bigger. Bigger. BIGGER...

Also big fan love your work

Aw, thank you! I'm glad you enjoy it!

And you're so, 100% correct, especially when it's your own fault, immobilized by the ever-growing symbol of your endless boob greed.

Warmth washes over your entire body before concentrating in your chest. The warmth builds into pressure and, slowly, the pressure pushes outward. Your hands fly to your growing breasts, cupping them and groping them. Fuck, it feels good. They expand outward, filling your hands and then overflowing them, bulges forming between your fingers. Soon, it isn't enough to merely grab them with your hands, you have to lift them with your arm underneath! A momentary thought pops into your head, wondering what ungodly cup size you'd be now, but you know that any answer you come to will be invalidated by the unending growth of your breasts as they spill over your arms, expanding to fill all the open space they can find. The feeling of growing is so intense, so overwhelming that you briefly forget about the growth ray aimed directly at you. You're completely engrossed in your own tits. Jiggling them. Wobbling them. Sliding your hand into your deepening cleavage and seeing how it feels to be completely and utterly surrounded by tit.

Aside from the ray, another thing briefly escapes your notice: these tits are getting heavy. Your arm trembles from the effort to keep your tits held aloft, but you're too distracted by the way it makes the growing shelf of flesh wobble to pay it much mind. The arousal overpowers the ache, pushing those thoughts away as your obsession grows in tandem with your size. All of that is to say that, when you shift your grip on your tits, you're really not prepared for what comes next.

Your arm slides out just far enough for the bulk of your enormous but soft tit to slide past and, finally, gravity wins over. Both of your breasts slide free, dropping down to where their size and their heft would normally sit. They slam against your torso as they reach their lowest hang and the momentum of such gargantuan tits pulls you clean off your feet. The next thing you know, you're on the ground, resting on top of your colossal, still-growing tits.

You try to stand, but you can't. Your tits are too heavy.

You look up at the growth ray. You look over at the control switch, perched on a nearby table. You stretch your hand toward it, but you can't reach. You try again, grunting. Your tits refuse to budge and the controls get no closer. Panic sets in.

You try to get your feet under you, but the way your tits spread out against the floor makes any posture awkward.

You try to roll over onto your side to see if you can get your arms underneath them, but your tits just won't budge. And, through all these failed attempts, your breasts are still growing and growing and growing.

You give one final pull, using every last bit of strength you have to try and lift your tits, but you only manage to get them an inch off the ground before you collapse forward into them. Your wide stance means that your breasts bulge out between your legs and, crucially, press against the spot where your thighs meet. In frustration, you try a couple of quick, fruitless tugs that only end up with you thrusting your crotch against your own tits.

And if you thought your tits felt good before...

You spare one last glance toward the growth ray and the controller. You swallow hard. Well, you figure, the ray has to stop eventually. Either it'll burn out or your tits will get so big that they'll crush the ray between them, though not before absorbing a significant amount of the ray's output... The thought scares you just as much as it arouses you:

Sometimes you just like to see some mountain sized titties.

With the implication they can keep growing ofc

Good girl~

Despite this, they are so insanely horny that they trawl Tinder for everyone who will breed them. All night, every night, they fill themselves, knowing every encounter their womb grows fuller and fuller.

We are obviously not ready for that many kids, raising 128 by ourselves would simply be too much, though one thing that isn't too much is the size of her body, her belly is of course constantly swelling, faster and to higher sizes and weights, but her milky, sloshing, gigantic tits and mommy-worthy road width hips are definitely impressive as well. No wonder someone with 256 babies inside her would have such a tremendously fertile figure!

She must have been some kind of goddess, to possess such a weird condition, for her body to be able to handle the 512 babies inside her with such ease.

Will you rub her sore feet and calves without her asking you to?

Will you help her fluff her pregnancy pillow when she’s so obviously uncomfortable in bed and can’t stop squirming?

Will you make her a bowl of cereal at 2am because she can’t go back to sleep without inhaling some Lucky Charms?

Are you going to let her have the remote so she can binge watch HGTV and fight the urge to change all the flooring in the house before the baby arrives?

Are you going to worship her body the same way you did before she got pregnant? Kissing every inch, mark, line, and dip? Adjust yourself to now grab hips that are wider and more plush and admire a face with chubbier cheeks?

I crave the stretch. That unbearable tightness of skin drawn taut across a womb doing the impossible—carrying four, five, maybe even more of your children. I want to feel them kick and squirm, tangled up inside me, claiming every inch of space. I want to waddle with the weight of your legacy, so round and so full that I can barely walk. Barely breathe. Barely think.

Imagine it: me struggling to bend, to rise from bed without your hand on my swollen back. My breasts swollen and leaking, my thighs rubbed raw from the effort of carrying all of them for you. Needing help to get dressed, to turn over at night, to make it through the day—because your babies are using up everything I have.

And I want more.

I want you to make me need it. To press me down, whisper how many babies I’ll be carrying this time, how I don’t get a say, how this is what I was made for. Your perfect, messy, dumb little hucow. Your heavy, full-bellied whore, trembling with need as I beg you to put more in me.

Please. I don’t care how. Breed me. Stuff me. Drug me. Pour your cum into me until I can’t take any more—and then do it again anyway. Make me yours in the most undeniable way. Let the whole world see it written in my body. Let them know that I belong to you.

Don’t wait. Don’t ask. Just take. Make me a monument to your momentary pleasure.

Mr. & Mrs. Pens!