Bloatware

Caption by femalemorphlover

As a college graduation present, I got a new smartphone—fancy, expensive, and anxiety-provoking the second it comes out of the box.

Once it was clear my commoner’s fingers didn’t stain its glossy finish with sin—fingerprints being another story entirely—I busied myself with ‘new phone’ things; downloading wallpapers, transferring contacts, and remembering passwords to my favorite apps.

Deleting bloatware was on the agenda too, but among the proprietary clutter was an app that wasn’t as easily deleted; one that caught my eye

“Lime Health?”

Health. Besides some stubborn hip and thigh fat, I was far from a whale. But who couldn’t afford to be a little healthier? The half-empty pizza box and bottle of beer on my nightstand agreed, so I tapped around the app till I understood the gist; the ‘Get Healthy!’ button in bright green falling beneath my poised index finger. My phone pinged.

Your health is being improved! A strong wireless connection is recommended while our app runs in the background.

From there, a loading bar appeared on a minimal background. 0%. Waiting did little to progress, however, so I casually assumed that my weight and health aspirations were in some creep’s database, plugged in the charger at my bedside, and laid down after a long, celebratory night, thinking little of the decision.

Things didn’t remain little for long. . .

7%

I worked HR for a large network of lounges and little demanded my time besides the frequent tingles around my bra cups. A cursory search online yielded little in the way of remedies; either puberty-induced hormones were making my girls tender, or I had some sort of cancer that needed diagnosing. Since I was brand new to the job and healthcare paperwork was still a work in progress, I chose to blame hormones—from my period rather than a puberty that was nearly a decade overdue.

This didn’t help the incessant need to touch myself. I couldn’t get through half an hour of proofing our office e-newsletter without a startling clarity as to the shape of the inside of my arms. My boobs weren’t even that big—perky C cups, on the smaller side. But the way they tingled made them feel enormous, two soft domes as live as power lines and only silenced by the coddling of my palm. For a woman like myself, prideful of my work ethic, it was annoying to have to stop, listen for the clacking of my cubical neighbor’s keyboard, and cop a quick feel between interruptions. . . but I couldn’t stop. Stopping was more maddening by far.

More maddening than the paranoia of being caught; of being the HR worker caught in a near-sexual act or, a worse way to spin it, the new goth girl who was hired for her friskiness rather than her talent.

The connection to my phone dawned on me quickly, as part of having to squeeze my tits upwards of twenty times a workday was remembering that cute skirts didn’t have pockets. I carried my new phone in my bra, tucked in the strap on the side, and realized that I’d receive intermittent notifications whenever I felt the need to caress my needy nipples. The one time I was almost caught with my shirt unbuttoned, I managed to lean over just in time to pretend to have had my phone out all along and, after the footsteps passed me by, took stock of what was going on: Lime Health’s percentage had gone up—only just, but it was nearing ten percent within a week.

Was there something to this? Some connection? I wondered while the soft flesh of my dangling bosom just barely filled my empty hand, the warmth of my tits an annoying but understandable pleasure. I loathed the thought, but I even seemed to think better with a boob in my hand and the more I squeezed, the worse the dependency got.

15%

I didn’t concern myself much with the changes for about a week—pushing health concerns to the weekends for the sake of my weekday projects. However, after being bedridden by my chest both Saturday and Sunday—because even the slightest movement made my tender boobies burn with the need for consideration—I determined that I should bite the bullet and go to a health clinic.

Monday, I braved my apartment again only after some inward bullying-slash-coaching.

“Don’t be such a pussy. They aren’t that sensitive. You had to deal with the same tenderness when you were on birth control. Just woman-up and do this.”

Boy was I wrong.

Walking around braless felt almost painfully pleasurable like my body was telling me to be aroused when my brain just wanted coffee and cereal. Even in pajamas, my tits seemed alarmed by every subtle thing around me: the refrigerator is cold, the countertop is smooth, my pajamas are soft. None of this was new to me, but to my girls, everything about waking up on Monday was a novel, adventurous thing. And when they were done exploring this brave new world, they demanded cuddles. . . and I accommodated while my breakfast roast brewed.

Though, when it came time to get ready for work is when the adventure resumed. Warm shower water felt like an angel was playing piano on my chest; an endless barrage of stimulation that I couldn’t ignore the eroticism of. I had a healthy sex drive—healthy enough, I guess? For a girl in her mid-twenties—but I had never, even in my teens or in relationships, felt so avaricious toward my feminine wiles, nor so desirous for orgasm.

One sex scene starring myself later, I fished in my drawer for a bra; producing a personal classic—purple with pink frills that spoke to the contrarian in me that rejoiced over girlish lace so long as it denied the stiff, office woman I’d always be forced to convey. I threw my arms through the straps, cupped myself into place, and noticed that I. . . was doing a fabulous job of filling out the well-broken-in brassiere. About nine months of wearing it had made it more flexible, which my sensitive bosom appreciated. However, the breast rolls that peered over the cups like a child’s first time on a diving board indicated that something queer—or amazing—was happening to my breasts.

“C’mon. C’mon, dammit,” I wheezed, arms cocked in an x-rated version of the chicken dance, begging for bra hooks to find their homes.

