed, the sound high and fragile.
"Chase?" Marcus's voice rasped through the door, muffled but urgent. Knuckles tapped wood. "Talk to me. What's happening there?" Silence followed, then a low groan." A pause. He heard heavy breathing. "Open the door. Please." The handle rattled.
Chase pressed her palms flat against the cool marble countertop, grounding herself. Her reflection was heading toward being Jessica. There was no denying it now. Full breasts, already a D cup, Chase guessed, and nipples pebbled hard. Lower, the curve of her hips dipped inward before flaring out to cradle newly plush thighs. “I’m a woman”, she thought, the truth hitting like icy water. Not just any woman, but Jess. She was now the bride Marcus couldn’t stop fantasizing about.
Beyond the door, Marcus shuffled. Papers rustled. "Chase, Chase?" His voice sounded strained, dangerously close. "I um, found something. The suite brochure." A pause. She heard him swallow. "It says,” he paused to curse, “Shit, it says fantasies blend here. For ‘recreational purposes.’" His laugh was brittle. "That explains Jess’s lingerie suddenly being here." Another rustle. "But Chase? If mine made her stuff appear, does that mean your fantasy is, is this?" The knob jiggled again, insistent. "Talk to me. What did you want?"
Chase trembled, not just from the cold marble against her bare thighs, but from the awful truth crystalizing. The fantasy. It hadn't been Jessica’s body, not precisely. It had been the ache he had never shared: the quiet longing to shed his own skin, to feel silk instead of wool, softness instead of angularity. It was a yearning so buried he’d named it “nothing” even to himself. Now it screamed in every curve, in every shuddering nerve-ending. She pressed a trembling hand between her legs and found smooth, seamless skin, the absence profound, terrifying. It was utterly, irrevocably female. The sob ripped out, high and keening.
Marcus rattled the knob again. "Chase! Answer me!" His voice thickened with something desperate. "Did you want this? To become her?" The accusation hung suspended, thick as Vegas humidity.
Chase’s breath caught against the ribs (or were they Jess’s now?) her lungs impossibly shallow. The brochure’s words echoed: “fantasies blend here.” Her reflection blurred through tears, through Jessica’s wide blue eyes, Jessica’s full, trembling mouth. But the terror twisting that face? Pure Chase. She pressed a palm flat against the mirror, ice against her skin. ‘He knows now. Might as well confess, she resolved. "Not her," she whispered. Her voice emerged softer yet, melodic like wind chimes. Alien. "Never her." She swallowed, with the Adam’s apple now just a phantom itch. "Just somebody else sometimes. Someone, soft and feminine, but it was a fantasy, just curiosity really,” she rationalized as she spoke.
Her fingers drifted down, tracing the impossible swell beneath her collarbone. Every nerve screamed under her touch. They were electric pathways rewriting themselves. She felt them pulse outward, deeper into her chest as her growing D-cup mounds pressed relentlessly against the snug fabric of her boxers. The clothing was no longer loose but stretched taut over burgeoning flesh. The sensation wasn’t pain; it was warm expansion, like flesh filling with warm gelatin. Below, her hips settled into a wider cradle, pelvis shifting silently to restructure itself with every shift making her lean instinctively against the counter for balance.
Beyond the door, Marcus scraped a hand down his face. "Soft?" The word hung in the suite’s thick air. "Chase, you couldn’t have just worn a skirt?" A harsh laugh tore loose. "But this? Magic lingerie swapping? Turning into Jess?" She heard him lean heavily against the wood. His voice dropped, thick with disbelief. "That brochure says, it says desires manifest. So whose damn desire made this happen? Mine?,” he questioned emphatically. Silence clawed between them. Marcus was asking questions that neither of them could answer. He exhaled roughly. "Look, just, open the door. Let me see if you're okay." The knob rattled weakly, with less demand, and more politeness.
