The Dream Eater 1 (Patreon-Exclusive Sample) (Patreon)

She always dreamt of growing bustier. Something from the other side listened.

There’s a mysterious new arcade cabinet in town. Lydia, the self-professed queen of the Retro Arcade, naturally has to beat it. But there’s more to this game than just a high score; with every point, Lydia grows bustier and bustier, changing into a wet dream while overloading on pleasure. But while her curves swell, she is left blissfully unaware to her own transformation, her sense of normality manipulated by an unseen puppeteer, warping reality towards its own debauched purposes…

Can Lydia beat the game before she succumbs to the erotic thrill of her changing body?
Will she realize that she is becoming a seed of corruption for an otherworldly entity? Or will she plunge fully into the Dream Eater’s breast-obsessed fantasy world, drowning in the curves that she had always wished for?

This 4,200 word story contains: Breast Expansion (huge/hyper), Solo/Lesbian, Transformation, Female Growth, & Reality Warping.

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The Dream Eater 1: A Breast Expansion Story

The end of the world was upon Lydia. She clung to the grubby front desk of the Retro Arcade gaming hall, feeling sick to her stomach as she faced down the bored teenage boy on duty, who stifled a yawn as Lydia processed his catastrophic news:

Time Crisis 2 was gone.

“What do you mean, ‘broken’? I played it for three hours last night, it was fine!”

“I mean that it’s fucked beyond repair. Maintenance already hauled it off.”

 Lydia tapped her fingers anxiously on the hard, glossy surface, her eyes unblinking—like an old west telegrapher spelling out a desperate plea for help in face of a marauding horde—but no more information was forthcoming from the attendant, whose attention had already returned to his smartphone.

“Hauled it off? Where? When? Why? You can’t just do something like that. Not without consulting me!” She drew herself up to her full height, for what little good it did her; though a grown-ass woman, Lydia was short and underdeveloped, cursed to forever flash her ID when she went out for drinks. She deserved to be busty, she thought, and still waited for their arrival—any day now—but so far, her feminine figure remained as absent as her father figure and left her shaped in the approximation of your average wooden stick.

In the arcade, however, she was a goddess. The master of games, a stone cold digital killer, gamepad virtuoso, and the champion of the scoreboard. The Retro Arcade was her domain, a tiny kingdom carved out of a corner of a fading shopping mall that she ruled with her iron (if branch-like) fist.

Which made it all the more intolerable that the pimpled peon before her had gone back to pretending she didn’t exist.

“Fine. Fuck you too,” she murmured and stormed off.

Her feet automatically led her to her favorite corner of the arcade hall, where a new arcade machine had been deposited in the place of the king. A sorry pretender, basking in the glory of the newly departed, she regarded it with suspicion, but couldn’t help her natural curiosity. It was called The Bubble Game and it was laughably simple: Fill an empty tank with bubbles of various shapes and sizes; connect two of the same color and they pop, leaving a single bubble of the next tier in their place. Keep on making bigger bubbles to get more points until the tank overflows and your game is over.

Pfft. It wasn’t even worth her time. She turned away, scanning the cabinets for a better challenge. House of the Dead was occupied, but how about—

The jingle blared out behind her at, she thought, rather a louder volume than before. Lydia spun around, staring down the Bubble Game and its bright, happy colors.

“Are you fucking mocking me? You, some cheap, garbage machine dragged on a day’s notice?”

The jingle kept on playing, which she took as a yes. Her eyes narrowed.

“I will destroy you. I’ll cut your wires, smash your screen, wreck you so thoroughly that they have no choice but to bring Time Crisis back. Got it?”

Bubbles bounced around on the screen, playing a loud ding! with every pop.

Lydia crossed her arms. “Fine. I guess I’ll grab the high score first. But then you’re toast.”

She popped a token into the machine and started the game. Bubbles descended from the top, blue, yellow, green, and red, dropping into a rainbow-colored pile until she hit her first pair and… Pop.

A shiver ran down her spine. The sound had not come from the game, but somewhere inside her own head. Though it felt as if the source had been lower, welling up from inside her chest as her heart stumbled over its own beat. She reeled for a moment, eyes growing unfocused, before she steadied herself against the console of the arcade cabinet, continuing its merry jingle, which grew no less aggravating in her moment of weakness.

