This short story contains fetish material dealing particularly with expansion during masturbation. Please take this into consideration and leave before you otherwise offend yourself. If you're offended by the idea of being offended at this potentially offensive piece, then read on and enjoy! - - - She knows what would happen if she does it. It happens every time. But she feels the warmth, feels the overwhelming all-compassing heat of stimulative sensation. It envelopes her, consumes her, fuels her need to propel herself to new levels of completion. She is already naked, the time is now. Her fingers drift onto her loins, and she toys with herself, her eager section that pulses and feels ready. The seed atop it full of coiled nerve endings that are ready to be unshucked and frisked. She touches and it melts, becoming rigid and moistened by the hull of her sex. The sensations slowly overcome her being and as she unsheaths and rubs at herself, the seed of her ecstasy slowly sprouting and her body starting to tense and become fuller. Her breasts plumping and filling with the pressure of need, her ass swelling and rounding out, her stomach becomes tense and her diaphragm hiccoughs. She feels her pussy puff up and press perfectly around her dancing digits, her yearning and aching becoming secondary as her curves pop another stage, blossoming forth with an expression of rapid release. She moans and sighs, bursts of exclamation that eject themselves from her as she orgasms again and again, her nipples tense and full, her breasts behind them full and heaving, jumping forward with every new bulge of her being. She inhales and gasps out another sharp shout, feeling every small jostle as her curves groan and pop larger again. Each ass cheek is a balloon, each breast a turbulent swollen milk sac. Her nipples strive to be longer and harder than anything they ever became before. She is a mass of circles, the circles her mass. She has popped into fullness and she now can relax, having surpassed her whole being of self-love and acceptance and become cloudy and full in her blossoming. Her mind relaxes and she settles again into a kernel of relief, a pocket of potential, slowly unclouding as the process begins anew...
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?
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.
THIS STORY CONTAINS VARIOUS TYPES OF EXPANSION, MAINLY BREAST EXPANSION AND ASS EXPANSION, if you don't know it, don't show it. To yourself or to anyone. Or at the very least don't view it with an air of negativity towards the subject that you have now been warned about. - NEEDS AND WANTS II - Given that I have proven myself able, at this point, to gain vast amounts of swelling flesh and expand my own stock of it I decide that perhaps, given my unwillingness to actually utilise it publicly, it might be a good idea to test it. Alone, in a safe space. I find myself curious, also, as to how far I can go, but I ultimately reason that the time to test that is not on the third instance, or even in any unpractised state. That test needs to be done with reliable control, to see what boundaries can be pushed whether that be the size of a yoga ball or the size of... I barely want to imagine, but I do want to be there. The size of a mattress or a whole room. More than that, even. Horizons. Can I even grow alone, or does it need a catalyst? What does it respond to, a want or a need? A desire, maybe. I stand in my own bedroom, looking at my reflection in the shining surfaces around. In the lampshade, in the door handle, in the standing mirror itself. I look down at my own breasts, clad only in a modest and somewhat-loose lace pyjama top, and squint at them, willing them to swell. They remain modest, and I sink to the carpet, legs splayed and my stature drooping. I wanted to get this done, to test it. I wanted to... A wash of need overcomes me and I shudder, my tits suddenly perked up and yearning for attention, pulsing to bigger and rounder shape before settling back into tear-shaped swells again. Then again, larger, pushing the boundaries of my top and tenting it indecently over the nipples. They are growing, for me. And so I get to enjoy them more. Their sensitivity is ramped up this time, the loose fabric alone is making me tremble. It glides over my heaving orbs and it holds them, tighter and tighter, gripping them firmly in it's confines. I moan, uninhibited by locale, and I explore the lower swells with curious palms, feeling the boobflesh press between my fingers and fill my palms. They undulate as I squeeze them and massage what I can hold, overflowing my hands and slipping free of my top and bouncing heavily in my grasp, where my fingertips eagerly wait to knead them, to explore the areolas and nipples and tug them, needily, wanting a more climactic release. My body responds and the sensitivity redoubles, my want filling them fuller, to a size that forces my breasts down into my lap, to fill it and instantly overwhelm it. My legs are pinned, my hands are wandering and squeezing at nipples they can barely reach. I'm moaning and writhing and my shorts are soaked through, without any need yet to touch myself down there. But I want to. I can't get past my breasts, but I want to push my fingers into myself, to bring myself to ecstasy. My want channels to fuel my growing needs, and my body does... something. I feel my pussy lips flutter and enlarge, and my thighs become thicker so as to grind it against itself. I rock against my still-swelling bust and my clit pulses, enlarging and stroking itself on the carpet with every slight hip movement. I'm close. I'm closer. I'm closer. I'm almost at my limit and yet exhausted from moaning and grinding. My boobs are grown, not willing to allow my nipples to escape my grasping hands. My orgasm builds and builds, never ebbing, always climbing and swelling. I scream with the pleasure and hit the brink, and it's so much. Too much! My vision fades to black as I succumb to sleep, my throbbing and clenching the last thing I feel as I slip into slumber. - I awake normal again, in a mess of my making. But I am satisfied. The test went well, I think.