“I can't because my clothes don’t fit. I’m naked.” Realizing that was probably not the thing to say to a man who was probably fantasizing about fucking a body that would soon be its twin. He felt another surge under his pecs as fat from his waist seemed to fluidly migrate upwards to fill out the remainder of Jess’s impossibly lush proportions, leaving her waist long and slender. She stared down at herself, horrified and fascinated. The newly carved hips, exposing a taut waistline leading to the long shapely legs. Her hair was now to her shoulders. She could almost watch it grow millimeter by millimeter.
Inside the chilled bathroom, Chase shivered. Every inch of her skin prickled at the awareness humming where flesh met cold tile. Her breasts were impossibly heavy now, pulling forward with each shallow breath. They were clearly DD cups now. Tentatively, she cupped one. The weight settled warm in her palm, nipple taut against her touch. Then a jolt shot straight to her core. A phantom throb where maleness had dissolved. New nerves sparked below her belly, unused and oversensitive. She pressed trembling thighs together. The sensation was gnawing and empty. She likened it to losing a limb and discovering phantom pain, except this phantom was wet heat blooming against smooth folds she hadn't dared explore yet.
Three sharp raps rattled the door. "Chase?" Marcus’s voice slithered through the wood grain, husky and strained. Three sharp knocks punctuated his words. "Found something that I think will fit. Crack the door open, will ya? I promise I won't look. Just, just gonna toss it in." Silence pooled heavily. Then, the hesitant scrape of fabric against the door frame.
Chase squeezed her eyes shut. The lock clicked. She eased the door open a hairline fracture just enough darkness to see Marcus’s silhouette tense and turn resolutely away. A wisp of ivory silk slid through the gap and pooled silently at her bare feet. But her gaze snagged on what he'd offered: the bridal negligee, impossibly delicate spider-lace cups deep enough to cradle the weight of her breasts, straps like moonbeams. Beside it lay the matching nightgown; chiffon, the color of pearl, flowing, cut for the curves she now possessed. Her throat tightened. This wasn't just fabric. It was Jessica’s skin. The very silk Marcus had drunkenly fantasized about peeling off tomorrow’s bride. And now here it was at her feet. Her breath hitched. A tremor ran through her fingers, part terror, part aching, partly a forbidden yearning. She wanted to slip into this softness and to feel silk whisper against places that now throbbed with unfamiliar sensitivity. Here, crumpled on the floor, was the chance to become, utterly, the fantasy Marcus craved. She traced the cool lace with a trembling toe. The desire was visceral, honey-thick and terrifying. But if she put it on, would Marcus see ‘her’? Or just the ghost of Jessica he hungered for?
Marcus cleared his throat roughly outside, the sound scraping against the silence. "It was folded with the brochure," he mumbled, still facing the velvet drapes. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the door frame. "It said ‘complimentary amenities tailored to deepest wishes.’ Guess it's tailored real close." He paused. She heard the click of his swallow. "Put it on, Chase. Please. Before this gets any weirder." His voice cracked on the last word, pleading and straining. It was as if he couldn’t bear the unseen transformation behind the wood, yet couldn’t flee. The suite’s magic hung thick between them, sticky as the desert air.
Alone again, Chase lifted the garment from the floor. She held the lace cups, their sheer expanse daunting against her heavy, aching breasts. Taking a shuddering breath, she stepped into it, slithering it up past wide hips. She felt it cling to her long torso as she pulled it up under her impossibly huge tits. She cupped each breast and settled it deeply into the cups and raised the straps up over her shoulders and behind her neck, the clasp hooked. Silk caressed her hypersensitive skin. The cups embraced her fullness perfectly, supporting, framing the deep lace edging her swelling cleavage. This phantom body belonged in this silk. Her reflection shimmered with blonde hair kissing creamy shoulders, sapphire eyes wide above plush lips, the nightgown screaming to advertise the lush silhouette beneath. This was Jessica. It was utterly Jessica except for thick terror in those eyes. She traced the waist’s delicate ribbon. ‘He’ll see me like this. What will he’, her thought suddenly interrupted.
