Chapter 8

Saturday

I couldn’t believe it when I woke up.

I mean I literally couldn’t believe it. I stood and stared at the mirror in absolute shock. My stunned brain didn’t even notice the other changes - my hair was twice as long as it had been at the start of the week, my waist was somehow even thinner than it had been before, and in contrast, my hips had widened. My ass was plump and around, and my legs were toned, despite the fact that I wasn’t really one for exercise.

No, all that I could see was my breasts ... They’d grown.

If I had to guess, I’d say I was an F-cup, but I was in completely unknown territory here. I could have been a G, H ... do they even make “H” cup? I’d spent the first eighteen years of my life as an A, I’d never expected to have to know anything about the larger sizes.

What’s more, they seemed to be completely defying gravity. A chest as large as mine, you’d expect a bit of sag ... anything this large that stood up proudly would look fake, but somehow my breasts managed to be large, perky, and completely natural-looking.

I couldn’t understand it at all.

My brother came looking for me when I didn’t come downstairs. After filling my ass with his seed the previous night, he’d told me that he was going to cook me breakfast, and that I could wash it all down with another milkshake. He knocked on my door, and when I didn’t answer, came in to find me standing naked in front of the mirror, staring in absolute shock.

“Wow,” he said, reaching out to cop a feel of my new, huge chest. It felt incredible ... each time his fingers brushed across my nipples was like a mini-orgasm, but even when my pussy started to drip, I still didn’t move.

What now?

When Marty had first told me the Big Tits Theory, I’d understood it immediately. It made so much sense ... but he’d only explained what happened up to an E-cup. E-cups were porn stars, freaks who fucked their brothers, who got off from sleeping with anyone and everything. For some reason, I hadn’t even thought about tit-sizes larger than that ... but now, I was an I-don’t-even-know-what-cup. What did that make me?

Marty led me downstairs ... he didn’t even bother putting clothes on me. I guess that meant we were going to be fucking sooner rather than later, a thought which excited me without altering the blank look on my face.

What was I?

As I mindlessly ate the bacon and eggs that Marty served me, and sipped on the milkshake he put into my hands, he began to explain.

F-cups, G-cups, H-cups, and everything above ... they were special. Precious, he said. C-cups were a dime a dozen, D-cups were everywhere you looked (which was why he’d managed to take a different one home each night last week), and anyone could open up a browser window and find dozens, hundreds, thousands of E-cups, fucking and being fucked online for everyone’s amusements.

But F-cups? F-cups were incredible.

F-cups were property.

I sat there as his words washed over me. Everything he was saying made sense - he explained that F-cups had no free will, no mind of their own. F-cups exist to be fucked, to be owned; if you let an F-cup out on the streets by themselves, they’ll just latch onto the first man who glances at them sideways, the first man who shows any kind of attraction.

F-cups exist to get men off ... and literally nothing else.

And when you grew past an F-cup, that’s when you were really something special.

Where E-cups would say yes to anything and F-cups needed an owner to tell them what to do, G and H-cups went even beyond that. They got off on the sickest, most perverted things they could think of. They’d sit in a room for hours, just to come up with dirty things that they could do ... and their orgasms were stronger than every other cup-size put together.