barucai

[Mini Story] Tight Fit

Published: March 31st 2025, 2:00:05 am

Hi Hi ✨

Hope you're doing well. Finally I get to publish all the stories I owed you from the last couple of weeks! Get your reading glasses ready, a beer or whatever your ritual is for these stories because I will close all the pending march posts today! I hope you enjoy this small story originally from 3/14! T4 members get access to a small continuation. Cheers!

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Tight Fit

"Jeez, Clara, how did you ever think this would work?"

Cynthia tugged at the crimson fabric, which strained against her friend's massive thighs. The dress—a sleek designer number that had fit perfectly last month—now looked like it was fighting a losing battle against Clara's newly enhanced physique.

"I didn't exactly have time to go shopping," Clara replied with a nonchalant shrug that rippled through shoulders now broad enough to fill a doorway. "Besides, don't they say the best dresses show off your assets?" She flexed one of her quadriceps playfully, causing another seam to creak in protest.

Cynthia rolled her eyes and blew a stray strand of copper hair from her face. "There's showing off assets, and then there's public indecency. This is definitely leaning toward the latter."

The red dress hung precariously from Clara's frame, stretching in places it was never designed to stretch. What was once a knee-length cocktail dress now barely covered the essentials, riding high on thighs that would make Olympic weightlifters envious.

"Look, Clara," Cynthia sighed, sitting back on her heels, "I'm trying to help you, but this is like trying to stuff a watermelon into a coin purse."

Clara laughed, the sound deep and resonant in her enhanced chest. "Well, that's a mental image I didn't need." She twisted to examine herself in the full-length mirror. "What about if we... I don't know... cut slits up the sides?"

"On a Valentino?" Cynthia nearly choked. "That's sacrilege!"

"It's already stretched to hell. What's a few strategic cuts at this point?"

Cynthia stood up, putting her hands on her hips, which only emphasized the dramatic difference in their statures. Where Cynthia had always been petite—a compact 5'4" with a dancer's build—Clara now loomed above her at well over seven feet tall. Even before taking the formula, Clara had been the taller of the two at 5'9", but now the difference was almost comical.

"I still can't believe you did this without planning ahead," Cynthia muttered, grabbing a pair of scissors from her sewing kit. "You knew this date was coming for weeks."

Clara ran her massive hands through her blonde hair, which somehow looked even silkier against her newly bronzed skin. "I told you, I wasn't sure if I was going to do it until this morning. Max is... well, he's worth the investment."

"Two thousand pounds is more than an 'investment,' Clara. It's insanity."

"It's twenty-four hours of confidence," Clara countered. She stretched out one arm—the circumference now larger than Cynthia's thigh—and flexed. The movement sent ripples through muscles that seemed to have their own area codes. "Besides, it's not like I'm planning to do this every weekend. Just until I'm sure he's hooked."

Cynthia carefully cut along the side seams of the dress, her precise movements betraying her background in fashion design. "And what happens when he wants to see you again? Are you going to drop two grand every time? What about when you run out of dresses to destroy?"

"That's tomorrow's problem. Today, I just need to get to dinner without flashing half of Mayfair."

Cynthia worked in silence for a moment, her small hands moving with practiced efficiency around Clara's new dimensions. The quiet gave her a moment to process the sheer scale of her friend's transformation. It wasn't just the height—though that was certainly dramatic—it was the presence Clara now commanded. Each movement, each gesture seemed amplified, as if she was now operating on a completely different frequency from the rest of humanity.

"There," Cynthia said finally, setting down the scissors. "Try walking now."

Clara took a few experimental steps, the dress now featuring thigh-high slits that allowed her massive legs freedom of movement. "Much better. You're a lifesaver, Cyn."

"Mmhmm," Cynthia hummed, not entirely convinced she'd done her friend any favors. "You're sure about this guy? Worth all..." she gestured vaguely at Clara's enhanced form, "...this?"

Clara sat down on the edge of the bed, which groaned under her new weight. Sitting, she was still almost at eye level with the standing Cynthia, a fact that didn't escape either of them.

"Max Harrington is one of the most eligible bachelors in London, Cyn. Old money, new tech investments, and—if the gossip columns are right—looking to settle down soon." Clara's voice softened slightly. "Plus, he's actually nice. Not in that fake way some rich guys are, but genuinely interested in what I have to say."

Cynthia raised an eyebrow. "And when did you have time to discover all this genuine interest? I thought you only met him once at that gallery opening."

"We've been texting," Clara admitted, looking slightly abashed. "A lot, actually. For about three weeks now."

"And you didn't think to mention this to your best friend because...?"

Clara shrugged, the motion causing the dress to strain against her shoulders. "I didn't want to jinx it. You know how these things go—exciting at first, then they fizzle out."

"Except this one didn't fizzle."

"No," Clara said, a small smile playing on her lips. "It didn't."

Cynthia sighed, her irritation softening. Clara might be impulsive and occasionally thoughtless, but her enthusiasm was infectious. It always had been, ever since they'd been paired as roommates at university eight years ago.

"Fine. But promise me you'll think about the long game here," Cynthia said, reaching for a makeup palette. "If he likes you—the real you—then great. But if he's just into..." she gestured at Clara's enhanced physique, "...this version, you're setting yourself up for disappointment."

"Or setting myself up for a sugar daddy who keeps me in formula and designer dresses," Clara countered with a wink.

Cynthia rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. "Stay still, I need to redo your makeup to match your new... proportions."