Beyond the door, Marcus cleared his throat. "Did, does it fit?" His voice cracked. When she didn’t answer, he whispered, raw and jagged, "Chase?"
Chastity stared at her reflection. She knew what he really wanted to know. ‘Did she fill those huge cups? Was she his fantasy?’ The silk whispered against skin suddenly alive with pins-and-needles as she smoothed the gown over hips that seemed to settle deeper into their new curves. The lace hugged her breasts like a lover’s promise.
"It fits," Chase said, her words just loud enough to carry through the door, the words catching in her throat, “but I’m not her. I am just an illusion, a fantasy.”
Marcus hesitated, knuckles resting against the frame. "So, isn’t this your fantasy too?" His voice sounded thick.
The words stung, but in Chase’s heart, he knew what Marcus spoke was true. She was stunning, the epitome of womanhood, a goddess. But she wasn’t Jessica. Not fully. Maybe not at all? She turned away from her reflection, the silken fabric sliding coolly over her thighs. Gooseflesh prickled her arms as the suite’s air conditioning bit deeper now against exposed skin. She touched her collarbone, tracing the delicate hollows newly formed. She was his fantasy. Marcus had obsessed over Jessica’s curves, her laugh, the way her wedding gown would cling. That obsession had conjured the lingerie. But the transformation? The aching, alien softness? That was all Chase, buried under layers of denial until Vegas magic carved it into flesh.
“I’m coming out,” she whispered as she leaned her forehead against the door. Her body trembled. “But don’t call me Jess, ok? Call me,” she paused, “call me Chastity." The name was the one she had chosen in her fantasies. She had even adopted the name for the few times her fantasy had spilled over into online roleplay on a TG themed Discord server for x-change fantasies. Now it was real.
The door clicked open slowly. Marcus stood frozen, whiskey glass forgotten in his slack grip. His gaze dragged over her, taking in the spill of blonde hair catching chandelier light, the way the negligee clung to curves demanding attention, the frantic flutter of pulse visible at her throat.
Chastity hesitated on the threshold, trembling fingers pushing aside Veronica Lake waves that framed her face like a silk curtain. Her complexion glowed impossibly perfect, composed of a dewy foundation smooth over flushed cheeks, with brows arched dark as if penciled by an expert hand, and lashes thick with phantom mascara at the tips. Yet she hadn’t touched a brush. The suite’s magic had painted her this way; a harlot bride ready for her wedding night, makeup flawless like a doll fresh from its box. That plunging neckline exposed cleavage still swelling faintly, soft flesh visibly warm beneath the crystal light.
Marcus’s breath hitched. "Chastity?" The name tasted foreign, but his stare, hot and stunned, locked onto hers beneath the cascade of hair. She watched his pupils dilate as her fingers instinctively smoothed the gossamer fabric over a hip. The tiny motion made her breasts sway heavily within their lace confinement, tightening nipples rasping against silk. His knuckles whitened around the glass.
He circled her slowly, boots scuffing deep carpet. His gaze crawled over her like a physical caress. It lingered on the impossible cinch of her waist above flaring hips, traced the swell of her thigh where the gown clung damply. When he passed behind her, Chastity flinched at the sudden rush of cool air against her exposed lower back. His shadow fell across her reflection in the mirrored wall; she saw his expression, a ravenous disbelief, as he took in the voluptuous curve of her rear, the gown sheer enough to hint at shadowed hollows beneath. "Damn," he breathed behind her, voice thick as tar.
Chastity trembled, crossing her arms instinctively over her chest. The motion lifted her breasts higher within the lace cups, nipples tightening against the rasp of silk. She looked down and quickly uncrossed them, awkward, unsure of what to do with her arms. Her elbows kept catching on these wider hips. Marcus was still circling her like a wolf eyeing trapped prey. His gaze lingered on the deep plunge of the negligee where moonlight-pale cleavage swelled.
