The Girl in the High Tower - Chapter 4

(Author's note: For those of you who are enjoying this story, thanks a million! One note, amended for canon in Chapter 3: previously, Nadya's age was 19. But the more I began outlining this story, and started to see where it was going [especially with regard to Nadya's character arc], the more I just got this tinge in the back of my mind that said 19 was just too young. As a friend of mine said, "Those early 20s... so much happens in those years." So true. So, before going too much farther, I felt the need to amend. So: Nadya's age is now 24. Enjoy!)

Closing the curtains behind her, Nadya re-entered the solitude of her bedroom space. It was nearly dark in her room, the only illumination in the cavernous apartment emitting from periodic lights embedded in the ceiling along the length of her penthouse realm. 

Confirming that the edge of the curtain was indeed flush to the wall and that the drone could no longer see her, Nadya slowly rotated her body to face her bed. The distance back to her mattress was no more than 10 feet, but before making such a journey, she decided to give herself a moment. She had been standing in the window for a few minutes by the time Roger’s drone showed up and, fearing its arrival might be a sudden one, wanted to remain at the ready with her message. Even so, a period as brief as a few minutes still tended to strain Nadya’s capable musculature, so bending her knees slightly and leaning forward, she rested the bulk of her heft onto the cool hardwood floor. Slouching further, and taking to one knee, then two, she rested her colossal breasts on the floor completely, pressing her body into their soft yielding flesh before arching her back to loosen up her tense muscles.

Finally, she allowed herself to breathe a heavy sigh. Still holding her black journal in one hand, she rested her arms atop the slope of her chest, and felt a giddy smirk spread across her face. He came, she thought. He really came to see me…

(preliminary sketch by @hefty_cuties)

There had been so many nights… So many nights where she had worried that nobody would ever come to see her again. Not anybody who didn’t have to. The pain of isolation, and the longing for company had gotten so severe that she would go whole nights without sleeping. Even back home, she recalled with a bitter twinge, the visitors and well-wishers had evaporated years before, and while she deeply loved her family, she had longed for something else. Someone else. Someone new.

Absently, with movement so fluid it bordered on reflex, she reached a hand to a bulge of flesh that met the floor. Scooping her hand underneath, she tightened her arm and rocked her body to the side, settling her dominating breasts and relieving a small stretching pinch that occurred normally during the countless times that she had defaulted to this resting position before. But still, her mind stayed. 

She didn’t know why she trusted this man. As far as she had known, he was a solitary face in the street, and then, a person on the other end of a remote control. But it was something about his eyes, she thought. She had only seen him for a moment, through sunglasses, all those weeks before. But she noticed his eyes, and little else. There was a look of shock there, of course; one she had more-than become used to in years of occasional outings, doctors appointments, family events... This shock upon seeing her and what she had become, she hated to think, had been universal in her life: in children, it would be accompanied by pointing fingers and eager questions; to the parents, it would be accompanied by the drawn face of pity; in women, disgust was an emotion Nadya had seen countless times, as if her body was an affront; men would follow her, camera phones in hand; teenagers would chuckle under their breath or shout demeaning names before erupting into laughter; the few who felt even somewhat close to Nadya would sometimes be overwhelmed by curiosity and would insist on feeling her to confirm the reality of what she was; doctors would scowl with concern; she would even see her own mother, in presumed privacy, putting on an overly cheerful demeanor like a mask, not knowing that Nadya could hear her crying through the thin walls of their old house. In each one of these interactions, she wasn’t a woman attached to an impossible pair of breasts; she was a pair of impossible breasts attached to a woman. 

But this man, this Roger. Her trained observation of human reaction allowed her to see a faint glimmer of something she rarely received from those who saw her. So rare in fact, that she didn’t have a name for it. Kindness? Empathy? Compassion? She couldn’t tell. But the way it made her feel… it was like he was seeing her.

She breathed deeply, again. Zoya was asleep, she assumed, but if she awoke and found Nadya like this, she would insist on helping her up, tucking her back into bed, telling her some story about the old country while she did so… Nadya didn’t want that right now. She wanted this moment, to herself, for her. 

Angling her sapphire eyes back toward her bed, she decided she would make the sojourn and tuck herself in for the night. She relished this opportunity, in fact, and constantly reminded herself to not take her independence for granted. She couldn’t be sure for how much longer she would be self-sufficient enough for a task even as simple as this one… but that’s not something Nadya liked to think about very much. Maybe she would get better before she had to think about that more than she already did.

Planting her feet, one by one, her knees pressed deeply into the small mountains of flesh lain before her as she assumed a squatting position. Like a professional weightlifter, this preparatory stance was one she had perfected: feet apart, back straight, shoulders up, head back, arms bracing, breathe in, breathe out. And in one slow motion, she rose above the floor, the muscles in her toned thighs and firm, flaring ass clearly showing their tension through her creamy skin. The higher she rose, the greater the weight she endured, until finally, she felt the bottoms of her distended breasts break their contact with the wooden floor. 