When at last they did, I heaved a sigh of relief and sucked in a breath as I heard the unmistakable sound of creaking from the taxed garment. I let out the shoulder straps just to be safe and went for my powder blue collared work shirt which allowed exactly enough space for one phone to slip into place between boob and padding. Before it disappeared, I checked the health app:

19%

I looked like a damned pinup model, but I was clothed in the bare minimal sense of the word. Maybe the app was doing something after all. My bra didn’t produce horrid back bulge like before which was something.

No. . . the only bulging going on was toward the front, not the back. . .

The shirt, however, was even more formidable than the bra. Even as I squinted at the cleanly pressed piece of clothing and held it up to my body, I just knew that I would never be able to wear the thing in public without a decent chunk of unwanted attention. It was tight around me before—that is, before my C cups started looking like triple D’s in the same old bra as before.

It dawned on me that it was stupid to complain. Girls paid money for implants and push-up bras and here I was getting extra mileage out of the same old clothes I’d worn for weeks. I should be grateful. Part of me was.

A part that sort of hoped that losing a few inches off my midsection would sort of cement the hourglass look.

But experiencing such a change in my body was. . . different—not to mention a possible illusion. If I was indeed bigger in the bust, it would mean dumping tons into a new wardrobe: new bra fittings, new clothes, new accessories. It meant a total overhaul which sounded exhausting and expensive. I didn’t know how much of a woman’s life revolved around her breasts until I had the realization that a change in mine would flip a significant portion of mine upside down.

It was much less cognitively dissonant to attribute all changes in size and weight to something else. Maybe I was just bloated. Perhaps I yanked on a strap too hard last time I wore this bra making it appear tighter than before.

Maybe the constant buzzing of sex from getting dressed was giving me drunken delusions about how attractive I was. After all, just because I felt like fucking my reflection didn’t magically mean I was the bustiest girl in the world. . .

Did I seriously just think about fucking my reflection?

Roughly an hour later, I left for the office. It might have been half an hour, as HR had limitations on female makeup in the workplace making morning preparations a cinch, but the process of buttoning up my shirt was so unsettlingly hot that I had to stop twice throughout the process for a quick five-minute smash and grab. It was the only thing that seemed to calm them down after the process of pulling the two sides of my lapel together, forcing my boobies behind a soft, cotton cage. And even after massaging them back into a slow tremble, I still couldn’t get my nipples to stop being so ragingly erect at the sensation of my starched top against my feminine hills.

But things didn’t stop there.

People at the office were taking notice just as I’d anticipated. It spiced up our painful paperwork when sore shoulders and neck would cause me to squirm in my large-backed chair, certain staff members showing inexplicit interest by being unusually prompt with their half-hour leg stretching. At first, it was a little embarrassing how close I came to moaning, feeling the pulse of my phone pressed flush to my right breast by my tight little bra, but with the appreciation from my cubicle neighbors apparent on their rapt expressions it was hard not to let a few wanting sighs eke out.

That was right. I, who had scorned the way my breasts paralyzed me the whole weekend, earned a sick sense of satisfaction from seeing how people in a human resources department couldn’t keep from noticing them.

If the people in the bastion for equal workplace treatment were no match for a raging twenty-something with boobs like a pornstar, then could I blame myself for being so fixated? Did I reckon myself as having more willpower than men and women seasoned with all manner of sexual misconduct experience? Of course not.

And yet, even still, I would have required a steel will to keep from being distracted by how my clothes were fitting after a single weekend.

In fact, not only were they even more sensitive as the week progressed—a feat worthy of scientific note—but their size became. . . a concern.

37%

It was midweek.

Not only did I make the connection of Wi-Fi having some sort of contributing factor, but also that I couldn’t exactly bring myself to turn it off. . .

To be clear, I’d been through every excuse I could as to why my bra pinched so much—bloatedness, hormones, puberty-the-sequel—but none of them held any water. In fact, I didn’t have an explanation as to why I continued to grow other than, well, Lime Health.

But every time I went to turn it off, there was a sinking feeling in my stomach. A sense of loss. If the Lime Health app was responsible for my growth, would killing the app and turning off Wi-Fi reverse the changes? Did I even want to reverse those changes and have to go back to the way I was before? Worse, how would I explain to my horny coworkers that my boobs had shrunken down by a solid five cup sizes?

Which was indeed what I’d gained since the start of my ‘health journey’.

I hadn’t even known H cups existed until I indulged my curiosity—and fit ‘curious Cynthy’ into my schedule of pretending to work, squeezing two fistfuls of titty for nearly ten minutes at a time, flirting haphazardly at the few cute staff I worked with and repeating—by looking up the app. First, of course, was a bevy of developer propaganda. Life-changing results. Impossible improvements. Subscribe for fifteen bucks extra for the premium package. Take your health to one-hundred percent! But underneath all of that, buried in a comment section that would bring a blush to the raunchiest nymph, were the intimate details of every change from every person who was gullible, lazy, or brazen enough to keep the bloatware.

“Ten out of ten! Too useful! Never paying for drinks at the bar again ;)”

“Husband is very pleased. . . Let that sink in.”

