You groan as you stir from your short rest. You rub your head, trying to recollect yourself. "Man, that pill really knocked it out of me." As your senses continue to return, you realize it's hard to breathe. Attempting to look down, your vision is blocked by a wall of breasts. They crest above your head, blocking the view of the rest of your body. They were inhumanly large, and while you liked a good set of tits, having them this close made it a bit hard to appreciate.
You struggle, shifting the milk-filled wrecking balls to your side, then slowly lifting them as you sat up. These are clearly too big. "Time to milk myself, I guess." you say to no one in particular. Heaving your body upward, you carefully navigate through your doorway while supporting your oversized mammaries with both arms. You briefly attempt to leave one unsupported, but the sheer amount of milk caused gravity to tug it painfully downward. You weren't about to have your tits rip themselves off your body, so this was the best you could do.
You carefully carry yourself to the nearest bathtub, then prop your humongous tits on its rim while kneeling. After this, you carefully balance yourself as you blindly grope for your nipples. It takes longer than you'd care to admit, but eventually you realize that you can't reach them without "squeezing" your breasts a bit by shoving your arms into the billowing masses. While you can only go by feel, you're slightly concerned by their sheer size. Had your enlarged breasts stretched your nipples out of shape? It felt like their span was wider than your hand, and the nipple itself was actually hand-filling. You assure yourself that they'll shrink down once your done, and start the process of kneading and pulling copious amounts of stored milk from your body.
Twenty minutes later, and you're still yanking one squirt after the next from yourself. You've grown beyond bored, but at least you've perfected the process of hand-milking yourself. Your breasts are a bit smaller, but still well beyond human proportion. How much milk did these monstrosities contain? Looking over the rest of your body, you do have to applaud whoever made this pill. It didn't just strip away the fat from the fog, but practically all of your fat. You looked a bit emaciated, but what muscles you did have were fairly toned without any fat to hide them.
It was nearly an hour after you started when something finally changed, and that was your tits no longer had milk to remove. Unfortunately, that meant the E-size knockers on your chest were there to stay. You thoroughly fondle them in the hopes that the pill would magically register them as fat and convert them into more milk, but it seemed the jiggling masses were determined to remain. On the one hand, you don't mind having tits to fondle and they now feel more like breasts and less like water balloons. On the other, you really would've preferred to have absolute control over the visibility of your tits as you knew your friends would give you crap for picking the boob pill.
Going downstairs, you look to the large container filled with various cures to the fog. Perhaps, eating another fat-to-milk pill would force it to recognize and modify your breasts away. There was a prominent warning on the box that said something about mixing cures, but it didn't say anything about multiples of the same type. Besides, what's the worst that could happen?
You pop another milk pill into your mouth and swallow it down, then wait for its effects. You felt a tingle within your boobs like before, but the sensation quickly begins to burrow deeper into your body, spreading into your gut and spilling into your lungs. You gasp for breath as you feel knots twisting your flesh and organs, like the pill was trying to wring out whatever fat it could.
"Ff-ff-huh" You didn't even have the air to curse. The color is draining from the world as darkness encroaches on the edges of your vision. You quickly fumble through the box, looking for anything to explain what to do or how to fix it. A pamphlet was stored at the bottom, which you tore through in order to find the warnings. Your eyes begin to glass over as you try to determine the solution.
Logic is getting fuzzy, but it says that pills must be taken when there's enough fat. Not enough fat, pain. It also said to never overdose because gene...Worry about it later. You stagger to the door, clumsily tear off the cellophane used to fogproof it, yank the door open to the yellow mist, take a deep breath, then slam the door shut.
The pain subsides the tiniest amount as you feel your body fatten, then slim, then fatten once more. The two chemical agents were fighting over where it went, but fortunately the cure was no longer holding your internal organs hostage. Your eyes might as well be closed with how little you can perceive of the world, but you take a little time to at least pretend to fix the cellophane. You can't see where the couch is, but you try to move your way in its direction despite your lethargy.
A sudden spike of pain in your breasts informs you that you've probably toppled forward. You flop an arm outward and gravity pulls it forward and into the floor. Your body pleads for sleep, and so you oblige.