[v_10] Preview teaser stuff (Patreon)

Emi+Fuki continues! Is anyone keeping track of how many times Fuki is peaking? ;D

Also, a sneak peek into Alice's and Sadie's reworks I grabbed while working:

Ah, Alice. Always so smug.

And Sadie, of course. Cute as ever I'd say.

Following up, a bit of literature for Cali's second journal entry in the Welcome to Unreality series:

Journal entry: Nereidyl Trial, post-implantation update #002

If I'm to believe my various smart devices, it's been nearly a month since the procedure. Everything's blurred together since then and I have a hard time accepting how much time has passed. Though, To be fair, being confined with minimal visitation will do that -- just a touch of cabin fever. I've spent practically every hour here in my personal quarters, cloistered away deep within the heart of the main headquarters. The Nereidyl trials rank amongst the most secretive works undertaken by the corporation afterall. I've become quite the crowning jewel and none of the executives can risk exposing what we've achieved. Or what we're working towards. Therefore, there's only a select group of privileged individuals that even know about me and what I've done and even fewer who have the clearance to visit. Some don't even do that. Dr. Krieger, for example, is more than happy to observe from a distance. It's really just the pair of orderlies that I see regularly. Hmm.. I wonder to what kind of contract those two are bound?

Everything about what I continue to experience has been beyond surreal. My nights have been filled with fitful sleep and my mornings with habitual surprise as I wake up to a pondering wall of taut breast skin obscuring my vision. Even my waking hours the past several days have borne a dream-like quality. Days or maybe weeks?

It's funny though, isn't it? How an event in someone's life can change their entire perspective. Humorous, in my particular case, that this applies in both the mental and physical interpretations of the phrase equally. Like fretting just now about just how much time has passed. Seriously. What does it matter? It's such a small and trivial thing compared to other more literally pressing matters. There are so many of those small and trivial things that have washed away to be replaced with one consideration. No. Two overshadowing, monumental considerations which rise up and preside high above me and my thoughts.

I am inextricably and extraordinarily entwined to these massive implanted breasts.

My whole being, my daily existence, is influenced by these heaving, ponderous orbs. As had been theorized, and, if I'm being candid, much to my extreme exuberance, I've already grown beyond the original volume. Clearly, those 48,000 cubic centimeters of Nereidyl have already begun affecting my biology, changing me further. In the absence of other stimuli, sitting here in my room, the familiar, incessant tingling that I have come to associate with the serum secreting from the permeable implants threatens to overwhelm me. The feeling raises goosebumps across my skin, the electric thrum crowding out my consciousness until all other senses feel muted and far off. Like being held in a constant state of euphoric heat, just inches away from release. Even small movements cause these sensations to mount in intensity and introduce an unforeseen consequence of being pumped full with so much fluid. My body's motion sends my tits into unceremonious -- yet, dare I say, awe inspiring -- wobbles and jiggles. Walking, even shifting my posture, almost anything, no matter how subtle, is enough to affect the inertia of my bosom now. Even when I stop, when I try to keep them still, they continue shaking and quivering like some kind of gigantic, lewd gelatin molds. In the calmest moments, it's impossible to escape the subtle feeling of their influence pushing and pulling against me. I find myself conflicted; in equal measure seeking reprieve from the lurching, sloshy motion while also relishing the intoxicating bliss of the serum's effects.

As one might imagine, the constant churning chaos induced by movement also only further exacerbates the diffusion of serum. This is further complicated by the treatment regimen prescribed by the aftercare team, which has ordained that the two orderlies shall engage in daily heavy massaging of my impossibly-enhanced bust. The deep tissue massage is intended to help promote healthy healing and recovery following the surgical procedure. It seems unnecessary as I've already recovered completely, though, with that said, it has been an experience I've started savoring. Some small part of me wonders if there might be an ulterior motive? Another part of me wonders if the orderlies enjoy administering the therapy as much as I delight in receiving it? Experience leads me to believe that they do. It's an odd arrangement, overall very clinical. Neither carry personally identifying information or engage in small talk. The gent is ever the nearly consummate professional. If not for his manhood, difficult to ignore, which stirs and twitches as he inevitably brushes against me, he does well to keep his arousal contained. I'd almost not know. The gal, however, is another story. Perhaps routine breeds familiarity as she has become increasingly irrepressible during the recurring sessions. As it tends to go, slowly the pressure of hands working across my tautness is accompanied by the warmth and weight of her whole body pressing and then grinding up against my swollenness. Straddling one heaving orb, her whole bust mashed against the single gargantuan endowment, she tends to lose herself in the motion as she keeps her eyes locked on the expanse of skin before her. Rarely does she raise her gaze to match mine, but in those moments I catch something in her expression. It took me some time to interpret the look: lustful with a dash of resentment. She's envious; envious to be in my position, to be the one lavished with attention, to have been blessed by bigness. I can forgive her state of mind, I've been envious too in the past. The three of us make quite the trio each evening as we contort together, our tacit intermingling as though engaged in craven communion. The silence punctuated by my own impassioned moans as my two acolytes venerate me and my burgeoning flesh.

