Any comments will be gladly received at white_collar@hotmal.com

Note: Any resemblance to real people is strictly coincidental. No real people are depicted in this piece of fiction. This story contains explicit male to male sex, domination and bondage. If you don't enjoy reading this sort of material or are under the age of 21, DO NOT CONTINUE READING. If you regard this type of material as depraved then flee from here and don't look back!

Prologue:

Standing in front of the mirror, I look at the reflection of my tits: how large they've become. How did it happen? I know, of course, but must admit it was never something I'd expected, nor wanted, but now... well, I wouldn't have them any other way. I pump a small dollop of facial lotion with hyoluronic acid onto my left index fingertip, dab at with my right index finger and then apply it to the tips of my titties. My breath catches and, as I spread the lotion over the tips and shafts of my tits, an extended grunt emmanates from deep in my throat and my back arches and shivers. I pull from the base of my titties to the tips, reveling in the feel of being milked. I'm lost in tit lust. Then I apply the almond milk hand cream to the rims of my Supplenips - 4XLs now - and apply them to those big locuses of lust and need on my chest, my chest-dicks he's told me to call them, and manipulate the cups until they're fully expanded, moaning as they knead my nips.

#

Tit-Slave - Chapter 3

I came out of the darkness and glanced at the clock. It was 2:15. I'd been out of it for over an hour. And my nips were so sore that every time I turned, dragging my shirt across their points, I flinched. What the hell had gone on for the last hour? I tried to think back: Greg had been in my office, talking about... what? Oh yes, the report we had to have completed by next week. Then he'd said something to me; what was it? Hard as I tried, I couldn't remember. But that was the end of my conscious memory until just this moment when I awoke. I must've had a really bad night last night to have blacked out and, so it seems, taken a nap at work. I never do that!

I managed to finish my appointments for the day, though some kept staring at the double protrusions sticking out of my shirt. I tried to lean forward with my elbows on the desk as much as possible, but sometimes, it would have seemed very strange to be posed that way, so I just had to swallow it and let them wonder why I was sprouting these nipples. I was going to have to buy some less-tailored shirts! When my mind wandered, I could see myself with even larger tits; points an inch long and thick like fingers hanging from my pecs. My mouth watered at the idea and I had to tear myself away from my reverie and come back to the meeting.

Finally, the day was over. I said goodnight to my admin, Roger, said I'd be staying for a little while and told him to go on his way. When I heard him leave, I got up, closed the door, locked it and went back to my laptop. I opened my private e-mail account and immediately saw what I was looking for: a new message from Ted. The subject was "Relax like a good boy." Darkness swept me away with a rush of sound.

I don't know whether I'd dreamt or had hallucinations or a vision, or what? I saw countless male chests; tits, pecs, big and firm and dripping. I saw huge aureoles with huge nipples protruding from them: dark and beautiful, pale pink and alluring, brown and enticing. I wanted nipples like that; that much I knew. There was a voice; Ted's voice I think, so familiar, yet so foreign, that told me my body was changing; that my titties were going to grow longer and larger and that my areolas were going to increase in diameter. I had to have nipples like that. As they swam in and out of my dream, my cock grew larger and harder until, feeling mouths on my nipples and sucking on one of the man tits in my dream, I exploded and the vision faded.

When I came to, my shirt-tail was out of my pants and my shirt was unbuttoned, my tie flung over my shoulder. My nips were quite sore. I reached for them and winced when my fingers came in contact. I looked down and saw that my nipples were chafed, puffy and red; obviously they'd had a good mauling. The clock on my desk read 7:21. I'd been unaware for over two hours. Trailing my hand down my chest, my fingers encountered a cool, runny mess on my belly; I had come after all. That much had not been a dream. I lifted my sticky fingers to my lips and licked them, then stuck them in my mouth and sucked on them like a calf sucking a teat. More, I wanted more. I dipped them into the liquefying mess on my belly and suckled again, savoring the flavor that, to this point, I'd never tasted. As if moved by an unknown force, I once again dipped my fingers into the remnant stickiness and rubbed it into my sore tits. The pain-mixed thrill shot down my spine, straight into my dick and made it throb. I gripped my sore knobs and twisted, knowing that this additional torture would leave me with a very sore chest tomorrow, but for some reason. I didn't care; I just kept on.

Later that night, I sat down to supper and winced as I raised my wine glass and brushed my aching right tit with my arm. I rubbed my sore nipples with my hands and stiffened and arched my back in pleasure/pain.

