This story is a fantasy about breasts growing out of control. But then, who ever heard of breasts that grow in a controlled manner? If they're going to grow, they will probably go right ahead and do it. Although there is some industrial language, there is no filthy disgusting sex in this story, no penetration, no violation of the Sacred Temple of Womanhood with the Vile Pork Sword of Man. Just inexorably growing tits.
"Oh, no! Not again!" Venetia hastily slumped her shoulders, glanced around the office, edged around her desk and headed for the door with a folder across her chest. "Back in five minutes," she said brightly to anyone who might be listening, although they all seemed fast asleep, or hard at work.
The ladies' room was empty, which was a blessing. She closed the cubicle door behind her, and took a deep breath. Yes, no doubt about it. There was an feeling of something unpleasantly loose inside her shirt. Once the buttons were undone, she had the confirmation.
"Shit, shit, shit!" She didn't find her choice of vocabulary at all ironic, given her present location. This was too serious a moment for whimsical thoughts. "My last serviceable bra!"
It was structural failure, big-time. The bra which had dumped her breasts in her lap on the train on Monday had been an old one, and it had given good service for three years of wash n' wear. Yesterday morning's bra, which had come adrift as she ran up the steps from the subway, had never been really comfortable, even when it had been new. Most women were wearing a bra of the wrong size, she remembered reading somewhere. Me too, she had thought. She put it down to being an in-between size.
With such a slender frame for her above average height, Venetia had always had difficulty getting hold of the 32D cup she really needed, and even when she did, it was a lottery whether it was comfortable or not. And this one was one of those rarities, a really comfortable bra. Correction: this one had been one of those rarities. It was no more. It had shuffled off its mortal coil and gone to meet its Maker. It was an ex-bra.
A safety pin might see her through the day - at least, the rest of the working day. The fastenings were at the front - Dennis, breast-obsessed pervert and love of her life, had begged her to get herself a front-loader this time - but she still had to take her shirt and the ruined bra right off to see the full extent of the damage. The hooks had pulled out of the material completely. How could that have happened? How could a bra have given up the ghost in such a dramatic manner? Had it shrunk?
There was a simple answer to that one. Her entire wardrobe of bras, shirts, blouses and sweaters hadn't somehow shrunk in three days. Venetia had grown. It should have been obvious anyway. Running her hands across her naked breasts, she could tell they were noticeably much fuller than usual. They felt hugely full, tight as a drum. Not the same shape as a drum, though. They were plump and round, and the nipples stuck out like something she couln't quite think of a simile for. "No way in the world," she said to herself, answering her own unspoken question: 'No way in the world could I get away with not wearing a bra for the rest of the afternoon.' She was firm enough: her breasts weren't going to flop down around her navel, but they certainly did bounce. And if she walked around for the rest of the day with her big titties bouncing up and down like very large puppies in a very small sack, someone other than the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Very Large Puppies would be sure to notice. Especially with her nipples sticking out like this.
She discarded the solutions as they came to her. No, she could not walk around stiff as a statue for two more hours. She could not stick Band-Aid over her nipples. She suspected they didn't make Band-Aid wide enough. It was Dennis's fault: he couldn't leave the damn things alone. Suck, suck, suck!
Hastily, guiltily, she lowered her breast from her lips, and rubbed a fingertip across the nipple. It was longer than the last joint of her index finger. There was no chance she could ever hope to disguise those...
"Damn!" Someone had come into the ladies' room.
"Venetia? You in here?"
No escape. The cubicle door was all too obviously shut. She couldn't just sit there and not say anything. Someone obviously had to be in the cubicle, having a shit, or playing with herself to while away the afternoon. Venetia blushed.
"Yeah. Won't be a minute."
"Oh, good! Butch wants to see you right away." The voice sounded relieved. It was Frances. Why couldn't she have seen Mr Butcher and found out what he wanted?
"Five minutes, okay?"