"I'm going to need some more alcohol,” Chastity’s new voice said. She crossed to the bar, her steps awkward and poured herself a double bourbon.
Marcus watched her, gaze locked on her hips swaying beneath the sheer gown. "You look," he trailed off, swallowing hard as she tilted the bottle, amber liquid catching the chandelier light, "exactly like her."His stare burned hotter than the liquor.
Chastity took a shaky sip, the bourbon warming her throat. "But I'm not," she insisted, silk whispering as she gestured. The motion made her breasts shift heavily; she saw Marcus track them, nostrils flaring. Her reflection blinked back with Jessica’s face, Jessica’s body, yet it was her own terror that swam in those sapphire eyes. Beneath the negligee, her nipples tightened against the lace, a relentless throb echoing lower deep within her pelvis where phantom sensations pulsed, as if nerves strained toward emptiness. She gripped the glass harder, her knuckles white as porcelain. “This isn’t me,” she said softly. “But whose flesh is it?”
Marcus stepped closer, whiskey forgotten. He didn’t touch her, but his eyes devoured every inch of the spill of moonlight-pale cleavage visible through the sheer lace, the way the silk hugged her hips as she shifted under his scrutiny. A slow, predatory circle began, boots sinking into plush carpet. "You've dreamed of this," he breathed, voice thick with bourbon and disbelief. "Haven't you?" His gaze lingered at the small of her back where the gown dipped low, tracing the delicate curve revealed. "Standing like this. Silk against bare skin. Feeling every goddamn sway."
Chastity flinched as his shadow fell across her reflection. It was a distorted echo of Jessica’s face twisted by Chase’s uncertainty.
“How did it go in your fantasy?” He asked, holding her gaze intensely. “Did he sweep you off your feet? Ravage you like an animal?” Marcus’s knuckles grazed the cool curve of her exposed shoulder.
Chastity gasped at the electrified contact against her hypersensitive skin. A tremor shot through her, rippling down her spine.
His fingers hesitated, thumb drifting toward the pulse hammering at her throat. His warm breath ghosted over her ear as he leaned in. “Was he gentle?” His voice dropped, rough velvet scraping raw nerves. “Or did he take you roughly?” The suite’s magic thickened, smelling faintly of bourbon and ozone as her breasts tightened beneath the negligee, her nipples pebbling against silk lining.
Chastity froze. Her thoughts scattered. Marcus’s touch was a brand, and his words a violation she’d never imagined facing. Beneath the lace, her heart thundered against ribs that felt too delicate. She could feel the swell of her breasts rising with each shallow breath, and the rasp of silk amplifying every nerve’s scream.
When Chastity closed her eyes, he saw the flush rise on her cheeks, the embarrassment of admitting what she had truly fantasized, and when she began to tremble Marcus knew the truth. “You want to be fucked. Not made love to, but taken!” His assertion echoed, sharp as shattered glass.
She couldn’t deny it. The heat pooling low in her belly was proof, a wet ache blooming where her body had rewritten itself. Her fantasy hadn’t been soft kisses or tender whispers; it had been a desperate, wordless craving to be overwhelmed, broken open by a force as undeniable as gravity. Chastity shuddered, her fists clenched at her sides. Silk brushed her thighs, impossibly soft against skin hypersensitive to every whisper of air.
Marcus moved behind her. His lips brushed the nape of her neck using a slow, deliberate kiss that sent wildfire down her spine. She gasped sharply, the sound catching in her throat. His hands slid around her waist, possessive and grounding, fingers splaying wide over the sudden, impossible cinch of bone and muscle beneath the silk. His thumbs pressed into the delicate hollows just below her ribs. When his mouth trailed lower, kissing the slope of her shoulder, she whimpered. Every nip of teeth, every hot exhale against her skin ignited sparks along unfamiliar nerves. These were sensations she’d dreamed of but never imagined could feel so real. His palms slid higher, his rough calluses dragging against the sheer gown, seeking the weight of her breasts.