As she worked, applying contour to cheekbones now set much higher than before, Cynthia found herself studying the changes in her friend's face. The formula primarily enhanced muscle and bone structure, but there were subtle differences in Clara's features too—a more defined jawline, slightly more prominent cheekbones, eyes that seemed to sparkle with newfound confidence.

"What's it feel like?" Cynthia asked suddenly, the question escaping before she could stop herself.

Clara's eyes opened, warm brown meeting Cynthia's green ones. "Honestly? Amazing. Like I'm finally occupying all the space I'm meant to. Everything feels... lighter, somehow? But also more solid."

"That doesn't make any sense," Cynthia pointed out, blending a sweep of bronzer along Clara's chiseled jaw.

"It doesn't have to make sense to feel right," Clara replied. "It's like... you know when you finally stretch after sitting in one position too long? That full-body release? Imagine that, but all the time."

Cynthia tried to imagine it, but couldn't quite grasp the sensation Clara was describing. She'd always been comfortable in her petite frame—or at least, that's what she told herself. But watching Clara move with such easy confidence in her new body stirred something unexpected inside her.

"Done," she announced, stepping back to admire her work. "Now you look less like you've been inflated and more like a very, very tall model."

Clara stood, reaching her full height, which brought her dangerously close to the ceiling. The effect was both intimidating and awe-inspiring—seven and a half feet of perfectly proportioned athleticism wrapped in a barely-containing red dress.

"Shoes?" Clara asked, looking down at her bare feet.

Cynthia snorted. "Unless you fancy wearing flippers, I think you're going barefoot. Besides, you hardly need the extra height."

Clara laughed and reached for her clutch, which now looked like a coin purse in her massive hand. "Fair point. Ready or not, Max Harrington, here I come."

"Wait," Cynthia said, grabbing her phone. "Let me get a picture. For comparison when you shrink back tomorrow."

Clara struck a pose, one leg thrust forward through the newly cut slit, arms flexed to show off the incredible definition of her biceps and shoulders. The image was so striking—this goddess-like figure with Clara's familiar smile—that Cynthia almost forgot to snap the photo.

"How do I look?" Clara asked, suddenly sounding almost shy despite her imposing presence.

Cynthia looked at her friend—really looked at her—and felt a pang of something she couldn't quite identify. Envy? Admiration? Whatever it was, she pushed it aside and smiled.

"Like a million pounds. Or at least two thousand."

Clara grinned and bent down to give Cynthia a hug, enveloping her smaller friend completely. The sensation was strange—being surrounded by so much warmth and solid muscle, feeling almost child-like in her friend's embrace.

"Thank you," Clara whispered. "For helping. And for not judging... too much."

"That's what friends are for," Cynthia replied, her voice muffled against Clara's shoulder. "Now go before you're late. And text me if you need a rescue!"

With another laugh that seemed to fill the entire flat, Clara ducked through the doorway and was gone, her footsteps thundering down the stairs with surprising grace for someone of her new size.

Silence settled over the flat, suddenly feeling much more spacious with Clara's enhanced presence gone. Cynthia moved through the living room, picking up discarded clothing items—evidence of Clara's frantic preparation. A pair of jeans with the legs split to accommodate thighs too massive to be contained. A bra with snapped straps, cups stretched beyond recognition.

In the bathroom, she found the empty formula vial, its sleek design and holographic logo screaming luxury. "EvolvHer," the label read in elegant script. "Become More." Underneath, in smaller text: "Effects last 24 hours from consumption. Not suitable for those with heart conditions, pregnancy, or men of any age."

Cynthia turned the empty container in her hands, remembering how Clara had described the feeling. Like occupying all the space she was meant to. Like a full-body release.

Something caught her eye on the floor behind the door—a large swath of fabric. Clara's favorite sleep shirt, a baggy Oxford University tee she'd had since their university days. Except it wasn't baggy anymore. The fabric was stretched beyond recognition, torn at the seams, neckline ripped almost to the hem.

Picking it up, Cynthia could see exactly how the transformation had happened—how the material had given way as Clara's shoulders broadened, her back widened, her arms swelled with new power. There were distinct tears where her lats had pushed through, where her triceps had strained against the sleeves.

Almost without thinking, Cynthia held the ruined shirt up to her own body, the material now large enough to wrap around her twice. She caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror—small, neat, controlled Cynthia Morris, always the planner, always the reasonable one.

What would it feel like, just for one day, to be the opposite? To command attention simply by existing? To feel power in every movement, confidence in every step?

Her phone buzzed with a text from Clara: "In the taxi now. Wish me luck! ✨💪"

Cynthia set down the torn shirt and texted back a quick "You'll be amazing! x" before returning to the living room. On the coffee table lay the fashion magazine they'd been flipping through earlier, featuring a spread on the "EvolvHer Revolution" and its impact on everything from dating to workplace dynamics.

The centerfold showed a striking before-and-after—a woman transformed from ordinary to extraordinary, quoted as saying, "For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm not apologizing for existing."

Cynthia stared at the image, then at her own reflection in the darkened window. Average height. Average build. Average everything.

What would it be like to be extraordinary? Just for a day?

She picked up the torn shirt again, running her fingers over the stretched-out neckline, feeling the places where solid muscle had pushed fabric to its breaking point.

Tomorrow, Clara would be back to normal, laughing about her adventure, perhaps planning her next date with Max. Tomorrow, everything would return to the usual dynamic—Clara the bold one, Cynthia the cautious one.

But tonight...

Cynthia looked at the manufacturer's website on her phone, finger hovering over the "Purchase" button, imagination running wild with possibilities.

Tonight, she could dream.