“I’m a guy. At least, I was. . . Confused as I am horny.”

“I’ve seen ads for the porn industry’s best-kept secret but never expected to find it.”

It wasn’t hard to fill in the many missing words: everyone changed when they used the app. If they weren’t just paid actors or employees touting the praise of bloatware they depended upon for a salary, then an innocent graduation present was suddenly becoming a device that defined my entire life.

By teaching me that ‘H cup’ was a real cup size and not something made up by breast enthusiasts.

What they didn’t tell me was how, once I achieved that size, I wouldn’t even want to turn the app off anymore. As I’d mentioned, it became a little game to see what percentage I woke up with and how it changed overnight. So long as I remained connected to a strong wireless signal at work or home, I saw an upward progression. The loading bar filled with a welcoming evergreen color, a bubbling green animation that played on loop with shiny bubbles that a person could meditate on for hours.

But it was more than life gamification. My chest missed the phone being off. Sure, they had a mind of their own in one fashion, but the few times I forced myself to go into work without wireless networks turned on, I immediately was filled with an utter sense of anxiety. It was nothing short of mania. My mind raced as did my heart and the urgent need to wrap my little fingers around my fat, shirt-stuffing titties was of the utmost priority. It appeared that the longer they were left alone, denied regular pleasure by the intermittent vibrations that made them tremble and jiggle delightfully, the hornier I became.

Wednesday was the first time I went without Wi-Fi, remembering to place my phone on do-not-disturb and disconnecting from anything that stood a chance of interrupting a corporate meeting, but forgetting to fish my phone out from my stuffed shirt and turn those settings back on as I continued my day.

An hour in and my usual breaks to play with my boobies weren’t effective. They wanted more than I was able to give them through my shirt. Taking off my shirt only got me marginally closer to what they craved. Within ninety minutes, I was topless in my cubical and the first person to confront my heated state, well, we certainly trampled over every protocol we’d had the meeting about in the first place.

Carla had to have been a lesbian before her husband, children, and corporate office job. . . At least I knew she’d take our tryst to the grave, as would I.

But only in the unlatching of my bra with the office milf’s mouth on my needy nipples did I take note of my phone’s utter silence. After dismissing Carla and cranking all the settings back on, I was filled with sudden levity and release.

Because my phone’s vibration would keep me sane. . . and because I knew a mouth was the next step up from hands whenever I had a particularly high craving for chest pleasure.

41%

Friday, I walked to a local cafe for lunch. I could feel the urgent jitter of my phone as it clung to the invisible public networks all around me. Even the slightest signal would cause a buzz—I guess such reliable Internet could be considered a blessing for many. For me, though, it was a condemning march. Each step came with a jolt from my boobs, a small shudder causing them to jiggle more than normal.

More because this morning, for the first time in two weeks, my classic purple bra with pink frills would no longer latch. The girls were nearly free, breaking the bindings of underwear until I fished out a boring black bra of the sort that came packed in a group of three or four. Where the others went, no one could say, but at the very least it had a three hook setup and a flexible enough band. Needless to say, the girls were not pleased and were less than subtle about that fact.

I jiggled the whole walk to the cafe where the cute barista couldn’t help but mention them right away

Her name was Amy—simple, easy Amy. And her customer service face was as couth as the first words out of her mouth. “Did you finally get that boob job you were talking about?”

Since I took early lunches, there were only three people at the small, outdoor coffee bar, but nothing gets people looking at your chest like the mention of a boob job. I felt skewered by eyes, my chest holding the few buttons I managed to fasten hostage.

“No,” I growled. “And could you not be like that about them?”

“I was being sarcastic. You’re obviously bigger. They look good, though by how you were talking about it before I assumed you would go—. . .” Amy’s sentence was lopped off by the startled expression on my face.

From her perspective, I probably just looked like my lunch was threatening a resurgence. But since I was at the cafe for a lunch I’d yet to consume, nausea was off the table as an option.

Instead, prompted by an absurdly strong Wi-Fi signal, I felt a prominent surge in my bosom.

I dug my teeth into my lower lip, happy that I’d decided on a cold latte because its contents dripped down my hand with how tight I squeezed the cup. “God! It’s so much worse today. It used to just be every so often, but this app has been relentless.”

“It’s an app?! You have to show me,” Amy said excitedly, bouncing in her converse and modeling a stark lack of jiggle in any regard.

“I would but it’s. . . I don’t exactly have any pockets so it’s—. . . Mmmph! Holy Hell. Did you guys do anything different with your network out here?”

“Hmm,” Amy thought, thumbing her thin, kissable lips. “We did have IT come out lately. I think they bought us a new router because people complained that the service was slow. That was sometime last night I think. Why?”

“Oh god. . .” I groaned, actually feeling the improved connection through the sharp jolts of pleasure centered almost entirely in my tits. “I-I can tell. Dammit all, Amy. Couldn’t you have warned me?”

Amy’s eyes popped. She leaned over the counter, the stud piercing at the corner of her mouth rising as she glistened with intrigue. “You’re kidding. Your phone lets you know when it has a strong connection by—. . .”