Needs and Wants (BE/AE) by 51N1573R54NDM4N, literature
Literature
Needs and Wants (BE/AE)
THIS STORY CONTAINS VARIOUS TYPES OF EXPANSION, MAINLY BREAST EXPANSION AND ASS EXPANSION. If you don't know it, don't show it. To yourself or to anyone. Or at the very least don't view it with an air of negativity towards the subject that you have now been warned about. - NEEDS AND WANTS - I have been afflicted with a condition, since turning twenty. It started one day on a whim, at the college. I found myself wishing that my partner on-project would see me, would want me. And it began. My shirt became tense atop my suddenly-growing breasts, the buttons strained. My partner did not look. My jeans lost their slack and filled out with a bubble of ass-flesh and even some thigh. It caused me to gasp as I felt my clothes shifting, my nipples taut as arousal struck and my butt pulsing more, pushing over the brim of my seat. They did not look, but the tension was palpable. They knew and their breathing reflected that knowledge. The want to look was surging through them, the need to see rising fast. I am a tease. I abandoned them to gape at myself, to marvel at what I'd become. To wonder if I was in danger or... what? A magical being, perhaps. Sudden changes have a way of removing you from the moments and changing what you want. What I saw in the mirror was a slightly rumpled shirt and a vaguely shapely ass, but to no extreme. Normal again. I sought out my partner, having steeled and arranged myself. I did not grow again for at least a few weeks. - The next incident occurred one day at the gym. I was spinning and wheeling, and admiring the view of the room behind me, a mirrored surface before me which spanned the whole wall. And the view was a room, and the room was active. And in the activity of the room I could see tight clothes and bulging flesh, muscles and skin on all types of body. One in particular intrigued me the most, and I found myself lost in the routine of my spin, concentrating on nothing but drinking in the sight of that whole, rounded ass. Watching it rise and fall and sway and gyrate, wishing that mine was one to match. And then it was. My shorts became tighter, the thin material stretched and pulled itself inwards, even as my backside thrust itself out and beyond, the cheeks slowly consuming the garment as they pumped out bigger, bounding rhythmically as I pushed the pedals, grinding myself into the seat as it swelled. I barely noticed until it was almost too late, then the bite of the fabric convinced me to hop down, to sit in a pose and recover my thoughts. To ignore the stares of the few who had noticed but dared not say anything. I still wanted to show off. The view had not changed, and the original ass had not turned to see. They could not see that on which I had sat, and so my thoughts turned to breast mass again. What I wanted, I got. In total concentration I sat there, fully focused, trying not to moan as my sports bra squeezed my bust. As my breasts filled it up and pushed it out, only to then overflow it. Above and below, two hills up and a gravity-pulled swell underneath that inched larger with every breath I took. The bra now a band of increasingly overstretched opacity, holding my boobs in and forcing them to rise up and surge out around it, swallowing it with muffin-flesh. Too public. Too public! I fled again, begrudging my own embarrassment, and my requested audience never even saw me. But I will try again...
