the Ivory Touch: A Caption

the Ivory Touch: A Caption

by Saint Limey

"Help! Please? I-I—Mmmh! Please, someone just touch them!"

Walking home from the grocery store, a topless babe toppled toward me. Does she need help? With what, her tits? Facetious or not, her insistence and urgency made me drop my golden delicious apples to attend to her golden, delicious melons—and her public indecency.

My heterosexuality waned when I neared her. Damn, girl. If I had tits like this, I'd probably walk around topless too. . . but in public? Seriously? I tried using my body to cover her nudity—who knew what she might have been through to be half-naked on the sidewalk. She might actually need help, I reasoned. Then, I felt her grip on my wrist and her tit adequately overflowing my hand. Damn. DAMN! She felt amazing—looked amazing. Her coquettish eyes indicated that I was, in fact, the one in need of her assistance, and the insanity of this queer serendipity swept us into a giggling, introductory kiss. We met each other's shameless attraction, the kiss sinking till I was sucking and squeezing her exposed, bouncy knockers. I had to know how boobs could look, feel, and taste so good, so I moaned as acceptance when she invited me into her apartment.

I'd been ministering to mystery minx's cushiony mammaries for several hours when her musings landed upon the origins of such impeccable ta-tas: "magic nail polish". Her golden nails had expanded her chest with each squeeze, from flat to fucking-massive in one afternoon. "Why don't you give it a try? You're curvy already, but a little extra fluff never hurt anyone, right?"

Certainly didn't hurt you, gorgeous. . . I thought, losing myself in her tasty, warm chest again. She continued to pet and encourage me. We stumbled into sex when the mood struck but returning to her delectable, playful gourds, caught in their gravity. We exchanged information: cell numbers, addresses, the location of the polish shop. Then, two days later, I'd put a pause on regular meetings with my gold-fingered friend to paint my nails with the smooth, matte white polish I'd purchased.

"Maybe white doesn't work?" I asked Goldie in a text, worried when the enhancing effects weren't immediate. "You have to play with them. They don't grow without some love," she replied. I had refrained from doing so until now to let the paint dry, but my tits had been calling my name ever since I brushed the white polish over my fingers.

My breasts were small but felt dense at first squeeze. Then, heat spread all over me. Is the bath too hot? No, wait. They're actually. . . As my white nails sank timidly into my breasts, my flesh bloated around them, tiny mounds rising out of nothing. It was working! My olive-toned melons sprouted and augmented inch by spreading inch. My nipples lengthened, areola darkening, subtle veins appearing. Veins? Whoa. . . Sexy, dark veins came paired with taut, stretched skin. My melons weren't soft-looking like Goldie's were. In fact, the pressure quickly, unexpectedly, became too much. Something was different.

Before concern could hinder them, my creamy-white fingers curled into my massive mammaries and long prongs of sweet, thick milk poured into the bathwater. The next squeeze produced even more. When I dropped them, even more lady nectar poured out of me. I was a milk factory. Was this some weird side effect? Would it wear off? As I pondered, my boobs called out to be milked again and I rushed to their aid, moaning as my hyper-productive passion fruit burst with more milk than before. "Mmmh—fuck! It's so good!" They filled and overfilled my hands. Why would I ever want this to wear off?

I'd wanted a growth diary for Goldie, to record myself in rakish throes as I became as busty and bouncy as she was. What I had instead was a creamy exhibition, showing off the effects of a different color nail polish. From where was such a cosmetic sourced? What witch's delight came from morphing girls' breasts into spherical, nymphy nectaries? None of those sensible quandaries mattered. My mind and body were consumed with the heady delight of milking my fat, plump knockers, enflamed by how their growth persisted, spurned by vivacious production, even as I clawed needily at their sensitive sides.

I couldn't wait to tell Goldie. It was time for her to pay me back for all the hours I'd faithfully sucked her huge, youthful gazongas. Imagining her latched on as I blew steamy, sweet loads of milk down her throat thickened my nipples as an enormous burst of thick cream painted the bathroom walls in an aroused burst of excitement. Hope Goldie likes heavy cream. . .