I'm not certain which of the two is my favorite.

All of this agonizing attention makes it impossible to not notice the pronounced after effects of such stimulation. Rather than feeling more accustomed to my size as time passes, the sense of being overly stretched taut has only continued to increase. Each day I feel slightly larger and slightly heavier. It's almost scary if I think about it too much. So many factors feel outside of my control now, like I almost have no options even if I wanted to turn back. And yet, most days when I'm alone, I press and knead and massage every inch of myself within reach purely for the pleasure of it. Always applying more pressure and stroking faster across their beckoning surfaces to chase that tingle that builds into the mind-shattering thrum. As I squeeze at myself, I freely imagine the consequences of my actions, what my own attention is doing to myself. How this might be accelerating my transformation. Without fail, just as I let my imagination race, the release comes... hard. The cloying rapture only makes me want more.

As much as I appreciate the attention of the orderlies, I've petitioned to be allowed back amongst my fellow researchers and to work again within my personal lab. I've been absolutely starved for mental stimulation. To date, Dr. Krieger has denied all such requests. If my bodily changes are only just beginning, he deems it paramount to remain confined. I harbor almost no irritation towards the doctor for this decision, he is only adhering to company protocol after all. As he and I both know, the catalyst is highly volatile and the risks associated with this trial continue to be largely unknown and possibly vast. Better safe than sorry. Until I can return to the lab, I'm stuck here doing the best I can to continue research with what's available. Unfortunately, my personal space isn't particularly conducive to work. In fact, it's not particularly conducive to comfort either when you've become this outrageously endowed. Just finding a nice place to sit and a pose that facilitates easy access to my laptop has become surprisingly complex.

Now that I'm armed with some empirical data, from very personal experience thus far, I've set about updating and adjusting the theoretical models. Growth following implantation was always an expected–and desired–outcome, but what I've discovered has been concerning. If I had been disquieted by the subjective and unconfirmed sensation of slow daily changes, it's for good reason. Extrapolation would suggest that what I've heretofore experienced is the proverbial tip of a monumentally fleshy iceberg. The deviation from the original theoretical estimates are... significant. The old model is simply, farcically wrong. So incredibly, impossibly wrong that I can't even begin to understand how this might have happened. It makes me think there must be something that I failed to take into account?

Perhaps I goofed the math? Misplaced a decimal point?

I refuse to believe it. I pride myself on being meticulous when it comes to my work. My science.

The reality of my situation is quickly becoming difficult to fathom. There's no other meaningful course of action than the hunt for better suppression methods. I might have been overly zealous in undergoing the procedure prior to finishing that particular research, but thankfully there have been several promising approaches to pursue. Several methods have shown to slow the spread and effect of Nereids and one antigen, though untested, hypothetically neutralizes the organism entirely. Therefore, the first point of order shall be to investigate all identified antigens and determine their efficacy. I don't feel great about working against the clock.

It's just confounding though! The new estimates defy logic. How can breasts grow to such gargantuan proportions independent of genetic predisposition? A faint whisper of reason warns me to panic; that all of this apprehension is well warranted. Unfortunately for that angel, the louder voice within yearns to see the full extent of what can be wrought. Not so little me, secluded here in my enclosure teetering on the precipice of immense change. As the unknown beckons alluringly to me, tempts me with undergoing this fleshly metamorphosis that threatens to burgeon beyond my control. The offer sets me on edge and literally makes me sopping wet...

Gah.. my study buddy from the university years, Kelvin, is slated to arrive at main HQ in a handful of months. I'm dying to share these developments with him, to see how he responds to my improvements. I'll have to bide my time though, corporate protocol forbids any outgoing communication containing details of the Nereidyl trials. It's going to feel like an eternity waiting for him to get here. So long that I wonder just how much I'll have changed by the time he finally arrives? I'm going to enjoy... debriefing him.

God! My lust never feels sated anymore. If I'm not nose-down focused on work, I'm ideating all manner of lewd situations to explore. For myself. For possible serum applications. So many thoughts that feel almost invasive in their constancy and intensity. Regular indulgences in masturbatory self-exploration have helped tame the need sufficiently thus far. Though I sense those tricks will only help for so long, especially if my libido matches the rate at which my breasts will be expanding. If that ends up being the case, my autoerotic escapades will quickly escalate to fucking anything that moves...

Hmm. Perhaps I'll suss out just how far my orderlies are willing to go... that could provide a titillating diversion in the interim...

Lots more to come soon!

- bd