You invited Emily to your house party because she wouldn’t see daylight otherwise. You’d been friends for a few years and were happy when the sarcastic introvert arrived at your pad, sass intact.

But under your roof, she began to change. You start to notice she’s prettier than you remember; expressive eyes, hickory hair, fitted tank top. Her chest draws your attention. You swear she’s wearing a padded bra—she’s bustier somehow. Emily catches you; sticks out her tongue like a little devil. She’s quiet but snarky with you.

Your other friends ask who she is. “The chick with the rack,” they call her. Full C cups bought attention, but they seemed to buy too much. Was she larger now? Large enough to cause a buzz—from males and females! You’re still skeptical, but jealous too for some unknown reason.

Once alcohol enters the picture, she’s more confident and flirty. Her boobs have been on display all day—more so now than before. They make the spaghetti string look pregnant with twins. Emily notices the attention she’s getting. “The straps dig in so bad. I’ve already got marks.” She slips her bra strap down her shoulder to show you, but a ring of six or so spectators join in. You’re protective of her showing off and unmistakably horny at her body confidence. Then, Kenny from trig spills his drink on Emily. Her tits vault vivaciously when she flees with an “Eep!”. Following, you catch her toweling off her glistening, creamy chest with one of your towels in your bathroom. “They swell for a few days after my period. Always have. You just had to talk me into showing up.” Emily taps your cheek patronizingly. “When I say I can’t go out ‘cause of ‘lady problems’, this is what I mean.” Booze makes Emily uncharacteristically brash. “But I’ve never been this big before. My shirt’s so tight.” She tests her straps. You watch her flesh jiggle about. Was this some trick? Emily’s tits were huge and appeared to grow with each bounce.

She asks you to help her towel off. You do, touching her tits through a thin bath towel. They’re growing into your hands! Emily moans. It isn’t about drying her off at all. The plunging neckline sinks lower. Exposed skin expands unendingly. Her gray eyes are watching you. She knows her top is giving way. A crinkled smirk is poorly masked with impertinence. “Thanks for not freaking out over my condition. I don’t get out much because of it. You’re being very sweet.” She stuffs your hands with her flesh. Boob melts between your fingers. Lines of tension form as the fabric becomes partly see-through.

“It’s tight. I-It can’t—. . .” Her voice shifts up several pitches as heady panic sets in. She smells like beer and popcorn—for you, those are aphrodisiacs. She takes off her top. Pure alcoholic confidence blended with. . . Arousal?

Fabric stretches, nearly tearing in her hands. You help undress her and can’t help but notice your bed in the periphery.