I got up and went in to get ready for bed. After doing my night-time "maintenance", I climbed into bed. Lying on my back, my hands resting on my chest, I felt compelled to brush my fingers over my erect, sore titties. I flicked them with my index fingers and again, my back arched and I moaned in pleasure/pain. I flicked with my middle fingers, then ring and finally my pinkies in a ritual of stimulation. Then I grabbed hold of them and stretched them toward the ceiling until I couldn't take it anymore. I built to a tit climax and collapsed back on the bed, my breath coming in ragged gasps from the electrical storm that had shot up and down my spine. Finally, I drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 4

When I arose in the morning, I found my tits were very, very sore and sensitive. I finally took my tee shirt off because I couldn't stand the friction and pressure of the soft fabric against my nubs. The cool air in my apartment took away some of the burn. I went to the bathroom and searched for some lotion and found a bottle in the linen closet that had come from one of the hotels I'd stayed in during my business travels. Covering the opening with my right index finger, I flipped the bottle, leaving a dollop on my finger-tip. I repeated the motion with my left hand, I had finger-tips coated with cool lotion. I raised my fingers to my nipples and gasped when soothing flesh met raw flesh. I rubbed the lotion in with ginger motions, not wanting to apply too much pressure to my abused nipples, or titties, as I was now thinking of them. God, that's so gay, I thought. What kind of man calls his nipples "titties"? Only fags, and, though I'm comfortably gay, I never considered myself a fag. Yet, here I was, rubbing lotion into my "titties". I gently pressed my titties between my thumbs and fingers, pulling from base to tip. "Fag", I thought.

When they felt a little better, I dropped my shorts and climbed into the shower. I should say that I've shaved in the shower for years. I mean, why not? My face is already wet with hot water, so my beard is soft and why waste extra time and water shaving before or after my shower? It's not like I can't get a good shave by feel; I don't need to see myself in the mirror. So after lathering up, I grabbed my razor and shaved my face. Then, something very strange happened. For some reason I couldn't explain, I applied the razor to my chest. I started at the top of my sternum and drew it downward, shaving a clean swath through my chest hair. Then I shaved the fur from both pecs, leaving my chest as smooth as it had been before I had begun to sprout the fur in high-school. I'd always been so proud of my chest and belly fur: it proved I was a man. And to a gay boy, or, I should say "gay kid", proving your masculinity is crucial. But now I was removing that external sign of my masculinity. Why? What the hell was happening? I had no answers, but I kept right on, as though some unseen, unknown being was controlling my actions. Something had changed in my internal sense of myself: I was losing my masculinity.

When I'd finished with my chest, being very careful around my sensitive titties, I removed the fur from my armpits, then my belly and lastly, my pubes, cock, and balls and ass crack. I watched the fur circle and disappear down the drain and felt that my proud manhood was disappearing with it. Was I becoming a fag? At this stage in my life? I didn't want to be a fag. But I was doing these things that pointed to that. I was becoming a fag. And then the words found their way into my consciousness: "Tit fag. Tit slave". Someone or something was taking control over me and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Even if I'd had an idea who or what "it" was, there was nothing I could do to stop it; of that much I was sure. And I was equally sure that I didn't really want to.

I got out of the shower and stared at my body in the mirror. Where there had been fur, there was now smooth skin. Where there had previously been rather normal, unremarkable nipples, there was now the beginnings of titties: points that were already showing signs of increased length and girth. And was it my imagination, or were the brown circles of my areolas increasing in diameter? Or was it the new exposure because I had removed the hair that had covered them for so long? I touched them and stretched them between my fingers, trying to figure out whether or not they were actually getting bigger. Then, glancing at the clock, I realized I had a meeting scheduled in an hour and needed to get my ass in gear.

I made my meeting after which Greg and I went back to our endeavors on the report. Greg was like he always was: efficient, friendly, and insightful about the executives' concerns. But there was something just a bit different about him today. He kept looking at my chest, smiling ever so slightly, with a glint in his eye. Could it be? Was Greg gay? Funny that he and I had never talked about our personal lives. I had no idea whether he was gay or straight, partnered or single. I knew viritually nothing about this good-looking man that I'd worked with for several years now. I made my mind up to change that; I'd invite him out for a drink.

"Greg?"

"Yah?" he answered absently, reading over some figures.

"We've worked together for quite a while now, but I feel like I don't even know you."

"Yah..." he answered, looking up.

"Well, how about we get together after work for a drink? Maybe dinner? I mean, I'm unattached, so I always eat by myself anyway and I'd like to get to know you a little better."

"A little better!" Hah. How about get to know you at all, seeing as how you're a complete cypher to me.

"Sure," he answered, smiling. "I'm 'unattached' too, so that would be nice. Tonight?"

"Sounds great," I said, beaming.

