Tit Torture

"You have to promise me you'll try it for a month," Shirl said.

I looked at the gift I'd just unwrapped. "It looks like some sort of medieval torture device."

"It feels like one, too," Shirl admitted, "at first."

"I'm not into tit torture," I objected.

"Give it a try," she encouraged me. "It'll be worth it; I promise."

Shirl, short for "Shirley," and I had been friends forever—well, since kindergarten, anyway; we grew up on the same block—so I trusted her. Sort of. "I'll try it for a day," I said.

"It takes a month to get results."

"If I can stand it for a day, I'll wear it for a week; if I can stand it for a week, I'll wear it for the full month."

"Deal."

* * *

At the end of the day, Shirl texted me: "Could you stand it?"

I texted her back: "Barely."

"Congratulations." A happy face emoticon expressed her happiness. I wondered whether it was for her or me. "You'll wear it for six more days, then, right?"

"Right." I added a frowny face.

"It'll be worth it!" Shirl insisted, adding a wow! face.

"It had better be!" No emoticon.

Shirl added something in French: "Il faut souffrir pour être belle, surtout pour nous transgenres."

* * *

Nude, I studied myself in the bathroom's full-length mirror.

The hormones had done a good job in redefining me; I looked a lot womanlier now; I could easily "pass" (ugh! I hated that word), and I felt, more and more, like the woman I am inside (and, increasingly, outside).

I still had a cock and a pair of balls, but my male parts had shrunken considerably, and they looked cute, now, more like ornaments than the package with which many young adult males are equipped. To me, they weren't revolting, as they are to some who undergo the transformation from man to woman.

In fact, I very much liked my cock and balls, and I fully intended to keep them. Except for these minor details, the rest of me looked altogether womanly—except for my breasts.

I had flaring hips; a firm, buoyant bottom; and long, shapely legs. My face was beautiful and girly, my hair long and luxuriant.

My boobs, though, despite my daily hormone regimen, stubbornly remained more buds than breasts.

Shirl's gift, my BFF swore, would succeed where the hormones had not. "Wear the Bustier for a month, night and day, and you will see a definite improvement; I guarantee it."

What is it they say? Desperate people do desperate things?

I guess I'm one of them.

No one in her right mind would strap on the Bustier, which, despite its name, looked more like a breastplate for women or a bra designed by a sadist. The damn thing was tight, and it pinched. It also gripped, as if the domes were the grasping hands of a determined (and sadistic) lecher.

And the "grip" of the damn domes shifted, even turned at times, tightening and twisting and pulling.

What had the designer thought? Did the idiot believe tits were dough, to be shaped and molded to fit some predetermined pattern?

I doubted I'd last the week.

Then, I'd be free of the damn Bustier, once and for all!

* * *

The doorbell rang.

"How's it going?" Shirl asked, eagerly, grinning, as I opened the door.

"How's what going?" I asked, although I knew, of course, what she meant.

"You know: the Bustier."

"It's a bust," I said. "I couldn't stand it anymore, so I took it off."

Shirl's mouth gaped, as she looked both shocked and concerned at the same time. (Who says women can't multi-task?) "Steph!"

I laughed. "I'm joking. Not about not being able to stand the damn thing, which is sheer torture—but about taking it off."

"You're still wearing it, then?"

"Against my better judgment. I feels like it's—I don't know—rearranging my tits or something."

Shirl smiled. "That's exactly what it's doing—that and causing them to develop more, to grow."

"How they hell is it doing that?"

"I don't know. It's a trade secret. But it works; that I do know."

I'd noticed that Shirl's boobs were bigger, and their shape was more aesthetically pleasing, according to scientists, who've actually studied boob sizes and shapes for plastic surgeons and determined, both scientifically and mathematically, which size and shape of hooters most men and women consider most beautiful. "You've used the Bustier yourself?"

"Of course. There's no way I'd recommend anything like that to my BFF if I weren't sure of its safety and effectiveness."

"Sometimes, it hurts like hell."

Shirl nodded. "Growing pains."

"The damn thing twists and pulls and squeezes and pumps and—"

"Il faut souffrir pour être belle, surtout pour nous transgenres."

"I've been meaning to ask you: what the hell does that mean?"

She translated: "It is necessary to suffer to be beautiful, especially for us transgender people."

"Who said that, the Marquis de Sade?"