"Okay. Enjoy yourself!" The door closed with a faint squeak. Little bitch!
Venetia fumbled away with the bra, finally getting it to stay together with three safety pins from her purse. She had to climb back into the bra, as it was now permanently clasped, and it creaked dangerously as she pulled the straps over her shoulders then made herself as small as she could before trying to pull the thing down over her plump breasts. She could get the right one in there, or the left, but not both at the same time. It took three attempts before she plucked up the courage to just go right ahead and pull it down. It was almost bursting, but it held. She tucked in her breasts underneath where they were too big for the cups, and tried to do the same with the surplus flesh at the sides, where the bra was forcing her breasts up almost into her armpits. Even with the shoulder straps slackened off, it was a lousy fit. How ever had she got into it this morning? Surely she couldn't have grown as much as that? Shaking her head, she remembered that it had been a little tight, but her bras always did feel tight in the mornings. They always had done. Hadn't they?
The buttons of her shirt were a problem, too. Even now, held in by her poor broken bra, she guessed she must be a couple of inches bigger than she had been, and this shirt was intended to be a snug fit. Even snugger now, she thought, hopelessly trying to make it look somehow a little less indecent.
She tried various poses in front of the mirror, and finally settled on a slightly round shouldered slouch. It made her feel like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Or the Hunchfront. 'The bells, the bells... '
"Ah, there you are." Mr Butcher glanced pointedly at his watch. "I was beginning to think you'd wandered off and got lost." Bastard. "Look, it's nearly three. Would you take this folder over to McKellar, Fyfe, Kinross, Buchan and N'kwase, over in Dudley Square. You can have some petty cash for the bus fare. After that there won't be much point in coming back in, so you can take the rest of the afternoon off."
"Thank you, Mr Butcher." She took the folder, trying not to breathe. By the time she got over to Dudley Square, it would be nearly four, and by the time she'd made her way back to the Central station, she'd have missed her usual train home by ten minutes.
"Are you okay? You haven't hurt your back, have you?" He was obviously wondering if she was thinking of taking a day's sick leave.
"Just a little. I was lifting some files on to the top shelf and I felt something go." Which was true, in a kind of manner of speaking. "I'll take a hot bath when I eventually get home."
The barb was lost on Mr Butcher. "Yes, well," he snapped, opening another folder. "As long as you're not hoping for time off." Venetia felt his eyes on her as she turned for the door. She also felt one of her safety pins spring loose, and she clutched at her chest, between and beneath her breasts, in a torment in case the pin stuck into her tits. She moved with exaggerated care to the doorway, feeling another of the pins let go, then shuffled round, turning her whole body to wish the astonished Mr Butcher a good afternoon. She escaped, closing the door just as the last pin came loose and jabbed her in the soft underbelly of her left breast.
Venetia stuffed the bra in her bag and emerged from the toilets into the busy station concourse. She had decided to take the subway rather than the bus, as it gave her an opportunity to scurry for cover and get this useless bra off. The downside of the situation was that she now found herself travelling on a crowded train in an extremely snug-fitting shirt. She had the full and undivided attention of every other passenger, including a party of giggling schoolgirls, a number of startled businessmen and an embarrassed priest who happened to be sitting directly opposite her.
The dark reflection in the windows told her everything she didn't want to know about her appearance. Her nipples were just about punching their way through the shirt. Even more worrying, and she was sure it wasn't her imagination, her areolae were clearly visible as puffed-up dark haloes round each spiky nipple. Cheeks burning as brightly as those of the unfortunate man of God across the aisle, she pressed the folder against her chest, only to feel her nipples trying to burn two matching holes through the stiff manila. She tried to find somewhere to look where she wouldn't have to meet anyone's eyes. Finally, she unfocused her gaze and stared into space, realising too late that she was now staring intently at the groin of the Reverend Father. Sadly, all was not peaceful in the priest's pants. He had a hard-on halfway down to his knee.
.... There is more of this story ...