So Greg was "unattached" too. So who knows? Maybe he's gay like I am. I do have to say, he's a good-looking guy and smart as a whip. I felt my cock beginning to harden and my tit's beginning to erect. I had to remind myself to stop: we're colleagues and colleagues don't get involved with one another; too many issues when there's fraternization in the workplace. But the thought never completely left my mind. I began to find myself noticing things about him: the shape of his ass as the fabric of his trousers molded itself around his globes; the outline of the substantial bulge in his crotch when I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of his remarkably well-outlined and big, thick cock, all the while trying not to be caught stealing a glance; the outlines of his pecs and the points of his nipples when his shirt clung to his chest. And when I noticed these things, my cock would harden of its own accord.

I asked Roger to order me some lunch and when he brought it in, he brought along a shipping envelop and placed it next to my lunch.

"Came this morning," he said.

The return on the envelop was only an address, so I wasn't absolutely sure what it was, but I waited until Roger left for lunch to open it up. I had an idea it was my nipple cups. I locked my door, opened the package and pulled out four smaller plastic ziplocs, each with a pair of translucent silicone cups in it: a graduated set from small to extra-large. I took out the smallest pair, holding them in my hand.

"These," I thought, "will be taking me somewhere I'd never planned on going. But I want to go there; I do want to go there."

I don't know how I'd come to know this, but I'd gone to the drugstore on the way in this morning, and picked up a bottle of body lotion with an ingredient called hyoluronic acid. I'd read on the web that this ingredient makes skin flexible and supple, so it would make my nipples supple too. I'd also picked up a jar of hand cream from Burt, the Bee guy, with almond milk in it. It was thick and would provide a good seal on the cups.

I threw my tie over my shoulder, unbuttoned my shirt and pulled up my athletic tee, exposing my newly shaved chest and belly. I opened the bottle of lotion. I capped the opening with my index finger and tipped the bottle, leaving a coating of lotion on my finger-tip, which I touched to my left index finger. I brought both finger-tips to my titties and inhaled sharply at the touch of the cold lotion on my hungry points. I was glad I was sitting, because my knees went weak. Rubbing the lotion around and pulling on my nips, I almost drifted off. But I wanted those cups on my titties. I coated the flanges of the cups with a thing layer of hand cream and squeezing them, placed them on my smallish points. When I released the cups from my grip, they began to expand, pulling my nips inside. I was inpatient to see them fully expanded and kneaded the flattened cups between my fingers, causing them, in turn, to knead my nipples. I groaned and leaned back in my chair, my cock hardening with the stimulation on my titties. Soon they were fully expanded and I looked down to see my nipples nearly twice the length they had been. Of course, that was because of the vacuum, and I knew they would return to their more-or-less normal size when I removed the cups. But I also realized that if I wore the cups all day, every day, my nipples, my titties, would grown permanently. I squeezed the cups again to increase the pump and my nipples expanded incrementally more.

I wanted so much to play with them, but I had meetings after lunch and an apointment with Greg to continue work on the report, so I reassembled my clothes and tried to focus on my lunch. But my hands kept wandering up to my suctioned nipples. I could see that the cups created significant protrusions under my shirt, but, at this point, I didn't care. I was going to get titties. I was a happy fag.

Oh, that word! Why did that word come into my consciousness again? Tit fag. Tit slave. What the hell was happening to me? But as I rolled the terms around in my brain, I found my dick getting harder and noticed a wet spot growing on my pants. I was getting really turned on by the idea of becoming a tit fag. And submitting. Submitting to what? To whom? I'd never considered myself submissive. To be honest, I'd never really thought about that aspect of my sexuality. As I've said, I was pretty vanilla, straight-arrow, for a gay man. I guess I was vaguely aware that world was out there, but it wasn't something I'd thought very much about. But now, I was finding myself thinking about it more and more and even acting on it, though I didn't know why, and I didn't know who was pulling the strings. Ted? Was that who it was? I became aware that all this had begun when I'd visited his website. Was he the one dominating me? All I could remember was that each night, I get home, eat my dinner and go to my laptop and find that e-mail from Ted and that's it. Nothing more. I awaken the next morning with sort tits and these undeniable urges to do things; resulting in my titties being the subject of an expansion project. There has to be a connection with Ted. But how could he, whoever he is, be doing this to me? It's like I was being hypnotized. But I don't believe in hypnosis! It's just a silly thing that some gullible people believe in. I guess if you do believe in it and it can help you overcome problems like smoking or over-eating, that's fine. But I don't believe in it! And yet, here I was with suction cups on my nipples and words like "tit fag" and "tit slave" creeping into my consciousness.