THIS STORY CONTAINS BREAST EXPANSION, if know ye not of whence that comes, do not venture forth. Merely run. This is part four of the Bonds. - Here we are. A cliché is pushing buttons in a way that's expected. Something is this and so this comes to that via means of the other. Like falling asleep instead of expressing at all, it can lead to time slipping away and becoming more. Waking with minutes to spare, finding out suddenly that you only have one option. It's been done before, it happens too often. And yet here we are. Minutes to spare, sudden and sure. Woken by the chime of a phone that states vaguery without time at all, but narrows it and wipes it. 'We r on our way'. That solitary letter instead of 'are', the mark of haste. No matter the length of the rest. I panic. Time flew and went. There is nothing to do but hide. The enormity of my tender, heaving breasts before me, still slightly swelling. Filling a space that could hold two of the rest of myself. They cannot be exposed this way, nor is there time to drain. Not to my panicked mind, at least, and not to my children who care not for my privacy. The laundry is near. My salvation within, and another cliché to bear with. Bedsheets that I can wrap around and around, binding myself for the second time that day. One, then two. Knotted and taut. Three, four five and my breasts are confined again to merely one extra mass of me. One last blanket, to huddle under. To appear decent in hiding, under the cover of it's weight. If the clichés are abundant enough, they'll assume I'm cuddling a couple of pillows. They'll prod at them and laugh and express concern much more freely than I've been able to express myself. You see? I wait and grit my teeth as my bosom continues it's slowest of crawls, inching outward as minutes tick by. Suddenly time has returned, and with a vengeance intended to make me aware of each and every intolerable second. Throbbing with milk, and with a growing need to expel it. The latch, the door, the rumble of feet. A scuffling of shoes removed, and then my children and partner are in the room. I huddle and squeeze my breasts to myself, compressing them more, convincing myself that they are very much smaller than they could possibly be. I pretend to cough and sniffle, and they draw nearer. Either they want the plague or I'm (for lack of a better term) busted. The youngest attempts to climb on me, to bounce on the assumption of pillows. I feel my nipple pulse and drizzle, the pressure too much, and I hold back a facial expression through sheer force of will... which nonetheless alerts my partner. The children are hustled to bed, the time ripe for it anyhow. Saved again, by clichés. Thank you, clichés! The minutes start passing again, each second punctuated by a growing wetness beneath the sheets, a slight ballooning even now. Pressure, more pressure, building and heated and centred behind my aching nipples. Each second a waiting game, needs rising and falling with each breath that I take. The routine is a long one, bathed, clothed, bedded. A story to help them settle. What wouldn't I give to settle? I catch myself toying with the strained fabric, stroking the skin through the layers. The mounds are more evident, even restrained, the swells soft and inviting even to me. My hand drifts beneath the blanket to touch my sex, and only the contrast of heat and the cold dampness repels it. Yet still I am growing. Too much, too far. Far too much, but I love it. My partner will too... As if to prove it, he returns to my side. He sits there a moment and I sheepishly smile, my face reddened from holding it back. He takes off my blanket, and I shiver a little, cold for a moment despite myself. He takes in the sight for barely a moment, then unties the top knot of the five-sheet bandage. My breasts surge out, straining already at knot two. They bubble and billow out, overtaking my vision and his own frame in seconds, the third knot loosing of it's own accord. He unties knot two and they fill out to extremes, two bindings aside in seconds. Two to go, and the tightest bound is the fourth. It struggles to hold me, my breasts are encompassing it like so much fresh dough. They hold, they hold. My partner can't reach around boobs that fill half of the living room, squashed over the floor as they are. It holds. It breaks, snapping with a noise like a gunshot. We flinch, both of us and listen for noise from the halls. Straining to hear through my billowing bosom as it fills the remainder of room, my partner nestled safely  between. The fifth sheet had slipped, jostled free by the motion. My breasts were no longer impeded. Still they bubbled and undulated, still they pressed up and around. They filled up the area and then suddenly all was quiet. There was nothing to hear except churning of milk and stretching skin, because our ears were enclosed in my own swelling titflesh. Then a pulsing, a throbbing, as my nipple met the wall and bent, gliding up it and pointing to the ceiling, sending thrills through my gargantuan boobs and directly between my thighs. I could feel tables and seats and the television trapped, my partner assuring me from between that all would be well and that we would be safe. I nod to acknowledge and whisper to him, through a gutteral moan, that the pressure is mounting. The room squeezes me, and it's coming. It's coming. I'm coming. I'm coming! Milk bursts from the teats and I feel then immediately begin to recede, still bent against the wall but dragged slowly down, slick on the smooth surface from the excessive expression. My mouth twists in ecstasy, my eyes gaze into those of my partner as he kneads me in turn. Helping to release me in every possible way that he can. My skin recedes too, the elastic retained, and I am grateful for the smallest of the mercies that something so gigantic has to offer. I shrink and I moan, soft and exhausted. The process takes hours of relentless massage, and I am not there for it. My mind is on a euphoric plane far from my living room, filled only by my partner's voice. I sleep again. And when I wake... I am more than happy to do my part in the claaning. With love on my side through it all. Love conquers all. A cliché.
