Jala’s Never-Ending Macromastia

Interview I

By Keliadom

How is it that I find myself traveling to such a place, for such a subject? The road, if you could call that a road, is barely differentiable from the dry, brown looking soil of the local region. Here, in the vast emptiness that is the border between the countries of T. and I., on the slope of one of the highest peaks of the region, with the nearby world’s biggest inland mass of water stretching to the horizon, I spy my destination: a small bunker-like structure of thick cement protruding from the slopes of the mountain, overlooking a deep, immense crater-like valley. I take a moment to sit on a nearby rock, refreshing my throat with water from my gourd. A tremor shakes the ground. Since I’ve started my climb, I’ve been feeling these every half-hour or so. Small pebbles roll down the mountain slope in response, the cracking of stone echoing through the air.

A moment later, I continue on the path, reaching the entrance to the compound. The heavy metal door of the entrance is adorned with a single slit, currently closed off from the inside. On the side of it, a barely noticeable button, no doubt to ring. I press it. Immediately a loud, strident and blaring sound emanates from inside. Nobody could miss it. A minute passes.

The door slit suddenly snaps open.

“Yes?” a manly, deeply annoyed voice exclaims from the other side.

“Hi. Uhm. My name is Francisca Pérez. I’m here to report on the case?” I deeply hope my hesitation is going unnoticed. Tremors rock the mountains anew.

“Again!?” the voice says in response to the earth’s trepidation. “You’re late. Come in,” the man finishes. The slit snaps shut. In rapid succession, the sound of scraping metal noises indicates a complicated mechanism being interfaced with on the other side. When the door finally opens, a draft of humidity, coupling with an earthy smell indicating mold, hits me. I enter the dark corridor, only for the door to immediately close. Behind me appears a squarely shaped man. To his side, a dusty chair of which only the seat was clean. No doubt he had been waiting there some time. Immediately, I sense his eyes on me, his scanning of my body unmistakable.

“Great, one more,” he proceeds to say with the utmost disdain. I make a note of it but elicit to ignore the remark. “Come with me, I will show you—her—” he continues saying, his broken English accent barely understandable.

We walk together down a claustrophobic corridor. Pipes and large cables adorn the ceiling, connecting and drifting apart according to the rooms we pass. We eventually reach the end of the corridor. On our right, an open door gives sight to a staircase leading down. I enter, thinking the man is following, only to hear my footsteps alone. I turn my head back.

“Just down these stairs. It’s straight forward you cannot get lost,” said the man from the doorway.

“Are you not coming down?” I ask.

“No. Then I would have to come back up. Please feel comfortable. You will find her at the end of the path. I will be back at the door last before the entrance. If you ever need anything, a snack, some water or whatever else, come get me.” On these words, the man leaves without even looking back. I continue down the metal stairs, my steps echoing through the stair shaft. As I approach the last floor down, I notice a different smell. A sort of sweet, milky fragrance fills the air. I make my way down another corridor, this one devoid of alternate paths or room. On the bottom right of the path is a sort of segmented grate. I can’t be certain but it seems to be filled with some sort of sand colored paste? Something, in any case, is pressing hard against the inside of it. When finally I happen upon a heavy metallic door, similar to the one at the entrance. The tremors start anew. This time, in synchronicity with dust falling from the ceiling, a deep, guttural moan vibrates my very core as it passes through the door, past me and down the way I came. It seems I have arrived.

I press the mechanical lever and successfully open the door.

“Hello? Jala Shirazi?” The words barely left my throat, apprehensive of the sight awaiting me. My heart pounds terribly. In the center of the room stands a giant woman of incomprehensible proportions. Her skin has the slightly darker tint of the women in these parts, her aquiline nose confirming her origins. The room, which in all respect should have been a great hall, finds itself completely filled by the form. Atop two large mounds of piled up flesh, protruding from between them, is the woman’s upper body. Closer to me, her foot, the size of my torso, rests on the floor ahead of me, with her leg disappearing inside the folds of skin. Her ass appears high above my head, while her legs straddle the middle of the mass, squeezing it like a pear, with her back and head hunching down, trying to find space with great difficulty. Her hair trails behind her almost all the way down to the floor, overgrown and unkept. When they had told me that Jala was taller than the average woman, I did not expect them to mean three times bigger! Only now do I realize what my eyes perceive: the fleshy, piled-up masses are her breasts! The entire room is filled with her chest! I can’t even see their end as they disappear between open grates in the floor, the depths of the holes unknown.

