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Literature
Britt's Maxed Out Tits
Brittney Boulders used to be a record-holding porn star: Largest breasts. Technically, the largest implants, as each boob was 20000 cc. But since nobody came close to her cup size, she proudly took the title of biggest in general. In her most popular video, she gave two men a tit job at the same time and their cocks never touched. With that much saline, she stood out and was famous even if people found her boobs tacky or trashy. Brittney retired from her career and settled down. She never reduced her breasts, she was proud to hold the record and she liked the attention she got from them. She married a former co-star and they had a baby. As time passed, things changed. The baby girl grew up into a beautiful college student. Brittney began to stand out less from the introduction of Maxi Corp. Her shirts and bras were no longer unique to her alone. It never bothered Brittney, she was happy with the money she spent to make herself the way she was. Brittney was sad when she lost her
Literature
Vector (BE)
This contains Breast Expansion and an intense sexual predicament. Do not read if you are offended by such fun. - She walks on by, and you have no idea of the bubbling potential within, always yearning to be released. Her ability to hide it under the surface, the unending pressure that always threatens to fill her full and then overflow. It's worn well, unassuming and patient. A casual crop top, a tight pair of shorts to emphasise her ass, to draw attention to her lower body as if that was the thrill. Colorful leggings to coax the eye more, down to sturdy-yet-glamorous boots. To pull your eyes away from every slight, shortened breath. The breath that she controls, keeps short and easy. Each one a swift intake and release that is intended to maintain control. To ensure that she remains in place. If she breathes deep, as she sometimes may, then you see it. One deep breath, to offset and make up for all those that were shortened. One long, heavy intake that relieves her and fills her. Fills her more. More than any short, sharp breath, her shirt less loose as she consumes a much-needed yearned-for mass of air. Less loose, still, as her breasts take in a vast percentage of every intake and gradually swell. Throughout the day, ever swelling and bulging. Short breaths adding millimetres, but large breaths creating surges in size. Millimetres become centimetres, centimetres become inches, inches become... Well, hopefully not. She is calm, she is patient. She breathes and focuses, and her size is maintained. On her best days, she starts out at an average cup, a C or a D, depending on her sleep. Sleep seems to default it, to offset it. Something about unconscious process causes deflation and, usually by morning, all excess mass is expelled. But by the end of a conscious day, starting out at her best, she will grow. Her breasts starting out, filling and bubbling. Tingling with the motion of swelling inside a bra that she wears specifically larger than the size she starts out with. Her average start being C or D within a cupsize of G, that bra usually comfortably full by the end of a focused day. Filled to the brim when the stresses and hectic circumstances force it. On a bad day, overflowing and taut. Bubbling out of every gap, soft and increasingly sensitive to the touch. By the end of a bad day, it is all she can do not to gasp and breath heavily, simply based on how her breasts feel in her crop. Squeezed and caressed by the fabric itself, the growth giving motion to her nipples within and they slide precariously closer to the brim of her garment. Filling further and fuller, giving rise to a growing, insatiable need. On those days, she goes home and shuts herself away. She goes to her bedroom, with a futon in the midst and nothing else. A huge, empty room with all the space she might need. And she masturbates, furiously, allowing herself to heave mighty breaths and so grow unchecked, her clothes often still on to increase her sensation as she swells and gulps air, needing it and wanting it, her boobs surging out of her crop tops and bras and bursting them open, tearing them and popping stitches as she writhes and moans beneath them, the room slowly filling and being overtaken by blossoming breastflesh. She works herself furiously, fingers pushing deep within and clawing at the edges of her now-immense breasts. Her nipples too far away, and yet never forgotten as they pulse in the ever-extending distance. Her orgasm nears, but seems hard to achieve without that specific stimulation, her tits more sensitive by half than her sex. Simply due to size, to strain, to tightness and still-growing pressure. A climax approaches and still feels so far away, until the moment her nipples meet the ceiling. She gasps at the touch, and they surge upwards again, they stroke the ceiling and become compressed for a moment, squeezed and tormented by the room itself as she fills it almost entirely. Her orgasm takes hold and she lets it overflow, pulsing and breathing and screaming beneath. Then giving way to a tired and satisfied sleep. Ready, again, for the next new day.
Literature
New BE-ginnings
Contains Breast Expansion. Beware! - Once upon a t- That's how it starts, right? Just jumps into the story and hey, there it is. The reason we're here. There's a girl, again, she's... what is she? Is she flat with potential for more? Already busty, but with some kind of inferiority complex? Shy, and therefore holding back? Confident and thus holding herself proudly, accentuating her prominent protrustions? One of these, one of those. Mix it all together and... how does it happen? Because this is what I do, right? I write and develop her developing, right? Of course I do, but is it always the same? It often feels the same. So we need a catalyst, we need to say something like... she pulled on her swimsuit, a one-piece affair that confined her modest breasts and compacted them down, streamlined her body. She knew this was what needed to happen, she'd seen it done, but she'd never been swimming before. Why? Discouraged, probably. Something hidden, some ridiculous reason that doesn't hold up but of course it turns out that she absorbs water and outgrows every inch of her new swimsuit. And why shouldn't it stop there? The bubbling flesh of her expanding breasts pushing out through the seams of her suit as it stretches to opacity, pulled to excess and so destroyed by a final new inch of relentlessly swelling boob. Now what? We fill the pool? Maybe it's just the chlorine, that would explain why the rain never got her before. Poison gas filling her, with a fluidity and softness that makes gas improbable. So it's water? Is it? We should bring someone in to caress her breast, to comment on the undulation and impact tremors that a firm slap presents. We should disturb her masturbatory growth with a newscast of exposition, perhaps. And so she fills up the building, which creaks and groans as it encases her burgeoning bust, her torso and limbs in a safe spot, through a door or a closet or just suspended from her breasts in the drained pool beneath. Why is it drained? Absorbed, maybe. It had water and chlorine within it before. Who else is in this room and what obstacles are around the area? Did we do any of that, or is it all too focused on the girl and her bosom? And so she grows and she gropes herself, and she fills up the suit, then the pool, then the building, and it all gets a little out of hand. Her nipples are throbbing, her crotch is flooded, her breasts are immense and ready to continue their ascent into impossible girth. Or maybe they're ready to be fondled and squeezed into a climax of volcanic proportion? Which one is the way to do it? I want to continue, to push her to extremes. To have her writhing in pleasurable torment until the end of time, outgrowing buildings and hills and mountains and moons. Planets and stars collapse under her immeasurable mounds. The fabric of time is pulled taut and then broken through. Her orgasms are countless, but may as well be one for all the downtime she gets between them. And then it ends abruptly, with no space to grow. Not that she stops, not at all, she's beyond it. But there's nothing to grow into, no measurable equivalent to even one of her breasts, then even one of her areolas, then even one of her teats, then even one cell of her being. The all is insignificant and she is the singularity. The reaction of Earth is obsolete, destroyed, gone. She exists in her own self, safe in an atmosphere created by a plot device, and presumably is still in the pool nonetheless. And we end it as we end all things. With an absurd and abrupt little note that leaves you wanting more. More of this girl who has more than enough, not enough, but still more than there ever has been. When her peaks become pressured and let out a sigh as a new universe flows forth. A universe tainted by the ability to grow at the same rate, the same lifeforms becoming as she is, together, and exponentially creating anew. And the girl's name is Eden. Because why wouldn't it be?
First time writing up a breast expansion story! Nothing like some good old universe-crushing titties.
Mature
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Clever af.