Boobs, breasts and sexy things

"Oh my god, guys, I'm so addicted to my girlfriend Melanie's breasts," Stacy said, exposing them for all the internet to see, shaking them.

"Hi everyone on Instagram..... Mom, dad, I hope you enjoy seeing what my girlfriend is doing to me."

"Come on, don't look so shy, babe. They look beautiful, and all your friends and family deserve to see what a good hucow you're becoming."

Melanie blushed. "Thank you.... I'm new to this, I guess. And well, to having such big breasts."

She sent this picture to me just as class was starting.  I had a hard time keeping my cock under control seeing her like that.  Then I read the message.

Well, it seems rather obvious to me.

If good cows get milked, then bad cows simply don't!

Not only are bad cows not milked, but they're forbidden from trying to relieve the pressure themselves. No pumps, no suckling, not even allowed to use their hands. And this lasts until the cow learns her lesson and learns to behave.

On the most basic level, this is effective because of the discomfort it causes. Cows are milked regularly. That's a big part of what makes them cows and one of the main reasons for having a cow is to have the milk they make. A cow's production becomes predicated on the predictable and familiar cadence of being milked, sometimes multiple times a day depending on how productive the cow is. The suspension of those milkings isn't felt right away, but once it starts, there's no stopping it. While the dull ache of fullness is familiar, this time there's no relief. The swelling and the tenderness only continue to grow as milk backs up inside her udders. As the pressure builds up inside her udders, the pressure from the outside grows as well, bras cutting into engorged tits and shirts straining tight. Every jiggle, every slosh, every tiny movement that makes ripples spread out across the increasingly overfull udders reminds the cow just how long it's been since her last milking. At some point, the pressure will be too great and the milk will come out on its own, but that comes with its own problems.

The next facet of the punishment is embarrassment. Not being milked is a unique kind of humiliation for a cow. Cows exist to be milked, after all, and being denied their purpose is a deep blow to their bovine pride. Beyond that, though, is a deeper devastation. As her udders engorge and swell and bulge out whatever clothing she's been allowed to wear, everyone will know exactly what's being done to her. Anyone who looks at her obscenely engorged udders will know how long it's been since her last milking, which either indicates a neglectful owner or, vastly more likely, this is being done intentionally. And when that pressure tipping point occurs, when the cow is just so fucking full that the milk rushes out of her on its own, that becomes a spectacle of itself. Milk soaks through her clothing, making her purpose and status as a cow even more obvious. More than that, it's shameful for a cow to let her milk go to waste, even unintentionally, and that shame is now being broadcast to anyone who sees her swollen, leaking udders.

One element of the punishment isn't readily obvious, even to the cow herself. The full weight of it isn't felt until long after the punishment is over. All that time spent uncomfortably and obviously engorged stretches her udders, not only making them bigger but raising their capacity, too. Over time, that drives up her production as well, making enough milk to fill their new capacity between each milking. And, of course, as their production and capacity increases, so, too, does their dependence on their owner. Their growth, internally and externally, further cements their helpless position as Cow, owned and cared for and tended to like the livestock they are. For a cow that's being punished for insubordination or trying to fight against her place in the world, the punishment itself works wonders at reminding her exactly where she stands. Or, rather, where she kneels, pumps rhythmically tugging on her milky nipples, letting all of her thoughts get pulled out of her along with her milk.

its so hard to think now

the countless hours of conditioning have changed u

the brainwashing has rewired ur mind

ur not the same person u were before

its just so easy to be dum, isnt it?

to obey ur conditioning and just go completely blank while u hump endlessly

doesnt it feel nice?

a dum, blissed out, mindless bimbo

thats what u are, isnt it bambi?

Sofia looked down at her breasts and smiled. God, she loved them so much. There was no expectation of them looking real, not at this size. She had left that possibility a behind her a few thousand CCs ago. Getting to this size, though, was an achievement in its own right. They were a far cry from the little, budded A cups that genetics had left her with. As soon as she had gotten her first set of implants, a comparatively small 850ccs, she knew that she was hooked. Waking up from the anesthetic and seeing mounds on her chest for the first time in her life, even still wrapped in bandages and healing, was a transformative experience. Even before she left the hospital, she was already making an appointment for her next fill-up.

With 1600ccs of saline sloshing around in her chest, Sofia finally knew what it meant to be busty and it was immediately intoxicating. She couldn't stop obsessing over them! Anything that didn't show off her new cleavage was ejected from her wardrobe and replaced with something more revealing. Catching someone glancing at her bust, or even openly staring, sent a jolt of arousal through her. Sometimes, she'd catch her reflection and the realization that the busty woman in the glass was her was enough to make Sofia weak at the knees.

Upgrading to 3200ccs really started to shift things around in Sofia's life. She could tell that people were starting to take her less seriously and most people didn't even bother trying to hide their gawking. Navigating the world with these things under her chin was starting to become a struggle. Her view of the ground at her feet had been replaced by a (very enticing) view of her cleavage. She was constantly bumping into things and their firmness meant that they didn't really squish when she pressed them against something, making them a bit of an obstacle at times. When people would bump into her, she was never entirely sure if it was an accident. She would think, sometimes, about people randomly grabbing her to check if they were real and she'd have to steady herself from how horny it made her. Showers stretched on for more than an hour, spending more and more time leaning against the shower wall, one hand between her thighs and the other groping her huge tits.

By the time she reached 7000ccs, her entire life revolved around her tits. They were the biggest, most obvious thing about her. Sofia didn't mind, though. She loved the attention that her tits brought, even when it was negative. There was an undeniable power in the thought of being immediately considered lewd and pornographic, just from the size of her fake tits. Entire conversations were had with the other person just staring, mesmerized, at the deep canyon of her cleavage and she loved it. Sofia was her tits. The rest of her didn't matter. She was nothing but a pair of colossal, spherical, obviously fake, endlessly erotic tits.