She arched instinctively into his touch as his hands closed over her, fingers curling beneath the swell. The lace cups strained. Silk rasped against taut nipples from the delicious friction that drew a broken moan from her lips.
Marcus groaned against her neck, breath humid and ragged. "Chastity, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathed, kneading the aching fullness. Sensation overloaded her; every nerve screamed under his calloused palms.
She felt the warmth, the possessive weight, the subtle drag of fabric. It deepened the reality of what was happening. The suite’s magic pulsed hotter, amplifying every touch like electric wires sparking damp wood. His thumbs found stiff peaks beneath the silk, circling and giving slow, relentless pressure. Her knees buckled; she sagged backward against his chest, her head lolling onto his shoulder. Through fluttering lashes, she saw their reflection: Marcus’s eyes dark with passion and lust, fixated on her lace-strangled cleavage. Then her blonde hair spilling over his arm, her lips parted slackly, a complete depraved portrait of surrender.
"Feels good?" His whisper vibrated against her throat. An incoherent whimper answered him.
She couldn't lie. Her body sang truths she'd never spoken aloud. Her hips rocked back instinctively, pressing the soft swell of her rear against the hard ridge tenting his jeans. A growl rumbled from his chest.
"That’s it," he murmured, biting her earlobe sharp enough to sting. His palm slid down her belly, fingers spreading wide over silk-draped hips. Her breath locked tight in her throat as his knuckles brushed the damp silk gathered between her thighs. Silk whispered over the tender swell of her belly, bunching beneath his palm. His other hand stayed buried beneath her breast, anchored and claiming, as his other fingers crept lower.
"Tonight," Marcus growled, lips scalding the shell of her ear,his whiskey-rough voice dropping to a fervent whisper, "you are Chastity. My virgin bride." His breath landed hot and moist, making her tremble against him. The declaration wasn’t gentle. It was primal, possessive. His fingers pressed down through the clinging silk, seeking the hidden heat beneath.
Chastity cried out with a sharp, choked sound, as his touch found folds she’d never dared explore. Wet silk slid against unbearable sensitivity. His finger traced a deliberate, maddening circle over the core of her transformation. Pleasure detonated, white-hot, blinding, radiating upward to clench her stomach, tightening every muscle. Her head fell back against his shoulder, vision blurring with the chandelier sparks.
Marcus kissed her throat, hungry and open-mouthed, as his finger sank deeper. Just one knuckle, then two, parting impossibly virgin flesh. It burned. It ached. It filled the phantom emptiness in a way that made her sob. His thumb found the swollen peak above, rubbing tight circles through soaked lace. Her hips jerked helplessly, grinding against his hand, chasing the pressure. Her reflection blurred, her borrowed plush lips bitten red and open wide on panting breaths. Marcus watched her in the mirror, eyes fever-bright with ownership. "Is this what you imagined?” he whispered against her thrumming pulse. His finger curled upward inside her, stroking a spot that sparked lightning. Her legs gave way. He caught her weight easily, lifting her against him, back arched like an offering. The negligee strained over breasts bouncing heavily with every ragged gasp.
He carried her to the heart-shaped bed and laid her on the plush duvet, the mirrored ceiling reflecting her sprawled form. Her blonde hair fanned like spilled champagne, the ivory negligee riding high on trembling thighs. Marcus pinned her wrists above her head, his knees forcing hers apart. The cold kiss of a zipper sounded; denim shoved down powerful hips. Then he was on her, hard and relentless, driving into the slick heat between her legs in one brutal thrust.
Chastity screamed, not pain, but the savage shock of being filled, stretched, and claimed. Her back arched off the mattress, breasts jolting upward, lace cups straining as they bounced with the force of his invasion. Above, her own reflection stared back, sapphire eyes wild, mouth gasping, the violent tremors of her flesh captured in crystal clarity.