THIS STORY CONTAINS BREAST EXPANSION, if you don't know it, don't show it. This is part three of the Bonds series. - Time does things. Small things, big things. Lots of things compressed by time spent or extended by time given. It changes how we view the world. Months have passed, I've given birth twice. Once to twins. The milk came in, it expanded my already sizeable breasts and then the natural flow slowly ebbed as it was no longer required. The milk is still produced, still stored. I swell bigger and bigger with no sign of stopping, and that's... That's fine. Time has desensitised me to their ever-growing presence, although my chest is as sensitive as ever. Perhaps more so, if I let it build up, allow the skin to thin and stretch just a little. When I express it, it tingles and jolts and I spend more or less half the time cleaning up afterwards, and not just the milk. That's what my life is now, my children are out with the family and my partner. For the sake of their good time, I stay home and prepare for their return. My partner will want to know I spent the day comfortable, and we can't get away with certain things that we used to. The children are pure, and I won't taint them with worries of my overproduction. But today I am curious. The slow cooker is bubbling, and everything is set. They are out for hours, and so I have bound myself tight, as I used to, with bandages pulled taut over rippling flesh and compacting my breasts down to a relatively modest size. The smallest I can manage is essentially a mirage at 36DD. Yes, I gained weight. Just a touch. Laying there, compressed by my bindings for the first time in months, I drape the weighted blanket over myself. It presses down and I feel my boobs spreading out under their confine, I see them sink feasibly lower on my chest. Usually I'd do this unbound, and once the blanket was lifted that would mark the time when expressing was... not required, but easy. Today I want them to raise the blanket whilst bound. Perhaps they won't. I hope they will. I want to see how big I can be. I lay and watch them, like a drying wall. I feel the mass of them shifting, invisibly. Still it fascinates me, knowing that beneath all this motionless weight and constriction there's a sea of titflesh roiling beneath, searching for weakness through which they can spill as they swell, undulating softly into any tiny space, any gap in the binding. Feeling tighter, tighter. Firm and under pressure. Ready to break out. To boil over and flow freely, erupting into the fresh air. Eventually. But for now, still tight. Still firm. Time. Time does things. It's doing things now. Tighter. Pushing me, pulling me. I hear creaks, then groans. The blanket shifts. It shifts! It starts to rise up insistently, the bonds beneath breaking. I imagine that I can see the tenting, where my nipples are erecting from the sheer pacing of it, the anticipation rising. Building and building. I am already larger than I would usually allow. Nobody is coming home, not for hours. How long can I go in my limited time? My breasts are bubbling rapidly free of their prison, finding new weakness with every pulse of their growth. Deliberating over a point of tension and then pushing at it, bursting it, the flesh within spilling out and ballooning from the gap. The blanket raises. Further, more. I find myself wanting it, willing myself larger. My breasts are still soft, still pliable. I can take so much, and still want more. I take it. Time. Compressed by time, taken by time. Losing myself in time and in pleasure at being so much more than I even knew I could be. The blanket shifts, swells of bosom pushing it aside and causing it to glide over my nipples, releasing my bare boobs to the air. A shiver takes me as they blossom forth, my peaks quivering as they rise like a foam. A soft, gelatinous pair of beings that tower above me and actually give me a sense of fear. I reposition myself whilst I can. They rest in my lap and continue to swell, inching towards the floor. I groan and massage them, invigorating myself. I clench my thighs and rub them together, seeking more. Ever more. There are stray bandages, still holding, gripping my breasts and squeezing them, but I can feel them weaken. They want to break. I do (and I don't) want them to break. When they do, they rupture. They explode from my chest and my breasts show themselves in their fullest ever state. They bound free and I find release, just from the relief of it. They swell ever larger, and settle. Ever settling, ever growing. This is my life. I will need to express, but I still have time. Time does things.