Chapter 5

I got through the afternoon's meetings without any loss of awareness, at least not that I was aware of. I suppose you might consider that a tautology: if I'd lost awareness, how would I be aware of it? But there were no time gaps in the day, as there had been yesterday, when time passed that I hadn't been knowledgeable about. Let me tell you: that's profoundly disturbing. You're going about your workday and then you wake up and realize that a couple of hours have gone by and you have no idea what happened. But you know that your tits hurt. I tried to push this out of my mind; no use obsessing over periods of time you don't recall: they're not going to come back to you. My work session with Greg went fine; no intuitions on my part that something was amiss. I was still having trouble keeping my hands off my titties and a couple of times, Greg's glances went over me and he'd have had to have been blind not to see. Each time, I quickly pulled my hands away and busied them with something on the desk, but I was sure he saw and each time, I was sure I flushed deeply with embarrassment. Greg, however, said nothing, though I could swear I saw the creases at the corners of his eyes crinkle up, as though he were stiflling a grin.

We were finishing up and it was getting close to 5:00.

"How about that drink?" I asked, trying to sound relaxed, though, truth be told, I was wound tighter than a main spring.

"Sounds good," Greg said. "Where shall we go?"

"I guess I don't go out much anymore. Do you know of a place?"

"There's a nice little bar on Christopher St. in the Village. Want to go there?"

"Sure. Is it quiet, so we can talk?"

"At this hour, it should be; it's early and it's a week-night."

"OK, what's the address?"

"It's just west of Bleecker. A place called 'Ty's'. We can get a beer and sit and talk. The owner won't bother us.".

"Sounds good. Walk, cab, or train?"

"How would it be if we walked? It's twenty minutes, but I've been cooped up all day and feel like stretching my legs."

I laughed.

"Sure. Cooped up with me? Has that been a hardship?"

Greg laughed too.

"No, no, not at all. You're easy on the eyes. But it's a nice afternoon and it'll be good to get some air and exercise."

"You got it," I answered, grabbing my jacket.

As I slipped my jacket on, I realized my cups were significantly poking through my shirt and tried to hide the fact that I was wearing something under my clothes. Had Greg noticed? I saw his eyes fastened onto my chest, and I knew that he'd seen it. But maybe he didn't know what he was seeing and would leave it alone.

We hit the street and started walking uptown. The blocks slid past as we talked about office politics and who got which plum assignments and who didn't, and why. Greg was pretty accurate in his estimate: in roughly 20 minutes, we turned left onto Christopher St. and found Ty's halfway down the block. We went in, ordered a couple of beers and sat down at a table in the back. It's not a big place, so we were lucky it was early and, as Greg said, mid-week, so there weren't a lot of customers. Ty's has been around a long time and I suspect that it attracts its regulars, the older gay crowd. It didn't strike me as a hip place, and obviously didn't want to be, or try to be. It's old Greenwich Village gay scene, and happy to stay that way.

"So, Greg... As I said, we've been working together for a while, and I'm ashamed to say, I feel like I don't even know you. I mean, I don't know what you like or dislike. I haven't the least idea what sorts of things you're into. I suppose you could say that's none of my business, but I'd like to get to know you better and have you get to know me. I mean..."

I looked down at the table, suddenly feeling self-conscious, and my hands wandered up to my pumped titties.

"I mean... You see, I've lived here all my adult life, at least since college, and I don't have any friends. Can you believe that? No friends. My fanily's in the mid-west, so I don't see them much and it... it just gets kind of lonely."

I'd blurted all this out without intending to. But once I began my confession, I found it impossible to stop. Greg gently placed his hand on mine.

"It's OK Hank. I get it. You see, I'm gay too."

My eyes flew up and locked on his. How did he know with such certainty? Was I that obvious.

"Oh don't get nervous Hank; it's that old gaydar thing. Remember that? Guys hardly even talk about it anymore with all the social media. Who needs gaydar when you have Grindr to find guys for you? If you asked me, it's a skill that will be missed in the future."

I laughed nervously.

"Yah, I suppose so. But how did you know?"

"Same way you know; you just sense it. You notice things about the way a guy looks at other guys, the way he carries himself, the way he acts."

"But..."

"Don't get me wrong Hank; you're not in the least bit obvious. Very straight acting. Except you can't help but look at men and women? You definitely don't look at women the way straight men do. So I figured it out a long time ago. And then, there's this..."

Greg dropped his eyes to my chest and raised his hands, taking my suctioned nipples between his thumbs and fingers. I closed my eyes and groaned as he squeezed.

"This is something only a gay man would do. So tell me I'm wrong Hank. Tell me your not a tit fag."

His words swept over me like a tsunami. "Tit fag", the word that had crept into my consciousness and changed me forever. "Tit fag". Greg had said it to me, had named me. And I suddenly knew the "how" of how all this happened. My comlete awareness was now focused on those swelling bits of flesh on my chest.

"Yes sir. I'm a tit fag."

"Good Hanky,"

And I was gone.

To be continued.