But the stupid game was not going to beat her that easily. She grit her teeth, wondering why she felt so weird. The game was a fucking cake-walk! The loss of Time Crisis must have shocked her more than she realized, Lydia reasoned to herself, and directed her attention towards the high score once more. She’d go chill and calm down later; after she had put these stupid bubbles in their place.

The next couple of pops went by without fanfare. Her breath steadied once more, and her mind focused on knocking the colored bubbles together in sequence. One, two, three—and boom, she got to the biggest size of bubble she had seen yet.

It hit her instantly, like a punch in the gut. Only, it was the furthest thing possible from pain; a kiss on her clit, intense, arousing, and wholly unexpected. She found herself reeling once more, but now there was no trace of stress or frustration; this was all pleasure, a toe-curling pulse of heat between her legs that sent shivers down her spine. She was blushing, she realized, and her nipples were achingly hard.

The realization that she was in public, having an orgasm out of nowhere, hit her like a brick. She adjusted her top, looking around guiltily with a fervent prayer that nobody was looking in her direction, when she finally looked down—and froze in place for a minute, mind blanking, as she saw something that she had never seen in her life.

Her baggy top bulging with a set of big boobs. Her boobs.

What the hell…?

She gave her chest an experimental poke. Sure enough, she felt it. They were real, round, and heavy. Her thoughts, though confused, instantly leaped to other adjectives: busty, curvaceous, sensual. It made her head spin; though that was entirely understandable considering that she had just upgraded from zero to a D-cup in a single blow.

And yet that wasn’t all the whole reason for her befuddlement. Lydia had the distinct sensation that this was Normal. Extremely Normal. That’s what it was like to go the arcade, right? Play some games, your boobs grow huge. Who hadn’t had that experience? It was so Normal, in fact, that Lydia couldn’t even articular why it freaked her out. It wasn’t like she didn’t want bigger boobs; why should it disturb her to get them? The harder she thought about it, the more the answer evaded her. It was like trying to capture a dream. She was awake, now, sitting up in her bed, watching the details of it disappear in the morning light. Lydia was stacked. So what?

She turned back to the game, resuming her bubble-popping climb towards the high score. With every pop, her breasts grew, rising like dough—sexy, shapely dough—under her top, blessing her with the figure that she never had. So much, in fact, that her shirt began to struggle to contain her, straining visibly around her huge, perky tits. Lacking a bra, her thick, luscious nipples tented the front of her top, freely advertising her arousal to anyone who happened to look in her direction.

Lydia paid it no mind. She wiped the sweat from her brow, cursing the heat inside the arcade. Did the AC break, or something? Sheesh, it wasn’t as if they were going out of business. Lydia’s patronage alone probably paid their bills, and—

Shit! A moment’s carelessness and her bubbles bounced free, spilling out of the game area. Her run was over. She cursed, ever sensitive to the sting of defeat—especially from such an easy game—but this time, she was astounded to discover an even stronger reaction to losing her game:

She came. Hard.

Lydia staggered back, losing all control of herself. Her hips bucked, her clit throbbed, and she became at one with the universe as her whole body turned into an erogenous zone for a brief, breathless moment. She was warm, wet, drawn inexorably to touch herself, to find an outlet for this hypnotic bliss that welled up deep inside herself. She squirted like she never had, making a soggy mess of her underwear, as she collapsed, panting, moaning, melting away into erotic ecstasy…

Then she snapped back to reality, ejected from the gates of her lusty heaven with an abruptness, bordering on rude, that left her flailing to grab onto something before she fell on her ass. The only thing in reach was the Bubble Game cabinet, which saw Lydia narrowly catching herself, only to sink to her knees to huddle up beside the cursed machine.

“H-holy shit,” she muttered, breathing as though every lungful might be her last. “What in the fucking fuck…”

The climactic high dissipated by degrees, leaving her a sweaty, trembling mess. Nowhere was this as pronounced as between her legs, where her heroic show of squirting had left wet spots bleeding through her jeans. Thank God she wore black.