“A visitor?” Jala looks at me with barely contained boredom. I must be the first one from the outside here in a while.

“Ms. Shirazi? My name is Francisca Pérez. I’m a biologist. I’ve been called by the institute of medicine of L. to report and gather data about your condition. 

Immediately, Jala laughs, her voice a few octaves lower than most, no doubt because of her size. “Ms… Pérez, was it?” she asks while looking back at me, freeing her hand from a fold of piling breast so as to move her hair away from her face. “What do you know?”

“Only that you are a biological case study. Words had reached us that a woman has what should be an impossible case of macromastia. It was only after contacting the local provincial authority that we finally pried out of their mouth that you were here, kept for study. I have to ask you: are you here against your will?”

The woman laughs.

“Prisoner!? Ah ha, oh no, I’m far from that… I’m… UNGH!” Jala suddenly closes her eyes. She places her right hand on her mouth, biting her finger softly as she tries her best to stifle a horrendous moan of pleasure. The breasts move, creeping slightly closer towards me. I feel the tiles on the ground rise up and down as if a terrible beast was banging on the floor under me. Blue veins momentarily appear on the masses before receding. Jala Shirazi’s breathing slows down before she turns back to me: “I’m not a prisoner, I’m here of my own free will, even if they think they have me contained.”

“Ms. Shirazi…” I interrupt her, my heart racing, unable to understand what just happened.

“Jala, call me Jala.”

“Jala, what was that?” I ask her. She looks back at me with amusement.

“Ah. I’m sorry. You’re the first new face in a while. I’m so used to my growth spurts now they don’t register anymore for me.” She moves herself slightly, no doubt seeking a more comfortable position on the room-sized pillows that were the very beginning of her breasts. Jala points her finger to a place behind me. I follow her index with my eyes only to see a small wooden chair, which I immediately use.

“Well, what do you need to know?” she asks of me as I sit down.

“I suppose,” I start, looking down at my folded notebook, ready to write, “from the beginning? The man I met at the capital told me you’ve been like this for… 18 years?”

“19 and a half. I’ve sort of lost count of the days, but Safan, the guy you probably met at the entrance, told me we’re close to my 39th birthday.” If Jala had not told me her age, I would have never guessed it. Perhaps because of the relative darkness, but her skin shows no signs of aging, with nary a wrinkle in sight, except perhaps a slight excessive malnourishment, as her apparent ribs and boney legs show me.

“You don’t mind if I take notes, do you?” I ask her.

“Of course not,” she tells me with nary a thought, “I’m not sure you’ll be able to use them, though.”

I pay no heed to the comment. “So, this is real. Your breasts. They’re still growing?”

“Oh little miss. If only you knew…” Jala’s eyes close anew. I look around as the walls start shaking. She pants and moans as her hips move back and forth, grinding against the mass of breasts. I could swear that the part of them that escapes the opening in the ground took more space. “Not much time now,” she whispers, “they’re becoming too frequent.”

“The shakes?” I ask her. “I suppose you’ve noticed them too. The world over has been mentioning earthquakes of different intensities in quantities unheard of previously.” It’s true. While discussing with a colleague that works in geology, they had explained to me a recent uptick in background tremors.

“No. I mean, yes, but no, not the tremors. My growth spurts,” she explains. Her wording seems to imply that her growth spurts are the tremors. I can but assume her English is not up to par, and something got lost in translation.

“Tell me everything.” I bite my lip, desperate to know more about what my eyes are seeing.