“How are you not freaked out by this?” I squawked, the end devolving into a moan as my free hand leaped to my engorged orb. I felt obligated to squeeze myself and found that, yes, even though I played off and ignored the sensations, that my breasts did indeed feel bigger; not just in my shirt but in my hand.

With dollar store measuring tape and a calculator I hadn’t used since college, I came up with myself being a J cup which was, all at once, too massive to not form an adequate quadboob in any piece of underwear I owned. Even with double-layered protection, my hand sank into my chest, new squishiness welcoming anything and everything with a firm, loving hug.

I wish I could say that this was still more bang for my buck, that it was hormones or bloating or shape change or birth control. But no. Just no. There was more of me. More breast. A lot more breast. And with each thud of my phone’s incessant rumbling against my tight, sensitive skin, the more I got the message that Amy had alluded to:

The health app was making my tits grow.

“Mmph! Dammit!” I moaned, finally finding the sense to place my drink on the counter before turning away from the small crowd. My latte went to the bar and my free hand rushed to the aid of a melon in need of petting, stains on my shirt be damned. They only felt good when I was touching them; when hands were their cradle rather than a pesky little bra. Even so, my hands were pithy at the job of holding them as I felt the slow progression of weight.

They were large as over-ripened honeydew, an inviting ‘Y’ of cleavage showing down my shirt as they pressed together. Tighter, tighter, tighter. The bigger they got the more they didn’t just push into my shirt or buttons but into each other and me. They were climbing my front in no time, the continuous progression prompted by runaway bloatware that I still had mixed feelings about stopping. I could feel warm metal from against my soft skin but also on the outside where the slender device made a small indention and an obvious vibration against my fingers. I couldn’t grope myself without feeling it going off again and again—could see how it made my flesh jiggle from the part of my booby that made contact, serving as a sort of protective case around my premium device, all the way to the surface where my cleavage slithered seductively without my permission.

“Whoa. . . I want that app.”

I started suddenly, feeling a presence at my front and finding the whoosh! of Amy’s green hair in my face. She had come around the bar, not content to watch from a distance, small and eager to be close to me as I experienced the most awkward moment of my life.

“Amy. . . Don’t—. . .”

“Don’t be greedy! Help a girl out. Do you see me? A girl like me would kill for just a few extra cup sizes. Ugh, Cynthy! C’mon!”

What wasn’t surprising was how Amy, too young to care about appearances but too old for it not to be an act of sexual frustration, brought her hand down on my breast without warning. What was surprising was how amazing it felt—that someone else’s hands on my boobs made for a notable qualitative improvement over having one pair of hands on boobs.

“Mmmh! Mmph, dammit,” I moaned, eyelids growing heavy as the pleasure burst within me, the sense of growing improving as she neared.

“Talk, or I’m not stopping.”

Don’t you dare stop. . . Cynthy thought—with her tits rather than her brain.

“I-I uh. It’s just bloatware. I got this new phone a week or so ago, right? I told you about it, right? Well, it came with a health app and I figured it couldn’t hurt to give it a try. Always a good time to be healthy and—. . . H-Holy! These breasts!”

True to her word, or maybe just playfully sadistic, Amy began to claw into my breast all the more. She came close, discreet enough to stand so that others who might have had an angle to view what was happening would be blocked off, but not discreet enough to stop squeezing and molding the tight orb in my little collared shirt.

“Oh, it’s bloatware alright,” she winked. “But no. If you expect me to believe that you’d actually try one of those shitty apps, then you take me for a fool. Nobody uses the pre-installed stuff. Everyone deletes it right away to clear up space—especially since phones don’t have expandable storage anymore. Every gig counts. I’m not fooled for one second.”

I panted, the most recent surge causing moisture at my temples from the strain of my body changing shape. Every wave was something that needed to be braced for like I was pushing against some invisible wall as size funneled into me from the ether. I continued to grow, not in sense alone but in real, tangible size. Even as Amy talked, her eyes would glance down and behold how my melons were becoming soccer balls within a few minutes of conversation. It seemed like just a matter of time before something happened—something was imminent, approaching a breaking point. I could only fit so much breast into this bra—so much arousal into this body.

Taking bodily inventory, the sense of my breasts inflating was only the start of my symptoms. My body grew moist in every conceivable way—salivation in my lips, sweat on my brow, a sense that I would need a change of panties before the day was through. My heartbeat was so hard that I felt the throb of blood in my ears. If Amy and I didn’t do something quickly, or if I so much as lightened the squeezing of my thighs together, I would surely lose myself right there on a bar stool on my brunch break.

All because of some app that Amy didn’t think I still had on my phone.

“Amy. . . I need you to—. . .”

“I need you to tell me what you’re really doing, you busty little succubus. . .” she winked, leaning even closer to me, living up to the lesbian tendencies that I had assumed she had.

“It’s the app.”

“There is no app. C’mon, you and I both know that—. . .”

“Look for yourself then! Just get my phone and look for yourself!”

Frustration caused my voice to creak, a squeal that was plenty loud enough to be heard by the others in the outdoor bar. I heard someone clear their throat and another rustling their copy of the morning paper, doing their best to feign ignorance to the obvious grope show happening just a few meters away.