Her gaze locked onto the mirror. Every piston-driven surge lifted her hips, making her tits sway and bounce. The heavy, pendulous, and deep cleavage gleaming with sweat under the chandelier’s glare. Silk tore at the shoulder seam with a whispery sigh, spilling one breast free. The nipple hardened instantly in the A.C.’s chill, rasping against Marcus’s spiral chest hair as he drove deep. Chastity gasped. The slap of flesh with each withdrawal echoed back from the mirrored ceiling matching the wet, rhythmic punishment. Her ass bounced against the velvet duvet, a solid weight fanned out beneath her, full and pliant under the hammering force. Her spine arched high and straining, then collapsed flat as Marcus’s hips slammed back down, pressing her into crumpled silk and the yielding mattress.
The scent of bourbon, sex, and her own unfamiliar musk thickened the air. Marcus’s grip left bruises on her hips. His fingertips were digging into newly formed contours as he hauled her flesh flush against each thrust. That hidden spot inside ignited anew with every scrape of him, deep and rough. Liquid heat pooled low in her belly, radiating outwards. Her breasts trembled with every jarring impact, her slick flesh gleaming. Above, her reflection stared, mouth slack, pupils blown wide, blonde hair plastered damply to her temples. A flush crept down her chest, pooling between her bouncing breasts.
Marcus groaned above her with a guttural, possessive sound as her inner muscles clenched reflexively around him, pulling him deeper still. The drag was exquisite agony."Look," he rasped against her ear, breath scalding. "Look at yourself." His hand slid possessively under her freed breast, hefting its weight. His thumb scraped the nipple sending a lightning jolt arching her back again.
Chastity whimpered, eyes darting to the mirror. She knew Jessica’s face but it wasn’t Jessica gasping Marcus’s name between choked sobs. That ecstasy contorting her borrowed features belonged to her. That desperate rocking of her hips matched his brutal rhythm also hers. Every jarring thrust pushed her breasts into Marcus's palm. They felt impossibly heavy, slick with sweat, swaying violently like ripe fruit torn by its stem. The lace cup still clinging to her other breast strained, digging into tender flesh with each downward plunge of his body.
Marcus slammed into her harder, deeper, like a piston driving into slick heat. Chastity cried out. The slap of flesh echoed cruelly off the mirrored ceiling with the wet sound of her taking him. Her freed breast jerked wildly with each thrust. Marcus’s eyes fixed on that bouncing nipple, flushed deep rose and rigid in the room’s chill. Abruptly, he stopped thrusting. His mouth lowered, hot and wet, lips and scraping teeth closing around the peak. He suckled hard. Chastity moaned and arched into his mouth, making a raw, jagged sound as pain-laced pleasure shot through her. Her hips jerked upward, desperate for friction. Marcus twisted it gently with his teeth, tugging the nipple, pulling it taut until her skin blanched beneath his lips. Strands of blonde hair plastered to her sweat-slicked chest.
"Gah! Stop!"
Marcus’s breath splashed hot against her throat. His teeth stayed clamped on her nipple, pulling viciously enough to make her spine bow off the mattress. Chastity clawed at his shoulders, silk tearing further beneath desperate fingers. The pain was a live wire, raw and stinging but fused impossibly to blinding heat flooding her pelvis. Every futile twist of her hips ground his hardness deeper into her throbbing core. Above, her reflection stared back: the bride's plush lips biting her lower lip, sapphire eyes wide with terror and frantic need. Silk clung to one sweat-slicked breast while Marcus ravaged the other, his tongue swirling. And then she came, a nuclear warhead detonating in her slit. Wave after violent wave was smashing against her awareness. Her muscles clamped around Marcus’s cock in rhythmic spasms, milking him ruthlessly. A sob ripped from her throat; she could taste salt of tears or sweat as her head thrashed against the velvet.
Marcus roared with a triumphant and a primal sound, burying himself to the hilt as her cunt pulsed around him. His hips jerked, emptying hot jets deep inside her transformed body. Chastity screamed again; the heat, the wetness flooding her depths triggered another crushing climax. She bucked uncontrollably beneath him, her hips lifting wildly, breasts bouncing high and unrestrained. Above, the reflections of Marcus’s sweat-streaked back moving mechanically, her blonde hair fanned across crumpled silk, tear-streaked cheeks flushed crimson, merged together in the moment of passion.
