Mom does have tiny tits, she doesn’t even wear a bra. Her little A tits popped out as Mr. Miller ripped her shirt away, and my father’s eyes wide...ed but he was too drugged to do anything but verbally protest. “Stop it Charles, what…what?” Mr. Miller ran his hands roughly over my mother’s little titties and shook his head, then looked at me. “Show us your tits cunt, let’s compare.” My father groggily turned his head to look at me, and I pushed my t-shirt up, letting my large tits fall out. Little by little, word by word, Beatrice surrendered to the change, accepting, welcoming, needing. Her voice hypnotic, her breathing soft, her heart rate slow, rhythmic, setting the cadence of her monologue. As the last word echoed in her mind, she reached out to lift the collar from the box, reverent in her every move, the perfect acolyte. As the wide leather closed around her neck, the lock clicked shut to complete the transformation, Beatrice was no more, the naked collared slave who. More

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