Amy’s eyes, a green that matched her hair, flashed with enthusiasm. The sexual tension between us mounted, and she allowed her eyes a feast of my expanding breasts, slowly rolling in a scorching progression down the expanse of flesh pooling at the top of my shirt.

“Wouldn’t I have to—. . .” she started, voice low and gruff, experience with sexuality leaps and bounds ahead of mine despite my advantage in age and size.

“Yes,” I hissed, knowing that I was underestimating what my words had sentenced my body to. “But not here. Please just—. . . if we don’t do it soon, I’m going to—. . .”

“Come. . .” Amy whispered. “Come with me, Cynthy. We can go out back. . .”

We did. Amy stopped squeezing my hefty, growing boulders and I rose out of my seat. She yelled something to an invisible boss of hers. ‘Taking a break’ or something to that effect. Then, she found my hand and led me out around the counter and through a pair of swinging doors. I was thankful for her guidance as something within me knew that if it were up to me and my own two feet, walking anywhere with any amount of self-direction would have been a spectacular failure.

If the foggy brain wasn’t enough impairment, the weight and size of my tits further threw off my coordination. It was a good thing to have Amy, I noted.

Though, the downside of being carted away by someone who wanted to jump my bones was that I didn't get to select the destination. We ended up in the back of the cafe, a part that faced a public park. There was a fence of pathetic quality with slats large enough for local stray cats to enter the alley and partake in the discarded scraps of other little restaurants along the strip. It also happened to be the only place where the small coffee shop could put a freezer room; a box the size of a tool shed that had walls lined with milks of different fat percentages, excess fresh fruit, and frozen pastries to be warmed upon demand from a hungry, carbohydrate craving visitor.

It looked promising; a quiet, dark place with a lock and a hot, green-haired barista acquaintance. The second I stepped into the room, however, I changed my mind. My entire body trembled. Thanks to the discussion and realization from earlier, I learned the reason why and immediately began looking around the ceiling until I found a large white box with an antenna mounted in the corner.

Amy had already closed the door behind us when I spun and asked, “Is that the router?!”

“No, that’s just an extender. We can control the temperature of this room wirelessly from the shop on warmer or colder days, so we needed to have a strong Wi-Fi signal—. . . Oh. Oh!”

“Amy you twit! I—. . . Mmmn!”

I was nearly delirious with jubilant sensations. I stumbled backward across the wood flooring until my butt slammed against a waist-height freezer. The sudden impact brought a generous amount of bouncing to my boobs, the motion of which was more than enough to force my legs apart and make me see stars. I couldn’t contain how good I felt—couldn’t even bring myself to the logical place of needing to leave the building and rid myself of such semi-public indecency.

Thank god the freezer room was private.

“They really are growing. . .” Amy said, stalking across the small room, taking her time and leaning from side to side to get a better view of them. “That’s insane. I didn’t think I would be able to tell so well, but just looking at you in here—there’s just so much more of you.”

“Now is not the time, Amy,” I winced. The sense of imminence dominated me again, the fullness in my chest worsening. Pale white flesh crawled up higher and higher, kissing the bottoms of my collarbones and, based on the sensation, rushing down my ribcage. My bra straps dug into me like saw blades and my cups had lifted away from my body, flesh trapped underneath them, pushing the material flush to my shirt such that the impression of the insufficient little piece of underwear showed like a sore thumb underneath my work top. “Get the phone out. Get it. G-Get it before—. . . Mmmh!”

Amy neared enough that, as she held up her hands, my softness leaped toward them in a desperate entreaty for attention. I felt myself melting against her palms despite the tightness caused by narrowing confines. Some part of me was happy that her hands fell half on the taut, rigid surface of my shirt, crinkled into wrinkles by my enhancing jugs, and half on softer, exposed flesh of the sort that sank like quicksand.

“Cynthy. This is insane. You’re way bigger than before. Like, what sort of implants—. . .”

“Not. Implants!” I groaned, too put off by this whole fiasco to care anymore about my noise level. My physical needs had made me raw and edgy, and rather than retreat away from her loosely open hand, I pushed away from the freezer behind me and found Amy’s wrist. “See? It’s here. Amy, my phone is right here!” I couldn’t help but be turned on by her hand as I guided it down to the under half of my crescent moon, not ignoring the thin ridges and stress creases across my shirt. I couldn’t see now, I noticed, because I’d grown so large that my underboob would have taken a hefty swing upward to look at, but by touch, we found our way southward.

There, trapped between my bra and fleshy softness, was the outline of a small, candybar-sized brick in need of extraction.

“H-How am I supposed to get that?” Amy asked, eyes gaping at me. “It’s at the very bottom. Unless I go in from the. . .”

“Oh, so now you’re acting coy? You were cocky when everyone was watching but now that I need you to get into my shirt you’re scared?”

“It’s easier when you’re embarrassed. . . When you’re forceful like this it’s. . . different.”

And I could have sworn that I saw a glimmer of something else in Amy’s green eyes; a reminiscence or the glow of attraction. But I was too impatient to humor it and urged her forward anyway. “It doesn’t matter, okay? If we don’t get the phone out and turn off the Wi-Fi setting, you’ll be the one explaining why the fire department had to be called to pull me out of this shed with the jaws of life.”

