Love, Her Bra (Patreon)

This was an interesting writing exercise! Someone made this request in the Prompt Pool, and I finally finished writing it out: "Transmogrification into a fat lady's personal object: a bra, a belt, a toy, a pair of jeans." Writing from the perspective of an object is something I haven't done in a really long while, so it was nice to play around with it. This might also qualify as my first TF/transformation story, I think? That's not a kink I read much, so an expert may have to weigh in.

If you're interested in seeing me write a specific idea, go ahead and fill out the Prompt Pool form! This is the second Prompt Pool story I've posted, with the first being A Little Extra Filling. These stories are only available on Patreon, and only patrons have access to the form, so take advantage! 

Also, make sure to participate in the Like Mother, Like Daughters poll for chapter 12! The Emple sisters are trying to get active during their vacation to stave off cruise ship weight gain, and there are a whole bunch of activities to choose from! So far, the "rock climbing wall" and "cycling" options are in the lead, but I'm still hoping for "kayaking" to stage a surprise upset. 

Also also, we had some fun over on deviantart last weekend. I asked people to share their favorite weight gain story tropes, and they definitely delivered! I may or may not have a story or two marinating based on the comments now... I generally post stuff like that over on DA, but let me know if y'all would ever like to have some conversations like that over here!

***

I was important, once. A man who mattered. The type who had so much money it was impossible for any venture I invested in to fail, no matter how ridiculous. At the time, I was sure it was because I was a genius. I thought that genius extended to everything I did and thought, so much so that I was always happy to give interviews and expound on what I believed were truly radical, earth-shattering views.

In one such interview—with a new reporter, a young woman who I assumed was impressionable and would be wowed by my intellect—I was asked, “Do you support women?” I answered “Of course I support women!” and proceeded to ramble on the topic until the reporter interrupted me, interjecting some comment about how few women my companies employed—unless they were poorly paid garment workers, or digging in one of the mines I tried not to remember I owned. (Really, they were such a small part of my investments!)

My biggest mistake was laughing. It didn’t matter what I said afterwards: that laugh played on every news station for weeks. There were gifs. Memes pouring out of every internet hellhole, I was told—not that I spent much time online. Why on earth would anyone so rich as I was waste time scrolling on social media? That was why I thought it would blow over. Nothing like that ever lasted long. There would be some disaster or someone else’s gaffe in the news cycle soon enough.

So when a friend told me there were witches banding together online to try and “take me down,” I laughed again. It seems foolish now, but you have to admit—witches? Was there anyone who really believed in the power of witches now, in this century? I certainly didn’t. Especially when so many of their spells were posts that said things like “like to charge, repost to cast.” As if pixels and code could do anything to me.

I feel like a fool, thinking that now. It took time, but whatever they did—the sheer power of thousands of women coming together to dream up my downfall—worked. I went to sleep a man one night, not knowing it would be my last night in that body.

When I awoke, or became conscious, or whatever you want to call it, I was… no longer human. I was in a loud, hot room, being handled by a woman’s hands. Scraps of me slowly came together, bound by needle and thread, until I was something whole.

I was a bra.

I felt certain that I had lost my mind. This was a bizarre dream. I was still me and still conscious, aware of myself and the world around me… and I was a bra. That was impossible.

But as I was packed into a plastic bag and shipped off to be displayed in some store on the other side of the planet, I was forced to come to terms with it. Months passed in a dark shipping container. I was not waking up. I wasn’t sleeping, either. I was a consciousness embedded in elastic straps, underwire, and lace edging.

I was finally hung up in a store for a few days. After the constant darkness, I was glad to at least see light and color and new people again. I also felt what I could only describe as a deep longing. It took me some time to identify what it was, and I realized that I was desperate to be worn. It made some sense. I had always been a busy man with a strong sense of purpose. Now that I was a bra, I still wanted to be of use. And really, how bad could it be to be wrapped around a pair of breasts all day?

I was so thankful when I was finally tried on. I knew from the moment the bra fitter handed me to her beneath the fluorescent lights of the department store dressing room that I’d found my true home: Mira.

I was an everyday part of Mira’s life from the day she bought me.