Doing the best she could to keep her stability, she pressed her arms into the gentle, curving slope that ran from her ribs to her ankles. Her arms simply weren’t long enough to brace the fullest part of her corpulent endowments, but with a steady pace, she took a step, pressing her thigh and calf into its respective breast, and in the process, causing it to protrude past its sister for a moment before the same movement was repeated by the other leg. It was an exhausting science, but one Nadya had perfected: too slow, and she would wear herself out and have to take a break again; to fast, and she could lose her balance and topple forward onto the floor, the shock of which could cause painful pulling on her resilient, but ultimately delicate skin. 

After a moment, she reached the edge of her bed, and tossed her journal toward her nightstand. She had long ago decided to eschew a traditional bed frame, opting instead for something that looked out of place in the vast luxurious space in which she lived — a simple, large mattress with usually disheveled sheets. Reaching her arm out, she made contact with the hand bar that was suspended over the bed by a heavy chain from the ceiling and pulled it toward her. Gripping it firmly with both hands, and gritting her jaw as she held the support device just under her chin, she took one step onto the soft mattress. And then, another. Still holding on tightly, she rotated her body, again, back toward the obscured window. And like completing a pull-up, she slowly descended her body onto the bed, taking a moment before touching down to use one of her legs to shove her breast as far as she could to the side before resting her most prominent features altogether. Straightening her arms, she lowered herself downwards, backwards, farther, until her back made contact with the Egyptian cotton sheets. She let go of the metal bar, which swung erratically above her.

Resting her arms, again, atop the mounds of flesh that straddled her on each side, Nadya breathed to signal the end of her workout. Closing her eyes, she took mental stock. Shit, she thought. She had neglected to move her bedsheet out of the way so she could drape it onto herself once she lay down. Now, this blanket was pinned underneath her, and she knew already that there was no way she was going to get it out. Sensing a slight chill in the air that she knew would only intensify as the night went on, she reached for a small electronic tablet that was kept on her nightstand. It had taken Nadya a while to figure out how to use such a device, but it was no big problem to adjust the smart-penthouse’s thermostat a few degrees warmer. This computer, she had been disappointed to discover, could not connect to the internet — but no worries. That’s what her secret phone was for. 

Ever paranoid about losing her phone, that one device that connected her to the outside world — and now, to Roger! — she leaned to retrieve the hope chest that was concealed behind some books on the bottom shelf of her nightstand. Under pieces of paper, a scant few photographs from her life, mementos from home, trinkets she prized, safely hidden, there it was, turned off and with a full battery, thanks to the matching charger that came with the home’s tablet device. She returned the box to the shelf, stacked books in front again, and as she resettled, her mind shifted to tomorrow: to the routine she had developed during her time there.

She would wake up… Zoya would arrive with the first rays of the sun, bearing a breakfast of eggs, toast, sausages, coffee, and… Ugh, Nadya thought. Her least favorite part of the morning… that terrible medicine that she would have to drink every drop of. At first, the flavor wasn’t so bad. But Nadya was beginning to grow weary of vanilla. 

And then, a few hours in front of the television… some time spent in her library area, reading a book in Russian, or maybe English so she could learn more of this difficult language — finally, she had a reason to use it! She had been self-conscious of everything she had typed earlier, and she hoped that Roger didn’t think she was being rude or abrupt, or worse, that she wasn’t smart. Yes, she thought… she would need to practice for her new friend. And then, there was that set of paints that she had requested Zoya to purchase. Nadya didn’t fancy herself the best artist in the world, but she had been eager to paint a scene of the city out her window: something about that, she thought, would make her feel closer to it all. 

At some point, medicine again... She would make dinner tomorrow night. One of her cookbooks featured a recipe for smoked salmon that she had been eager to try. She would have to tell Zoya to pick some up at the store when she went out on her shopping rounds.

But, she knew she would be counting down the hours until bedtime. She had taken a chance on this night, using her phone while Zoya was preparing herself for bed. So she hoped that later tomorrow, when she was sure the house was quiet for the night, that Roger would be waiting on the other end of their Instagram discussion. Maybe she would take some time to lay in the sun, on the terrace, and maybe she would be able to see Roger’s drone piloting around the sky above her home? She giggled at the thought.

Her joy was short-lived, however, as she recalled the one scheduled event of her month: how could she forget? Her treatment was tomorrow. Ugh... Out with dinner, and out with an early bedtime. Nadya huffed. She wasn’t looking forward to this appointment. 

Nadya closed her eyes, trying to ignore the recollections from her first session, one month ago... had it been that long? Still, the memories poured in, and she felt a tinge of apprehension.