He crushed her into the mattress. Bourbon-laced breaths burned her ear. Chastity stared past his shoulder into the mirrored ceiling as Marcus continued to fuck her through multiple orgasms. She could see Marcus’s reflection fixated not on her face, but on her breasts: twin moons gleaming wet with sweat, bouncing violently with each savage thrust. Jessica was marrying David tomorrow. But Marcus? Marcus wanted this. To possess the fantasy and to mark it with seed spilled across impossible cleavage. Chastity’s own climax still pulsed in her womb, leaving her trembling. How far would she go? Her fantasy had been realized: transformed, taken, shattered. But his fantasy remained unrealized. Her gaze flickered to her own sweat-slicked breasts. They were hers now, she could feel it. They were heavy, aching, and slicked with Marcus’s sweat.
The words scraped her throat before she knew she’d speak. "Marcus." Her voice cracked, ruined. When he lifted his head, eyes glazed with lust, she swallowed. Silk bunched under her trembling fingers. “My breasts, my big fat tits." These are words Jess probably wouldn’t have used to describe herself. She drew a ragged breath. “You want to finish on them, don’t you?”
His hips froze mid-thrust, cock buried deep inside her pulsing heat. He stared, raw hunger twisting his face into something unrecognizable. Silence screamed louder than the wet slap of skin against skin moments before.
Above, Chastity’s reflection watched her flushed cheeks, her swollen lips kissed hard and crimson, but it was Chase’s passion that flashed in those sapphire eyes. She felt the wetness pooling at her core, Marcus’s seed mingling with hers. The fantasy had consumed her completely. But Chase knew Marcus’s obsession: the desire to see Jessica’s breasts spilling from her wedding gown tomorrow. Jessica who belonged to David. But Chastity? Chastity was here. Hers were just as heavy, aching with desire and slick with sweat. They made a perfect canvas.
Marcus pulled out slowly. His shaft seemed too long to have been that far inside her, leaving her shuddering as he withdrew. Cool air kissed her wet folds, an emptiness echoing through her trembling limbs. His gaze locked onto her full and heaving breasts, the freed nipple dark rose and stiffened against her rib cage, the other straining beneath sheer lace. His thumb circled the damp peak teasingly. “You’d let me?” he breathed, voice thick with disbelief and bourbon.
Chastity nodded, swallowing hard. Silk whispered as she lifted her hands, fingers trembling as they fumbled with the last clasp of her negligee. The fabric parted, spilling both breasts free into the chill air. They bounced freely and ripe, swaying moons glistening with sweat. Marcus groaned low in his throat, his cock twitching against her thigh, slick and thick.
Chastity pushed herself up on trembling elbows. The mirrored ceiling reflected her flushed chest, her pink nipples puckered tight against the cool bite of the thermostat set too low. She guided Marcus backwards onto the rumpled velvet, the duvet still damp beneath them. Kneeling awkwardly over him, her hips protesting the movement, she scooped her breasts together with shaking hands. Their weight felt foreign, immense, a mixture of cool silk and hot flesh against her palms as she squeezed them around his straining erection. The contact was electric and Marcus hissed, eyes rolling back as her softness engulfed him. She lowered herself slowly, letting the deep valley of her cleavage claim him. Her nipples dragged along the sides of his shaft, and the hypersensitive nerves fired at the unexpected friction. Above, her reflection stared down, betraying the blonde hair tangled, Jessica’s plush lips parted on shallow breaths and her trembling hands as she pressed her tits tighter around him. Sweat dripped between her breasts, mingling with Marcus’s pre-come as she rocked her chest slowly, experimentally. Silk stuck to her thighs. The scent of sex and exertion hung thick.