She clambered to her feet with great care, noting—and immediately forgetting—that her pants felt a lot tighter than usual. Especially around her ass. Maybe they had shrunk in the wash, she thought to herself; but something as pedestrian as the fit of her clothes was not at all a priority at that instant. She had to beat the Bubble Game. Clothes, in fact, were so low on her radar that she didn’t even question the fact that her shirt had ridden up to expose her midriff, visibly stretched by her huge knockers, or paused to consider how she looked to anyone else in the arcade.

The Bubble Game was still stuck on the Game Over screen. It also displayed the current rankings for the game, which consisted of just a single high score held by one ‘Aita’ at 969 points. Nice. But Lydia could do better.

She put in a fresh token. Pop, pop, pop. Her technique was better on the second try, and she worked her way swiftly through the bubbles—as did her tits through her top, tearing it by degrees. It made for a marvelous sight—though she was too busy to notice—her tee drawing tight as a bowstring around her fat udders as the seams tore, one after the other. The pops from the speakers, in fact, synchronized suspiciously well to the snapping of thread and fabric, encouraging their destruction as a lifetime of puberty flowed into Lydia’s chest at once.

The tightness became too much to ignore, finally; she clawed at the neck of her shirt with one hand—still gaming with the other—grunting with pangs of discomfort. She did not suffer it for long, as she set up a fresh cascade of popping bubbles and was rewarded with such a surge of breast growth that her top could no longer fight her; it gave up the ghost, tearing completely, and let her huge, perfect breasts swing free.

She breathed a sigh of relief, feeling hotter than ever. Her skin was flushed, glistening with beads of sweat, which shone like miniature kaleidoscopes in the neon lights of the arcade hall. But even as her great, heaving titties called for attention, to be touched and teased, she could not spare them the time. She had a game to win.

Pop, pop, pop. Every point made her shudder, rubbing her thighs together as her clit’s need for her touch grew more desperate. Inch by inch, her bust line grew, her thick, inviting nipples growing thicker and longer, so sensitive that a single loving lick might have brought her to her knees. Small, white dots appeared across the rosy flesh, the droplets of milk slowly joining into a stream that dripped down the delectable curve of her underboob to pool at her feet.

Fuck! This was such an easy game. Why couldn’t she think straight? Lydia scowled at the happy colors, watching her score rise with agonizing sluggishness. How long did she have to play to beat that bitch? She didn’t have a clue who Aita was, but she was the only person to have willingly played this game, so her taste was obviously questionable.

Lydia’s breasts expanded inexorably, hastening through cup sizes as though fitting within that alphabet of measurements brought shame upon them. Her rack needed a better class of comparisons; melons, pumpkins, beach balls, growing fit for a fertility goddess and then some. Her navel disappeared from sight and the arcade screen got sprayed with milk as her breasts conquered the front of the console and trapped the controls in cleavage.

This was Normal. Happened all the time. What girl didn’t occasionally bury the gamepad under her arm-filling udders? Lydia was a pro; she dealt with it all the time. And it was not like she was excessively busty, or anything. She could still reach her nipples. Kinda.

But they did make it hard to see. With tits big enough to dominate her own torso, her areolas alone bigger than most women’s whole breasts, there was only so much she could to do adjust her posture to play around them. Lydia made a fateful attempt to shift her boobs to hang down before the cabinet, not realizing that they had grown so sensitive that a strong breeze could set her off. With her arms sliding around her huge, sweaty chest, she triggered an orgasm roughly equivalent to a nuclear bomb.

“Oh, fuuuck!” she screamed, sinking against the cabinet in pure, mindless bliss. There was no hiding it, no way she could even try to ride it out with her modesty or self-control intact. Nor did the force that transformed her bother holding back: her breasts grew in eager spurts, her ass thickened, her thighs swelled, while she came and came and came, squirting like a bottle rocket. Her hands couldn’t stay on the controls; they had a hundred things to do, pleasing her fertile curves, wrenching off her jeans before her formerly flat booty outgrew them, stroking, touching, helping her cum and cum and cum…

She lost the game, of course. But as she moaned herself hoarse, it no longer seemed to matter.

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