Amy blinked, my worry reaching her as she gave a resolute nod.

There were only two ways into my shirt as there were in just about any shirt: go down the top or go up the bottom.

Frantically, Amy went first for the open swell of my cleavage. It was, after all, the most upfront and forward part of me and an easy first choice. One barely needed a reason to attempt to stuff their hand between a pair of smashed-together breasts and in this case, Amy had an exclusive invitation to do exactly that.

And I was too obsessed with being touched to care much which direction she chose.

So, with a brief look of a warning, Amy lifted her arm. “Get ready,” she said. I stuck out my chest for her, serving myself up, astounded by how much distance my titties could project if I pushed them out, shoulders thrown back.

There had to be at least a foot of me pushing forward. Holy hell. . .

Even Amy, with her gusto, hesitated when she saw just how much of me there was to sink herself into. “Maybe I should leave a trail of breadcrumbs. I wouldn’t want to get lost. . .”

I started to express my rage at her words until I felt them evaporate at Amy’s proximity. Seeing her so close, the softness and vulnerability of her expression, I couldn’t bring myself to take my need for release out on her. If anything, we’d both needed that small bit of emotional release and with her joking, she provided it.

What came out of me, as a result, was some strange belching, gasping, giggle—the least cute thing imaginable. And once it was over, she went to work.

There was no graceful way to do it; not that our sex-addled brains could concoct on the spot. Amy went down the front of my shirt, doing a five-legged walk with her hand down, finding whichever spots of least resistance there were to find.

“That’s tight,” she commented, her hand barely to the wrist.

“You’re telling me,” I said through gritted teeth. “I think I’m about to—. . . Mmmh! Again, here it comes—. . .”

I felt the vibration of my phone pulsing, another build toward health and wellness according to the sadistic, voodoo app developer. My titty flesh rattled around in my shirt, causing ominous creaks to ring out. Amy and I went still. We could sense that something bigger than us was nearby. It was a prey sense, keenly aware of the predator that was stalking us.

Except, we were alone in the little freezer shed; alone with my tits.

THTCH!

“Ow!”

“Sorry!”

Amy reeled back some, pulled her hand out of my shirt, holding the freed hand up to her eye. Across the room, a plastic button went skittering innocently as if it hadn’t just been made into a projectile by the biggest set of tits I’d ever seen.

The biggest pair. . . I glanced down and—. . . “Fuck!” I couldn’t help myself. The only thing potentially hotter than a pair of immense sweater puppies shrink-wrapped by a button-down shirt was a pair that had a spirit of freedom so strong that they began to dismantle their prison bars and turned them into a projectile in the process. My tits sloshed in their new space. Every inch of new area was swallowed up by my attention-starved, marshmallowy bosom, ounces and ounces of fresh femininity pouring into and over the new openings. They applauded their new freedom, the softer portions clapping against one another lewdly, bringing attention to their weight and unscientific preservation of momentum. I felt like a damned cartoon character.

One of those hot ones that people post online—hyper-sexualized and so, so adored.

I didn’t know what to make of the fact that I was even more turned on with fewer clothes on, but honestly, with the spread of breasts before me, I couldn’t exactly tell myself ‘no’. They were inviting on a level I had only experimented with thus far. Part of me thought the feeling would eventually wear off like I would come to terms with my size or sensitivity and the sight of my breasts would cloy.

But it was hard to write them off; hard to ignore how they moved and pulled on my front. I wanted them more, despite them already being mine. And because they were mine, there wasn’t any reason to put off what I wanted to do most.

“Amy?” I said, addressing the woman who was supposed to relieve me of my still-expanding knockers.

She had her hands on her hips now. The button had come close to hitting her in the eye, but since she wasn’t still clutching half her face, I presumed that she was fine. Instead, her top canine teeth pinched into her lower lip. “Yes?” she sassed. “If you’re planning on warning me about a wardrobe malfunction, you’re a good minute too late.”

“Get. Over. Here,” I growled, then pulled myself back against the freezer, hopping on top of it and making an ample show of how, when the rest of my body stopped moving, each of my basketball-sized breasts perpetually wobbled. “You’re not off the hook. You need to get my phone, remember?”

The coolness in my voice spoke volumes and Amy, given permission to act, leaped into action without any apprehension. “Fuck yes. . . finally.” She’d been holding back for my sake—always pressing my buttons but always guarding my feelings; from the way her body blocked her groping in the cafe to her selection of the freezer shed in the alley.

She fought her work apron off in the three steps it took her to get to me. Once close, she plunged headfirst into my chest. I could have blacked out from the pleasure, sparks like the fourth of July smattering my vision from corner to corner as my luscious, new female blessings enveloped her. I could make out every detail of her face thanks to the softness in my bosom; the heat of her breath, the shape of a curious tongue, her winsome grin. Then, all at once, her palm came down against me so that she could press them further into herself. I helped how I could, wrapping my arms around her so my flesh burgeoned above her head, my pillows becoming home base for our sapphic excursion into my new body.