Nadya knew she would cringe when Zoya wheeled the isolation tank from the storage room into the living area, perching it on the ground next to the specially made, crescent-shaped dining room table. Zoya would tell Nadya that she needed to be bathed, after which Nadya would probably wait on the couch watching television until Dr. Mishkin arrived. She had nothing against Dr. Mishkin. She had only met him a few times, but he was a kind man, was Russian as well, and she was entertained by his gregarious stories of growing up in St. Petersberg. She admired his wit, and appreciated his genuineness… and after all — he was only there to help her, and she had to remind herself that it was very fortunate indeed that she didn’t need to go to a hospital every month — that her treatment could come to her. Fortunate also, that she had been so privileged to receive this treatment at all! Ultimately, she preferred it that way.

But that tank… she saw it in her mind’s eye. A white cylinder just a little taller than she was. And, about a third of the way down, an oval-shaped porthole that, as she had been told, was cut specifically to mold around the area where her breasts met her body. Claustrophobia and Nadya were old adversaries, and she nearly cried after hearing for the first time, more than a month ago, that she would have to spend four hours inside this pitch-dark, soundproof place.

She had been told that it was necessary, and she could understand the reason well enough. This treatment, while promising to be effective, was dangerous. And even if her body was exposed to it just a little, she could be seriously hurt or become ill. Only her breasts could remain in the outside air, awash in the chemicals, the radiation; the rest of her had to remain safely inside the white cylinder.

Zoya had been kind. Seeing her angst, she went to a local store and purchased a special headset and earphones that would allow Nadya to be distracted and entertained while the treatment took place. “You can watch your favorite show,” Zoya had said, “and ignore the unpleasantness.”

It helped. She still felt a little anxious the first time, just one month ago, when Zoya and Dr. Mishkin hefted her breasts, one by one, onto the crescent-shaped table. Nadya stood in the cut-out section while her nurse and her Doctor meticulously positioned them on the surface before her, making sure to pay great attention to her comfort. 

Once in place, Dr. Mishkin gave her one more explanation of what would be involved. “Are you comfortable, Nadya? Good. Now as we discussed, this will take about four hours. I know you might be uncomfortable, but I must assure you this is completely safe. You might feel some pressure and sensations now and again, but nothing unpleasant or painful. The important thing to remember is that this procedure must run its course. It cannot be stopped at any time. Do you understand, Nadya?”

She remembered nodding her head, and giving a weak smile.

“Good! And I hear you have some movies to watch! The time will just fly by!”

He asked Zoya to wheel the open half cylinder to where Nadya was standing. As she did so, Nadya stepped backwards and upwards until she stood alone in the space, giving an involuntary shiver. She had recently seen a movie where one of the characters was put into an iron maiden, and while she knew that this device was meant to help her — not torture her — she couldn’t ignore the uncanny similarity. Irrational she knew, but the image wouldn’t escape her mind.

“OK, Nadya, it is nearly time to begin. Are you ready?” Dr. Mishkin seemed jovial, even enthusiastic.

Again, Nadya weakly nodded, glancing past his face for a moment to the light of a setting sun outside the windows. To the wider world on the other side of the glass. She felt a welling in her throat.  

“Fine. Zoya, will you help me with the panels, please?”

Carefully, Zoya supplied a panel that occupied another quarter of wallspace to the capsule, being careful to fit her half of the oval cutout flush to Nadya’s ribs, and under one of her breasts. Nadya didn’t want to see the other panel going on, and be confronted with the fact that she was in silent darkness. Putting on her headset and earphones and confirming that the small unit was playing a loop of The Simpsons episodes, she nodded her head one last time, feeling the vibration of the other panel being put into place, and feeling the firmness of the cut-out opening wrapping around the base of her breasts completely. 

Dr. Mishkin had been correct. As she watched the misadventures of the people of Springfield — in English! — she noticed that the treatment wasn’t unpleasant. Some pressure, some sensations, and a couple of pinches around her distant nipple that took her out of her numb meditation, but only for a second. Her mind would wander. She had seen pictures of the intricate equipment that would be used on her, and would occasionally wonder if it would be safe; if it would make her better; if it would work. She tried to keep her natural optimism in tact. Occasionally, she would even be taken off guard: forgetting for a moment that she was enclosed in this isolated space, she would reflexively lift an arm to rest it on the expanse of flesh that was usually in front of her and become mildly taken aback as the back of her hand made contact with the solid wall of the unit. She would return to her show, always a little warmed over how much Marge reminded her of her own mother. 

Not unpleasant… She just didn’t like it very much — standing for four straight hours, even with the weight of her breasts supported on the table outside the cylinder, was a task in an of itself. But by the time it was over, there was Dr. Mishkin, smiling, saying that he was very pleased with how the process had gone, and that he had high hopes for the future.

Lying in her bed, still in the afterglow of her brief interaction with Roger’s drone outside of her window, she had to remind herself that it was okay. Her treatment tomorrow would be the same as the first, and she had survived that intact. It, too, would be over soon enough, and after the simple exhaustion of standing for four hours, she would be ready to go to bed, she was sure. 

And with any luck? She would still be able to say hello to her new friend on her secret phone before she fell asleep.