She pulled me over her head like a t-shirt that first time. I won’t say I’m judgmental, but at least before that day, I’d never heard of that method. But Mira always did things her own way, even if it threatened to pop a few of my stitches even before she’d finished putting me on. She pulled and adjusted, checking in the mirror to ensure we fit well together. In all honesty, it wasn’t a perfect fit. My band was a little loose on her, even with her using the tightest row of hooks. The cup size was almost accurate, but still a little too roomy since my band was too large.

Still, we looked nice together, and she had a smile on her face. If she was comfortable, who was I to disagree? I felt better than I had in my entire existence as a garment, warmed by soft skin, slowly shaping myself to best suit her.

We fell into a routine. She would pull me on each morning as she rushed to get ready for her job at a fast food joint, and I would support her all through it. If it was even possible for a bra to love, then I loved her. She was my everything. I knew her in a way no one else ever would. I boosted both her cleavage and her confidence.

Perhaps I should’ve felt more distressed by the whole thing, but really, it seemed very positive all around.

At least, until I realized Mira liked to sample the food at work more than most girls, and took advantage of the free meals to the fullest extent. At first, this just meant I helped her catch fries between her boobs when she was sitting on the couch at home wearing nothing but me and her favorite sweats. Then I started to collect extra crumbs and salt that fell off the french fries, onion rings, and nuggets she loved so much. All part of the job.

She started getting… heavier, though. I was up to the job, of course—it was what I was made for—but that didn’t mean it wasn’t more difficult. I could feel that my band was digging deeper into her sides and back, my cups stretching to be able accommodate her increasing bust. It was a relief when she finally expanded the band to the second row of hooks. We both had more breathing room then.

The extra breathing room only seemed to accelerate her eating habits. She started chugging from giant cups of soda during her shift “for the energy boost.” I could hear her stomach rumbling just below me long before her lunch, at which point she would usually start sneaking food early, chicken fries mysteriously going missing under her watch.

When she started including hot fudge sundaes with her lunches, I started to worry. It hadn’t been long at all since she adjusted my band, and yet I could already feel myself straining to hold her in. Some of my stitches had already ripped. The soft squish of her belly pressed upwards against my underwire while gravity tried to force her breasts downward.

It had to be less than two months later that she finally had to expand the band to the final row of hooks. I had real concerns about my lifespan then. What would happen to a bra that no longer fit? I had no idea. With Mira becoming more gluttonous by the day, and her employer seeming to encourage her expansion by insisting she no longer had to wait to clock out for breaks if she really needed something to eat, it became a pressing concern. She had already outgrown her first uniform, and by the way her new polo shirt pressed against me I could tell it wouldn’t last much longer.

I felt worn out, and like my end would probably arrive soon, too. Daily use and regular washing had worn my fabric thinner, some of my lace fraying. I was no longer the fresh, untouched garment I had once been. I could feel Mira overflowing out of me—breasts jiggling over the tops of my cups, threatening to spill out; back fat squishing around the band; soft gut pressing up against my underwire and threatening to bend it out of shape. There were tears in the fabric around the hooks from how far I had to stretch to support Mira’s bulk.

Eventually, there came a day when Mira looked at me before putting me on and sighed, saying aloud that she might’ve outgrown me. I was heartbroken. She put me on, and I could feel her wince at how tight I was on her. I was with her while she worked, stuffing herself through her shift as she served customers with a strained smile, the discomfort she felt at the way I pinched and squeezed her slipping through her customer service mask.

After her shift was done, she headed home, threw me to the floor, and pulled out a measuring tape I’d never seen. She measured herself, learning her new band size (we were both astonished by how many inches it had increased) and then her cup size. She sat on the couch and ordered a new bra, and I knew it was the end for me. I couldn’t fault her for it. I could no longer support her like I once had.

The new garment arrived, its plastic packaging crinkling as she tore into it. The worst part was, it looked just like me, only larger: the same color fabric, the same lace, the same cut. She pulled it on and made a face, and I felt a little satisfaction at that. I might no longer fit, but I had provided her comfort, once. It softened the blow when she shoved me into a trash bag filled with other clothes she’d fattened herself out of and threw me into the trunk of her car, then dropped the bag off at Goodwill. It hurt a little that she didn’t even say goodbye—but who says goodbye to their cast-off clothes?

Lying there crumpled in the bag, my purpose completed, I hoped one day I would get to support a woman like Mira again.