“You’re good for a straight girl,” Amy scoffed during one of her oxygen breaks. “Or maybe you’re not as straight as you let on.”

Honestly, the concept of sexual orientation, for me, at that moment, felt vapid. There was no reason to care about a label so long as I could have my tits appreciated; smothering someone, juggling my fleshy balloons against a face, hands, or a body. “I’m just enthusiastic,” I answered back, proving the point by drawing my upper arms together, pressing her deeper.

We both heard a SHHKKRT! and our eyes bulged in delight.

“Should I be concerned?” Amy mused, a concealed means of asking if I was comfortable with continuing.

“It was just across my back,” I answered. “Why? Starved for oxygen? Need a break?”

“Not even close,” Amy rolled her eyes. “I just wanted to know where to do. . . this!”

I hadn’t felt her arms slinking around me. After all, there was simply too much sensitive, squishy boobage at my front for me to pay attention to any creeping thing along my sides. It was too late when I felt her fingers slinking between my taxed shirt and my bare back. She barely had to exert any effort to pull my pathetic little collared top apart, opening me up wide at the back in two strong pulls—while smothering herself in my cleavage simultaneously, of course.

We both chirped like we were taken by surprise as my shirt came apart in two hardy snatches. It remained on my body but the pull left me with an exciting tickle up my spine as cool air assaulted me from behind. On Amy's front, she got a mouthful of my breast, which was its own sort of assault. I thanked her by cutting off any semblance of an airway that she may have had.

"I think you're going to have to tug it one more time," I winked at her.

She offered a cute mumbling at my teasing, which I found absolutely adorable.

"Don't quit. You started this job so go ahead and finish it. Tear this tiny shirt off of me. Come on Amy. Do it."

I felt another strong moan coming on at another bit of growth pushed my tits even further away from my body. My knockers were heavy sacks that pushed away my cuddling partner. I playfully fought their expansion by holding her closer, simultaneously rocking my shoulders back and forth so that she could have the pleasure of my cleavage slapping against her cheeks. It was unclear if she could hear me because so much flesh was piled up around her ears but I trusted that the sentiment was translated through our bodies.

Still, I was massive. I couldn't believe that just a few days ago I had thought that I was busty. The size I was now made cup sizes a moot point. By comparison, each of my gourds was larger than Amy’s head by a significant margin. Only her green locks poked out of my cleavage and only if I relaxed my arms, filling up every centimeter between my elbows in an off-white sea of thick, inviting duvet. Even my nipples extended further than her hair did thanks to their finding a way out of my bra. Somehow in our little romping, I realized that my bra had slipped down and was wrapped around my rib cage like a belt so that my girls were completely free besides the remaining couple buttons on my shirt. I was relieved that I wasn’t razing yet another innocent piece of clothing.

But also sort of wished that the straps that had threatened to dislocate my shoulders earlier were still on the chopping block. Maybe I’d try stuffing myself in them later. . . for the spiteful fun of it.

But no. It was better to have it intact; for it to serve as a reminder of how far I'd come—how far my new device had brought me. Getting a new phone was only supposed to improve my communications; the ways I kept in touch with my family and plugged into current events. I couldn't have guessed that some crappy piece of bloatware would be responsible for changing the way that I communicated in a much broader sense.

Tucked within the den space of the outdoor freezer and under the constant barrage of amazing Wi-Fi connectivity, I wrapped my legs around Amy's waist and leaned forward. Using only my breasts I was able to slowly raise her so that our lines of sight were level. I could tell that I had interrupted something because she was completely flustered and panting from kissing and licking my balloon-disgracing breasts.

"Finish what you started," I begged her again. Except this time I talked with my full body and bent down for an emblazoned kiss.

I immediately felt the overwhelming desire Amy had been suppressing for so long. My mouth was full of her tongue, stuffed to dripping by the taste of her in my breasts, compressed even further with the tightness of our embrace. Now she didn't just use fingers but her entire fists were balled up at my back and using the already serrated parts of my work shirt as leverage she pulled me deeper into her kiss, a symphony of fabric sounding off behind us.

At the same time, I blossomed into yet another size and it was too good to be believable how amazing it felt to grow while simultaneously having a piece of clothing fail all around you. My breath was fed by Amy's mouth, my body with our shared arousal, and my breasts by some unseen technology.

I grew and grew and grew. I couldn't be stopped, not with everything coming together at once like this. I felt my skin stretching almost to the point of pain and clung on to Amy's barista top for dear life as my bosom continued conquering the space between us. It bulged up toward our chins in a rush and tumbled down toward the ground like a tsunami. All the while the ominous vibration of my new cellular device kept fueling our wildfire, to a point that we would have to worry if our combined heat would spoil the coffee ingredients in the room around us.

Such debauchery could only be contained for so long. Within three minutes, we both came. It was such a beautiful and all-encompassing experience that we realized too late when the sound of crunching metal echoed together with a concerned gasp behind us.

"Amy? It's time for you to get back in here. We've got the lunch rush in… mother of fuck! The hell of you girls doing?"

It had been a long time since I'd had an orgasm so long and visceral, so the post-climax clarity sharpened my senses beyond what I expected. I came crashing back into the moment, into both my body and space. The light from outside was noon-time sun and everything was still around us including the flabbergasted manager of Amy's coffee shop job.