* * *

Although the Bustier wasn't through kneading and squeezing and stretching and pinching my breasts, the damn thing started in on my nipples!

They'd tingle. Then, they'd vibrate! Next, they'd get erect and stay that way, sometimes for hours. Occasionally, they and their areolae would become sore. What the hell was this torture device doing to me? I wondered.

But I'd been wearing the damn thing for three weeks now. I had only seven days longer to endure it.

Then, according to Shirl, I'd have racked up a rack worth having.

If only I managed to live through the next week, I thought.

* * *

On Sunday, I had increased sensitivity in both breasts. And areolae. And nipples. Every motion of the Bustier was greatly intensified. Pain alternated, at times, with pleasure—and the pleasure was unbelievable! I experienced multiple orgasms on at least a dozen different occasions.

Suddenly, I was becoming fond of the Bustier. I was, in fact, feeling attached to the damn thing.

* * *

On Monday, my areolae itched, sometimes something fierce. My breasts weren't so much sensitive as painful. I began to have backaches. Small firm lumps had formed under my nipples, which scared the hell out of me, until Shirl told me that this was "normal." What was she, a doctor, now? But, I had to admit, her words soothed my raw emotions.

For a while.

* * *

On Tuesday, my areolae swelled, becoming puffy. No, I couldn't see them. The domes fit my boobs perfectly, supporting them so fully they left not so much as an inch of tit exposed, even as the Bustier groped and turned and twisted and shaped them to whatever configuration had been programmed into the apparatus. But my nipple sure felt swollen. They also felt somehow full. And sensitive. Just turning or bending aroused me, because of them. As a result, several powerful orgasms delighted me.

* * *

On Wednesday, my breasts swelled. As they rose and expanded, so did the domes of the Bustier. I don't know how or why, but the feeling of my boobs inflating—I can't think of a word that better describes the sensation—felt empowering. I felt the way I imagine a female superhero must feel, kind of Amazonian, I guess.

It was amazing.

* * *

On Thursday, my breasts were sore again, but, this time, just along their sides. They seemed to push in, too, or to be pushed in.

The Bustier was busy again, shaping me to whatever ends it was designed to attain.

* * *

On Friday, sensitivity returned to my breasts, areolae, and nipples. My areolae swelled more fully, becoming puffy; my breasts ballooned, filling the Bustier's expanded domes; and my boobs became sore along their sides. The previous days' extraordinary incidents happened all over again, all at once, inside my tits.

At the end of the day, I was sweaty; exhausted; satiated, emotionally, physically, and sexually.

I'd had an orgasm continuously, all day long.

* * *

Then, strangely, on Saturday, nothing.

Well, not much, anyway.

Some twitches. A little throbbing. An infrequent ache or a pain. A spasm. Once in a while, a flash of heat. Tingling sensations. Nipple erections.

Finishing touches, I thought.

* * *

On Sunday, Shirl was at my side for the unveiling.

We deactivated the Bustier, unlatched its latches, unsnapped its snaps, lifted its Velcro strips, and removed the twin domes, which had, like my breasts, increased in size and development from a three on the Tanner scale for females to a five on the same scale. The difference was unbelievable!

I was so excited I nearly peed my panties.

Although there's no penile equivalent of the Bustier, I noticed that the Bustier's actions, possibly coupled with my hormone therapy over the last month, had also had a reverse effect on my male parts, my cock and balls having decreased in size and development from a five on the Tanner scale for males to a size three on the same scale.

"You look scrumptious, Steph!" Shirl said, watching me disrobe.

Gazing at her own nudity, I smiled. Her breasts were identical in size to my own, as were her own male parts. "So do you, Shirl!"

"We're a little on the small size, though, male-wise," she said.

"I like us this way: our little cocks and balls are so cute."

"True," she agreed, "and size doesn't matter, not when these bad boys are available." She reached into her handbag.

"Another gift?"

"This one's for both of us."

I opened the present.

The smooth, hot-pink, nine-inch-long plastic cock sheath was an inch-and-a-half thick!

"Who goes first?" Shirl asked.

"You," I invited. "Now that I have tits as well as a cock and balls, I feel all womanly." I chuckled. "Well, mostly womanly."

Shirl grinned. Inserting her tiny prick into the hollow strap-on dildo and securing the strap at the base of the artificial penis around her scrotum, she looked massive down there. "All right, girlie," she said, "assume the position!"