Roman Holidays

It took Max a minute or two but he found his father Jack, at the edge of the Trevi Fountain, ready to toss a coin in the water and make a wish. It was kinda their last hope to reverse what had been a crazy event in their father-son holiday to Italy. The pizza. The transformation. The way his father had just...stopped being his father.

"Tesoro, vieni!"

He got closer upon hearing him. Her. Gianna had her back to the fountain, her enormous breasts full on display and barely contained by her clothes. She was wearing a dark leotard with push-up support for her chest and super tight jeans that hug her generous curves. Dark hair, tumbling past her shoulders. Pouty lips, glossed and parted. Hazel eyes encased in heavy make-up and heavy tattoos completed her unmistakably female look.

"Sono pronta, tiro la monetina e vediamo se mi scompaiono queste tettone," she said laughing. Her accent was thick, musical, absolutely nothing like the flat Midwestern vowels he'd grown up with.

"Dad," Max hissed, keeping his voice low. "You're doing the thing again. The Italian thing."

Gianna blinked, then winced. "Oh. Right. Sorry." She switched to English, but the accent clung to her words like honey, refusing to let go. "I keep forgetting. It just...comes out, you know? Like my brain is wired different now." She gestured vaguely at her own chest. "Different wiring everywhere, apparently."

Max forced himself to look at her face while she threw the coin. Only her face. It was bad enough that she looked like she was about to burst out of her clothes. It was worse that he'd caught himself looking. More than once. At his own father's tits.

He still couldn't shake the memory of how those tits got into their lives. Jack had bought that innocuous slice from a street vendor near the Pantheon, grease spotting the paper plate, and taken a bite while muttering about tourist traps. At first Max thought his father was choking; Jack doubled over, groaning, his knuckles whitening around the crust as his whole body shuddered. The groan deepened, warped, climbed into a breathy cry as his chest began to swell, two distinct mounds pushing out against his polo shirt like rising dough. Jack staggered against a wall, his face contorted somewhere between agony and ecstasy, while his hips cracked wider, his waist cinched inward, and his jawline softened into something delicate. 

Max could only stand frozen as his father's frame shrank and curved, as the polo buttons pinged off one by one to reveal a pair of massive, tear-drop breasts that bounced into existence, capped with wide, dark nipples that tightened in the Roman air. Jack's graying hair darkened to espresso and tumbled past his shoulders, his lips plumped into a glossy pout, and when he finally looked up, speaking in a husky Italian alto that wasn't his voice at all.

 

After the coin toss, nothing happened. They stayed there for some minutes, until they were almost kicked out by packs of other tourists who were there to do the same as them, throw a coin for a wish.  

"So you're just...stuck like this?" Max asked her, as they were slowly moving away. 

Gianna shrugged and adjusted her hair, and the motion made her breasts jiggle. Max looked away, his jaw tight. "I don't know. The pizza lady disappeared. I looked everywhere. We tried also this. I think this is permanent." She laughed, and the sound was so light, so feminine, so utterly unlike the gruff chuckle he remembered from twenty-one years of birthday parties and backyard barbecues. "I'm a hot Italian influencer now, Max."

"You're my dad."

"Was. Was your papà" Gianna's expression softened, and for just a moment, Max saw something familiar in her eyes. A flicker of the old Jack, the man who'd taught him how to ride a bike and drilled multiplication tables into his head. "I'm still me in there, kiddo. Just...con delle gran tette."

"Jesus Christ, Dad."

"Gianna. Call me Gianna. And don't say Jesus Christ like it's a bad thing. I'm having fun for the first time in years." She leaned in close, and Max caught a whiff of her perfume, something floral and expensive. Her pouty lips curved into a smile. "You know, you're cute when you're flustered..."

Max felt his face go red. His father had just called him cute. His father, who was now a twenty-one-year-old Italian woman with a body that could stop traffic. And the worst part was that the admission made him aroused. 

To be continued

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The idea for this story was given to me by gmbcw on Deviantart. Follow me there too!