"Amy! Off! Your boss is. . . Amy, now. Stop that," I urged.

It was like prying a starving kitten away from a bowl of milk. Amy's languid and satisfied form reluctantly budged from my barge-sized bosom only after a few more romantic kisses and a lick that left a shimmering twelve-inch trail on the top of my exposed titty. She offered a goofy grin, gone delirious with affection, and only backed away enough so that she could face her boss. When she saw the manager, she woke up the same way that I had.

The green-headed lesbian swore and began to straighten her shirt while she sprinted toward the door. In the same move that she picked her apron up off the ground, she also swung around and saw the origin of the metal crunch from earlier.

A premium, rose gold candy bar-shaped piece of technology laid lifeless and shattered on the hard flooring. She looked at her boss who was livid to the point of speechlessness, then slowly walked my phone back to me.

"Sorry, Cynthy. . ."

I took the device from her, running my fingers along the spider web fractures in the screen. Holding down the power button proved that the tumble had killed the unprotected device upon impact.

I looked down between us, forced to acknowledge that Amy couldn't get within two feet of me without having to take my tremendous berth into account. The final surge had left me gargantuan such that my breast tumbled over my knees like snowy waterfalls even when I leaned as far back as I could. Deep and shallow within my ivory hills ran sky blue trails of veins that pumped fresh liveliness to a pair of six-inch nipples, both throbbing like antennas.

"You two need to get the hell out of my freezer,” the manager barked. Amy and I winced at the sudden noise, stolen from one final intimate moment.

Seconds. It had taken seconds before my four combined feet of breast flesh had made us ignorant of the fuming manager. Boobs like this were dumbfounding—quite literally.

"Don't worry about it," I whispered like a teenager who had just been caught exchanging notes with her crush. Then, since it was clear that we were being run off, I urged Amy out of the way and came crashing down from my perch. My new weight caused my knees to buckle but I didn't have to fight too much to stay standing.

Guess Lime health saw it fit enough to make sure the rest of my frame could stand to the power of my titanic titties.

Still, I wish it had given my tits some sense of decency, especially in front of disgruntled discoverers. They probably didn't have to leap victoriously for five countable bounces, but since my shirt was a complete afterthought and their perkiness remained despite their size, I couldn't fully keep them from defying gravity as well as decency.

At least I could only be labeled ‘the bustiest girl around’ instead of the ‘girl whose tits grew for no easily explainable reason’.

"Your phone…" Amy began, slow to pull her hand away from where we were exchanging the shattered device.

"Insurance," I whispered quickly. "I can just go get it replaced later."

"Pick me up,” she said with that same flash of energetic fun in her eyes as she shared with me when I first felt her hand on my boob. "I get paid today. I'm off at five."

"You're lucky I don't fire your ass right now. Delaney! Get behind the register!"

Amy squeezed my hand and gave me one last devious look before sprinting toward the door. With her smaller frame, she was able to pass within the narrow opening left between her boss and the threshold of the door.

"And you. Get out of here before I get the cops to trespass you."

I had no intention of being trespassed from my favorite coffee place so I forced myself to learn to walk again, crossed my arms like bars in front of my new, effectively-topless body, and walked toward the exit. Where Amy had had no trouble slipping through so long has her boss stayed put, I had no hope of getting past the woman who was demanding that I leave.

"Um, excuse me."

"You're disgusting. I can't believe I got a line out the building and staff threatening to quit because of a woman like you…"

I was immediately taken aback by her rudeness and showed it by cocking my chin down and raising one eyebrow. "You going to let me leave or not?"

The woman had to have had at least ten years on me but the look she gave me came straight from the playground. 'I'll move, but you're going to have to make me'. Not to mention that her words to me earlier had both the sting of venom in them but also a sort of sorrow and, dare I say, jealousy.

But I had too little consideration of her to try to parse apart her words. I had to think about how I was going to explain my own tardiness at work while also somehow factoring in my lack of a shirt.

Oh, and there were also the breasts that were thrice the size they had been when I left. Those needed explanations, too.

So I forced my way past the woman with long black hair, gold hoop earrings, and caramel skin by using my weight advantage. I hadn't meant to put so much of myself behind it but I was a little spiteful and thus satisfied when my shoulder was empowered by the momentum of my chest and shoved her to the side. She clattered against the freezer wall, hand thrown out to catch her.

I exchanged another quick look with her then, my own sort of playground ethics. 'Don't fuck unless you can back it up', said my angled brow and terse pout.

Amy's boss looked me up and down, her face showing the same conflicted emotions as before.

I left satisfied that I had used my improved weight to immediate good, then was happy to find that Amy's first concern once she got inside was stealing an old jacket for me to throw on for some coverage. Before her boss could catch up to us and see, we exchanged a kiss and a promise to meet this evening.

Then, I learned to drive with tits that submerged the steering wheel and made way toward home where my phone’s emergency insurance paperwork awaited, as did the promise of even more bloatware.

What percentage did I make it to, that gave me four-foot breasts?

And would the next phone start where the last one left off? Or start at 0%?