I lounged on my velvet chaise like a lioness who has already caught her prey and is now simply deciding how slowly to devour it. The room smelled of vanilla, sugar, and the faint, unmistakable musk of submission. My little sissy cow knelt before me in her frilly maid dress, apron straining over that delicious paunch I’d cultivated so carefully. The skirt barely covered the tops of her stockings now; every week the hem rode higher as her ass and thighs thickened. Perfect.
She was trembling. Good. I like them trembling.
Earlier today, the pathetic thing had worked up the courage to send me a message while pretending to be a functional adult at her little office job:
“Goddess, my chest is really sore and tender lately… is something wrong?”
Wrong? Oh, darling. Everything is going exactly right.
I let the silence stretch just long enough for her anxiety to bloom. Then I smiled, slow and cruel, and crooked a crimson nail.
“Crawl.”
The bell on her collar jingled as she obeyed, waddling forward on her knees. The weight I’d packed onto her made crawling awkward now (her belly nearly brushed the floor, and those swollen udders swayed with every movement). I watched them jiggle under the satin bodice and felt a warm pulse of satisfaction between my thighs. Eight months of meticulous feeding, and the results were exquisite.
When she reached my feet, I let her kiss the tip of my stiletto before I spoke.
“You asked me why your man boobs are sore, didn’t you, cow?”
She nodded, cheeks flaming.
“Words.”
“Y-yes, Goddess Belle. They… they hurt all the time now. And they feel… heavier.”
I laughed, low and throaty. “That’s because they’re not man boobs anymore, sweetheart. They’re tits. My tits. And they’re growing exactly the way I planned.”
Her eyes went wide (those pretty, vacant doe eyes I love so much). Confusion, then the delicious dawn of realization. I leaned forward, silk robe slipping open just enough to remind her what she will never, ever deserve, and cupped her chest through the dress.
“Feel how soft they’ve gotten?” I squeezed, savoring her sharp inhale. “That’s fat and glandular tissue, darling. Real breast buds. All that soy I’ve been pouring down your greedy throat (triple-shot soy lattes every morning, soy protein shakes blended with heavy cream three times a day, tofu stir-fries, edamame snacks). Phytoestrogens, baby. Hundreds of milligrams every single day. Your poor little male endocrine system surrendered months ago.”
I pinched a nipple through the fabric and twisted just enough to make her squeal.
“And the dairy,” I continued, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “whole milk by the gallon, triple-cream brie, mascarpone, butter in everything. Bovine estrogens on top of plant estrogens. I’ve been chemically castrating you with every calorie, and you thanked me for it every time you begged for seconds.”
She tried to pull away. I tightened my grip.
“Don’t you dare flinch. You gave me this body. You begged me to control what goes in it. And I decided a long time ago that I didn’t want a boy. I wanted a soft, milky, brainless heifer with udders that ache when they’re full and an ass that claps when she waddles. And look (I gave her breast a little shake) we’re nearly there.”
I released her and reached for the silver tray beside me: éclairs dripping with custard, a mountain of whipped cream, a two-liter soy shake sweating in its crystal pitcher. Her eyes flicked to it with the helpless hunger I’d trained into her. Pavlov would be proud.
“Open your mouth.”
She obeyed instantly. I pushed an entire éclair between her lips, watching cream squirt out the sides as she struggled to chew. While she choked it down, I kept talking.
“By the end of this year you’ll be a proper DD, maybe an E if you keep eating like the greedy little pig you are. Your hips are already wider than your shoulders (soon you won’t be able to find men’s pants that fit over that shelf of an ass). And the best part?” I scooped a heaping spoonful of whipped cream and smeared it across her lips like gloss. “Induced lactation is next. A few months of domperidone and a good milking schedule, and these udders will start dripping for me. I’ll keep you in a special bra with bottles attached. You’ll crawl to me twice a day to be drained, mooing like the cow you are while I stroke your empty little head.”
She was crying now, fat tears rolling down those chubby cheeks, but her caged clitty was straining so hard the pink plastic gleamed. I laughed again.
“Oh, you love it. You love that I stole your masculinity one calorie at a time and you never even noticed until your own tits started hurting. You love that I’m making you into a girl because you were never man enough to be anything else.”
I grabbed the soy shake and pressed the straw to her lips.
“Drink. Every drop. Your breasts are sore because they’re growing, and growing breasts need fuel. The more you swell, the more you’ll ache, and every ache will remind you who owns you.”
She drank, gulping noisily, desperately, while I stroked her hair like a favored pet.
“That’s it, my pretty heifer. Get fatter for me. Softer. Dumber. Let those udders balloon until you can’t see your feet anymore. One day you’ll thank me on your knees, milk dripping down your belly, begging me to ruin you even more thoroughly.”
I leaned down until my lips brushed her ear.
“And I will, darling. I always will.”
She moaned around the straw, defeated, aroused, utterly mine (exactly the way I designed her).
Goddess Belle
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