THIS STORY CONTAIS BREAST EXPANSION. If you do not know what this is or do not appreciate such things, leave it be... - Quite a lot since. In many ways, by various means. You took me at my true size, awkward at first and then sincere. Not so much for the sake of my expanded bustline, more for the me you'd missed until it drew you to interaction. We dated, we kissed, you were given full access... and you revelled in it. Your hands were like magic on my breasts, kneading them eagerly. Applying the pressure that they were accustomed to (due to binding them) and then releasing them so that they billowed back out, smothering your face and lips and pillowing gracefully and heavily around your roaming fingers. My secret places flooded and you explored those too, with reckless abandon and various body parts. You drove yourself into me and slammed it home, again and again. You squeezed and mauled my breasts and my whole body sang with the rhythm of it, the pulsing pleasures and growing need. The imminent and powerful release from us both. You weren't careful, but you were willing. You filled me from raw, and my body responded. I still bind my breasts, but now they swell. Every day they are squeezed by the fabric and every day the fabric is dampened by my newly invigorated production. My body is ready, it produces milk for the inevitable. They swell. Hour by hour, milk begets milk. I bind down to a 34A and by noon I appear as a 34D, being a fraction of my true size, but not nearly as unnoticeable. The wrappings are stronger, but to no avail. I should stop restricting them, restraining them, squeezing them, but it aids the growth. You love the growth. I love it too, because I love you. More than that, truly, my boobs feel wonderful. The swells and the peaks bubble delightfully under constriction. They jostle and bounce and the friction begins to feel electrical, giving rise to small urges and almost certainly new growth. I refuse to milk myself in the midst of the day, opting instead for another bound layer. To compress them further just to improve upon that moment at the end of the day, when I return to the fold and you welcome me. You look into my eyes, mine gaze back and plead with you. I am aching for relief, and you are happy to provide. The bindings are shifted, your palms finding those seams and parting them readily, allowing my tits to surge out from between them. Inch by inch, a foot of breast flesh seeping into your waiting palms, yearning for your touch and claiming you, encompassing your hands and arms and filling the entire space between us. Milk spurting out as you wrestle with my masses, my face flushing and my lips parted, soft and sensual moans of relief and of happiness echoing from within. And as they settle against you, as the growth of them recedes and the floors become soaked, as you drain me and get drenched in my flow... My need of you only swells larger.
THIS STORY IS A SHORT PIECE THAT INVOLVES BREAST 'EXPANSION'. If this is not your scene, dodge it now by clicking away. - Morning. I wrap the fabric tightly around myself, feeling each strip compressing the swells beneath, feeling an ocean of undulation threatening to burst through from between the bandages. It's thrilling, exciting. But it's a secret. Nobody out there appreciates what could be. They only understand what... is. And so what they see is not what is, and that is my daily challenge. To them I am only a 28 year-old, confident in her ways but set in her introversion. Proud of the self, but not one to show off. A bubbling pride that swells from beneath and once again tries to billow forth. I wind around another layer, then fasten a bra atop my flattened form. I don a light layer, a shirt and then a thinnish cardigan. Not hiding, but not showing. I am what you see. And so much more. I can feel them fighting their confine, pulsing, squeezed to my ribs as if to leverage away. They want to spring free, they always do, but the compression is enjoyable too. So they settle. I settle. - I walk by a hundred people that day, nobody spares me a second glance. Plenty of firsts, I'm not unattractive, but never a second... although I may miss those who gravitate to my backside, checking behind them to see my jeans clinging to a full-bubbled rear. It doesn't yet require binding. It would be easier to breathe if it did. And then, after hiding for so long, it rains. Sudden and freezing, falling drizzle. There is nowhere to go, but there is someone to turn to. That someone is you, the one I see daily, who passes me by and has never once looked beyond the flat of my chest. But today it is raining, and the cold seeps through. It chills my front and erects my nipples. My bonds are not ready for additional pressure, they strain for a moment and spread apart. You watch as my breasts start to seemingly swell, your captivation is as huge as they reveal themselves to be. The binding is strong but the momentum has taken hold and my boobs are blossoming forth. Filling the bra that would have protected from spills, overflowing it bulge by bulging mass. Spreading the buttons of that cardigan, filling it full and to the brim as breast flesh bubbles out from the wrappings. My true size revealed to you, only you. My true size bursting free.
I hope to continue The Class soon.
Meanwhile, I joined the Discord. My current favourite initials belong to both the Mod I'm speaking to and my favourite game, Kingdom Hearts.
Thank you, KH!
So user
~Puffylover1 (https://www.deviantart.com/puffylover1)
is holding a contest to find a fusion piece that captures the ideals of both judges!
Contest link is here, I'd say go for it!
http://puffylover1.deviantart.com/journal/updated-Contest-2-w-Ends-1-week-from-now-684629326
Have a great game, all participants...