Jaycee's Blog - Sun, Dec 12

Yesterday was a blast. The faeries gifted me the ability to give anyone boobs of any shape and size—at will. Of course, I spent the first few hours of my day experimenting on myself, from A-cups to ridiculous M-cups. I ruined a few shirts in the process, but it was all for science! I'm happy to report that while my boobs were firm and perky (even the huge ones), they are heavy and I can understand why women need support for them. And even C-cups get in the way of your ordinary movements. Something as simple as reaching around them to scratch the opposite shoulder means they're in the way.

Also (again, this is for science!), past a certain size, they block your view of your feet (or what you're doing with your hands if you're cooking), so you have to constantly stretch your neck or alter your posture to see what you're doing. But damn, those things are fun to play with. It's not my first time, but I don't exactly get tired of it.

So who did I prank with this? Obviously, the movie theater remains one of my favorite spots to "punish" people who use their cell phones during a movie. I went to see House of Gucci in the early afternoon, and these two middle-aged women a few rows ahead of mine kept checking their text messages. Once their breasts started expanding to the point where their bras were digging painfully into their flesh, they both rushed off.

There was also a black guy somewhere on my left who kept doing the same thing. What's good for the gander is good for the goose, so I gave him too a growing set of pecs that startled him. He had to get past me to leave, so I half-got up, pretended to trip, and "accidentally" grabbed a handful of tit flesh beneath his shirt. I mumbled an apology as he shuffled past. I swear, even in the dark and with his dark skin, I saw him blush.

Then there was the local gym. I'm too cheap and lazy to get a full membership, but they do sell one-day passes. I decided to do a bit of jogging on a treadmill right next to one of those ultra-fit chicks with impressive abs but no boobs. She had tight spandex shorts, a blue tank top, and matching sneakers. She was probably no more than five feet tall. I decided a nice pair of DD-cups would look spectacular on her and set to work. It didn't look like she was wearing anything under her lycra top. As the flesh expanded, the fabric stretched and thinned, revealing every detail on her boobs—including her perky nipples. She looked puzzled when she felt the growth and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Clearly, I had. I looked at her in fake shock. She blushed and fumbled with the console of her treadmill to try and stop it. I increased the speed of her growth, zooming past C-cup. She was finally able to stop the machine and hopped off, crossing her arms across her chest and rushing off.

Later in the day, I went back to the German Christmas market in Old Quebec—I think I might be addicted to hot mulled wine. I spotted a group of four carol singers and listened to them for a while. There were two guys and two girls. One of the girls seemed busty enough already (though it was hard to know for sure under her thick winter coat), but the other had that slim look that screamed "I have no boobs!" Right in the middle of the song, I decided to grant her secret wish and increased her breasts by two cup sizes. She missed a few notes and blushed, but recovered quickly. She joined her hands in pretend prayer, somewhat masking the effect of the growth (but I knew!). Looks like Santa delivered at least one present early.

But the most satisfying transformation was on Chuck, a guy I overheard at a local pub while having dinner. He was with a buddy of his and they were discussing something that had just been on the news—the new law in Canada banning conversion therapy. From the tone of the conversation, it was clear he thought the law was bad and shouldn't have been passed in the first place.

"Them fags," he told his quiet friend, "they need to be set straight. That stuff's disgusting. An ass is a one-way street and that's how God intended it."

His drinking buddy just nodded in mock agreement, waiting for the diatribe to end. But it wouldn't end. He rambled on about that topic for a bit, then moved on to the issue of trans people using different bathrooms than those assigned to their birth gender. I just wanted to bang my head against the counter where I sat. Eventually, though, all that beer had to go somewhere, so he excused himself to go to the bathroom. I thought it'd be a good opportunity to teach Chuck a small lesson.

Now, Chuck was a fairly chubby guy with a lumberjack beard and long hair. Being (probably) in his early fifties, he wasn't much to look at. I could have given him boobs that matched his body type, some kind of floppy and sagging D-cups, but why make it realistic? No, I gave him bolt-on double-Ds that would have made Pamela Anderson proud. He came out of the bathroom in a rush, one arm across his impressive tits in a vain attempt to hide them. He hastily grabbed his jacket as his friend watched him in bewilderment and ran off before anyone could ask anything.

Me? I smiled and enjoyed the rest of my meal. This had just made my day.

--Jaycee