The Breasts of Destiny

mild sexual content and drug use

Just a few more sentences and I’ll be done. I poured myself another scotch, proud of my work.

A battle was lost. A battle was won. The princess was saved. The prince now wanted his just reward.

They met on the battlefield at the top of a hill. She had held her breath—and her ample triple-Z bosom—as she watched her prince defeat his foe. Her tiny waist amplified her ample buttocks. She finally exhaled, then began breathing rapidly in and out as she watched her hero approach.

He was excited too.

The prince had the weather-worn look of someone who had fought real battles before posing for statues. His arms were strong from wielding swords, but gentle enough to cradle a rabbit. His face bore a noble scar and eyes that seemed to search the horizon for poetry. He was handsome—but not flawless. Real. Rugged. Unreasonably optimistic.

He reached between his legs and used both hands to pull out his ample member. He presented it to her proudly—

“Hey!”

I blinked. I had almost finished my first brilliant novel. It was three a.m., and I was exhausted from my final writing sprint. Just a few more sentences, and I could finally sleep. I sparked a blunt.

“Hey, you—out there!”

I was alone in my tiny apartment, but I could hear a distinctly female voice calling out. I sat at my desk, facing my bed and a window beside me. A chaotic mess covered the floor: clothes, pizza boxes, old PC parts. I rose and opened the curtain to get some air.

“Hey—”

There it was again. I turned to my bed. There, in all her glory, lay my beautiful main female character. The princess—real, breathing, and clearly unimpressed.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Your prince is about to ravish you on the battlefield. He saved you and now wants to fall in love with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, we’ve got some bones to pick about that.”

“What?” I was genuinely perplexed. I had given her everything a woman could ask for—beauty, riches, a handsome prince.

“You think this is beautiful? Look at me.”

I did, admiring my handiwork as she lay prone on my bed. Her tiny waist accentuated her ample bosom and buttocks.

“You are beautiful,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes. “You think this is beautiful? I can’t even stand up. Watch.”

She struggled into a sitting position, then toppled forward onto her face. In a muffled voice, she groaned, “I have no core muscles. You put all my strength into my top and my bottom—and all of my weight there too.”

Now that she mentioned it, she did seem a little... out of proportion. But to my manly eyes, she still seemed perfectly adorable as she flailed about.

“Could you give me a hand, please?”

I rushed to my desk and rewrote her description.

‘A strong core amply supported her double-D breasts.’

She sat up, still a bit wobbly. I typed again:

‘Her childbearing hips balanced her ample bosom.’

She smiled. “Thank you. Now—about him.”

As if summoned, the prince stumbled through my bedroom door. He fell forward, but didn’t - couldn’t - hit the ground—his enormous penis stopped him. He formed a nice triangle. He used both hands to pick up his penis and push it forward. He moved like a giant slinky, dragging and pushing himself forward.

“Where is he going to put that? Not anywhere in me. Are you trying to kill me?” the princess asked.

“I thought... bigger was better?”

“First—no. And second—hell no.”

I sighed and returned to the keyboard like a guilty plastic surgeon.

‘He pulled out his six-inch member—’

“A bit bigger would be okay,” said the princess.

“Seven?”

She hesitated, then used her fingers to suggest slightly more.

“Eight?”

She nodded, pleased.

‘He pulled out his—’

“Nine,” said the prince.

The princess gave a shrug. Acceptable.

‘Nine-inch member.’

The prince made his way to the bed where the princess waited with bated breath.

“Hold on there, bucko,” said the princess, as both the prince and I groaned. “What do you think I am? A common whore? We’re on a hill, post-battle, surrounded by hundreds of bloody, dying men. There’s no privacy. No bed. He reeks of death.”

I paused and typed:

‘As the prince approached, a sudden downpour cleansed the sins of the day and the stench of death from her prince.’

“Not good enough.”

‘The brave warriors returned home, leaving the lovers alone atop the hill.’

“Try again.”

“What do you want?” the prince and I said in unison.

“I was held prisoner,” she said. “How about a tower? And some romance.”

‘The prince left his adequate penis in his pants and approached the tower.’

“Better,” said the princess. “But I’m a princess. I need maids, servants. This tower shouldn’t just be sitting on a hill. I’ll also need a bath drawn, dinner ready, and maybe a few bottles of wine. And a Mercedes in the garage—”

“A Mercedes? You’re a princess in medieval England!”

“Fine. A horse-drawn carriage. And the prince should arrive at my gate on a white stallion with a bouquet of flowers.”

“A gate? It’s just a tower.”

“Inside a castle. Surrounded by a moat. With a drawbridge,” she snapped. “And I’m partial to accents. Replace this child with an Italian king. Long wavy hair and a tan.”

“But this prince risked his life for you! Men have died for this! For you.”

“I’m just not feeling it,” she said with a shrug.

The prince and I stood in silence.

“Fine,” the princess said. “I go to the top of my castle wall and wave. I flash him my best smile: ‘Thank you.’ I say, as my Italian stud and his entourage ride past my poor, brave little prince. ‘We’ll always be friends,’ I call down.”

I awoke with a start.

My hands were still on the keyboard. The room smelled faintly of roses... and regret. I looked at my bed. Empty.

I must have dozed off. Or maybe I’d been haunted by the ghost of narrative coherence.

I stretched and offered the prince a drink, a nice scotch on the rocks. He accepted with a sweet smile.

“Women,” he said.

“Can’t live with them,” I agreed.

We shared a moment. We sipped in silence for a bit, bonding as men, then he guzzled the last of his drink.

He pulled out his ample member.

As he approached me with unmistakable intent, I understood—and not without some fear —exactly what the princess had been trying to say. I looked out at myself typing away and begged, not like this. It can’t end like this.

I suddenly realized - I'm not gay, so I typed a new ending.

The prince disrobed as he approached, revealing his true nature. An ample bosom burst out from beneath his armour. Her breasts were twin moons above a silken sea, her voice a song that could command beasts and men alike. Her narrow waist and her wide hips defined her as truly female, the woman of my dreams. Her nudity was a gift from the gods. I returned her favour.

“Where’s the princess?” she said in a deep, gruff voice. “And you warriors out there. What the flack you gawking at? Begone. All of you. Take the flaking dogs with you. Nothing going on here that you need to gawk at.”

And they obeyed. Except for the dog, who stayed by my side.

I took a final gulp of my drink before my head hit the keyboard. I’d try again later, but for now, I will rest.

THE END