Marcus groaned her name. "Chastity,” he said,his voice ragged yet reverent. His hands flew to her hips, with his fingers digging into newly formed curves, but she stopped him with a sharp shake of her head.
“Don’t touch,” she whispered, her own voice still alien. “Just watch.” His grip tightened once, then fell away. Chastity focused on the rhythm: a deliberate roll of her shoulders, leaning forward to trap him deeper in the valley of slick flesh. Each forward motion made her tits bounce heavily against her forearms, the slap of sweat-damp skin a quiet counterpoint to Marcus’s choked breaths. She felt his pulse throb against her sternum, knew the instant before his climax began, she could feel a tremor racing through him into her core. Her gaze locked onto the mirror above again. Marcus’s frenzied expression was fixed on the obscene cradle she’d made, her own blue eyes wide and startled as the first hot jet splattered her collarbone.
He bucked beneath her, hips thrusting helplessly into the soft prison of flesh. Chastity gasped as rope after thick rope striped her skin. There were hot streaks painting her cleavage in arcs, dripping down trembling breasts. The scent hit her; a blend of musk and brine and bourbon, sharp and undeniable. She kept moving, grinding her chest against him, milking out every spasm until his groans subsided into shuddering breaths. Her nipples throbbed where stray drops landed, providing an electric sting blooming across her sensitized skin. Marcus collapsed back onto the pillows, chest heaving, his spent cock slipping free to rest against his thigh. Beneath her palms, Chastity felt the wet mess cooling from the seed pooling in her cleavage, leaving slick trails glistening under the chandelier light. Her reflection stared back; mouth slack, cheeks flushed crimson, blonde hair plastered to her temples. Her twin globes shone wetly, along with the now ruined ivory lace clinging to one hip.
Silence roared into the space between them. Marcus reached up tentatively, fingers trembling toward the sticky mess coating her chest. Chastity jerked backward, avoiding his touch. She scrambled off the bed, silk tearing further as she stumbled to the dresser mirror. Her breath fogged the glass. Eyes traced the obscenity streaking her skin. It was shown as pearl-white stains on her rose-pink skin; a brutal relief map of ownership. She raised a trembling hand, hesitated, then dragged a finger through the cooling spill on her sternum. It clung thickly, viscous. Smearing it downward, she shuddered as her fingertip grazed her swollen nipple. Lightning shot straight to her still-damp core making her legs tremble.
Marcus struggled onto his elbows, voice hoarse. "Chastity." The name hung like smoke in the charged air. She didn't turn. Her gaze locked on her own reflection of the blonde wild hair, flushed cheeks, and eyes wide with a volatile cocktail of terror and triumph. The seed pooled in her cleavage glistened obscenely under spotlight beams bouncing off the mirrored ceiling. Her breast, freed from torn silk, felt heavy, hypersensitive. It was a canvas once pure, now spoiled magnificently. She cupped it loosely, feeling the unfamiliar weight shift, the slick trails cooling on her skin. The sharp, musky, male scent filled her nostrils, thick as velvet drapes. Marcus was breathing raggedly behind her, a sound that vibrated in her still sensitive flesh. The suite’s lingering ozone magic hummed beneath the silence, pressing down.
Chastity's knees buckled. She caught herself on the crystal edge of the dresser, its chill biting into her palms. Sweat cooled on her brow.
Marcus pushed off the bed, moving toward her, slowly, cautiously, his bare feet silent on plush carpet. He stopped behind her, his heat radiating against her bare back. His reflection loomed over her shoulder, gaze fixed on the wreckage painted across her chest. His ruined shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, his expression unreadable.
She felt his hesitation like a held breath. Slowly, shakily, Chastity leaned back. Her shoulder blades brushed his chest. He flinched, then steadied her. His hands rose, palms hovering above her hips, not touching. She sank her weight fully against him, her head lolling back onto his shoulder. The surrender was utter.
“Promise me” she whispered, “that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”
“Promise” said Marcus.
“But maybe, if you have some time off, we could make another weekend of it?”
