Jon slipped into the back row of first-period English just as the final bell rang, heart still hammering from the bathroom stall epiphany. Mr. Hensley was already droning about The Great Gatsby, something about illusion and unattainable desire, which felt suddenly, viciously on-the-nose.
Jon kept his phone face-down on his thigh, screen dark, but he could feel it there, like a second heartbeat.
Six hours and forty-seven minutes.
He glanced sideways. Across the aisle sat Melissa Smith, vice-captain of the cheer squad, legs crossed under the desk, uniform skirt riding just high enough to show the curve of tanned thigh. She was doodling little hearts in the margin of her notebook. Further up, near the window, Amber Levine was twisting a strand of auburn hair around her finger, lips pursed in concentration. And in the very front row, because of course, Sarah McMillan sat ramrod straight, pen poised like a weapon, already taking perfect notes in color-coded ink.
All of them beautiful in that effortless, high-school-royalty way. All of them completely out of his league. Until five minutes ago, maybe.
He opened the app under the desk, angling the screen so only he could see. The text box stared back, hungry.
He typed carefully, testing the waters again, but this time he had more idea of what the app was looking for.
All senior girls at Lake Point High School experience an immediate and permanent one-cup-size increase in breast size. Their clothing adjusts perfectly to accommodate the change. No one except me remembers the difference.
He read it twice. Three times. It wasn’t world-ending. It wasn’t turning anyone into a blow-up doll or rewriting personalities. Just… a little more. A visible, impossible little more. Something the app might actually approve of.
His thumb hovered over ENTER.
He thought of Karyn waiting for him at lunch, already transformed, already pressing against him like she belonged there. Thought of Sarah’s icy stare sliding right over him every day for four years. Thought of the timer bleeding away because he was still too scared to really play.
He pressed it.
The screen flashed white.
A soft, almost sub-audible chime vibrated through the phone.
Then the notification banner appeared, this time in warm gold instead of warning red:
Change registered.
Moderate scope. Visually striking. Erotic enhancement. Well done.
Reward applied: +3 hours
Keep going. We like where this is headed.
The timer jumped.
06:38:56 → 09:38:56
Nine hours and thirty-eight minutes.
Jon exhaled so hard the girl in front of him half-turned to frown at him before facing forward again.
And then the ripple hit.
It was quieter this time, more intimate. No dramatic lurch through the whole world, just a soft, rolling wave that passed from desk to desk, girl to girl.
Melissa shifted in her seat, suddenly pressing her arms closer to her sides as though unconsciously trying to support new weight. The buttons of her blouse pulled a fraction tighter across her chest; the fabric smoothed itself out like it had been tailored yesterday, cupping fuller, rounder curves that hadn’t existed sixty seconds earlier. She didn’t even blink, just kept doodling hearts, oblivious.
Amber leaned forward to grab a dropped pencil and Jon saw the subtle strain of her bra beneath her sweater, the new swell pushing insistently against cotton that had resized itself without a seam out of place. She sat back, crossed her arms under her breasts in that casual way girls sometimes did, and the motion lifted them higher, softer, more prominent than they’d been at roll call.
Even Nadine Ferguson, sitting primly near the door in her high-necked cardigan, gave a tiny, puzzled twitch of her shoulders before smoothing her expression back into pious neutrality. The cardigan now draped over a noticeably more generous bustline, buttons holding without strain.
And Sarah.
Sarah McMillan turned her head just slightly, maybe to whisper something to Tiffany two seats over, and the motion made the crisp white collar of her cheer warm-up jacket frame an extra inch of creamy cleavage that hadn’t been there before. The jacket zipper, previously modest, now sat lower by necessity, revealing the gentle upper curve of breasts that had just claimed another cup size as their birthright. She didn’t react. No one did.
Only Jon felt the heat crawl up his neck.
The classroom smelled faintly of vanilla body spray and pencil shavings and teenage perfume, same as always, but different.
Jon’s phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
Previous Changes had updated:
- All senior girls at Lake Point High School experience an immediate and permanent one-cup-size increase in breast size. Their clothing adjusts perfectly to accommodate the change. No one except owner remembers the difference.
And below it, in smaller gray text the app had never shown before:
Current owner satisfaction: rising. Keep feeding me.
Jon swallowed. Nine hours and thirty-eight minutes. Lunch was in three periods. Karyn would be waiting in the back stairwell.
And every single senior girl he passed between now and then would be walking around with that quiet, impossible upgrade he’d just gifted the entire class of 2026.
He closed the app and tucked the phone away. Plenty of time to play with now.
And, for the first time all morning, he smiled.
