"I can't believe this... dressed up like a maid of all things? And this outfit doesn't even fit my chest right!"
It was every bit the stereotypical maid uniform. Long black sleeves that terminated at white cuffs; a billowing, lampshade skirt that ended just beneath her knees; and frills, frills, frills, white and blooming over her shoulders and atop the headband on her red hair.
But there wasn't a garment on this planet that could have donned Asuka's overgrown bust unscathed. Where most women measure their busts in inches or centimeters or other such fine units, Asuka took to measuring hers in meters -- for her voluminous cleavage could effortlessly swallow a meterstick in its depths without either tip breaching from containment. The surprising roundness of her thigh-covering rack meant that they also easily exceeded the span of her arms. Should her trash can lid-sized nipples ever lactate, someone else would have to clean up their mess. Ideally, anyway. More than one of her spills had left her pathetically on all fours with a washcloth in hand, her massive boobs compressed underneath her like she was clamoring with an inflatable raft.
Consequently, Asuka's overdeveloped breasts had pierced through the getup and were simply out in the open air -- comically shredding the facade of a perfect housekeeper to milk-soaked pieces. The fact that these wrecking ball tits were attached to an otherwise slender, even wiry, figure made them appear all the more ridiculous.
"Master this, master that," sneered Asuka, waywardly approaching the kitchen. Each of her cautious, high-heeled steps was a knock-kneed gamble on her own stability. To onlookers, it might appear that she was perpetually walking on a circus tightrope, even if she was merely traversing a room.
"Master always wants so much milk that it's practically not coffee anymore..."
The thoughtless day-to-day hummings of any civilized human being had become downright daunting to Asuka. She could not tend to her footwear without help, for one; she hadn't seen her own feet in a dreadfully long time. Doorways -- doorways! -- were an utterly perilous affair. Unless they were comfortable with welcoming vehicles beyond their threshold, Asuka would sidle, squeeze, sidestep, and struggle until her pillowy bust popped through (a practice that had left her with a few red rashes on her vein-laden skin).
But now, the kitchen island upon which the coffee machine stood was the root of her anxiety. How could she possibly hope to operate it if she can't even reach over her own huge tits? The gulf between the tips of her nipples and the edge of the counter was only a couple feet, but it may as well have been a width rivaling the Grand Canyon.
"...th-this is so stupid," declared Asuka, balling her fists at her sides. She felt the backs of her boobs gently tapping against her legs; in this moment, the sensation felt like unrepentant mockery.
"Nnngh, whatever... it's just a damn coffee machine. I can handle it!"
Her approach was slow and deliberate.
"I'll just... sort of... rest them on the counter..."
But Asuka needn't take another step -- for all of a sudden, her ferociously ambitious breasts blimped forth to complete the journey themselves.
Asuka's rapidly inflating chest flopped on to the kitchen island like slabs of meat, expanding even further until her nipples dangled downward to the floor on the opposite end. Blubbery skin on their undersides coagulated on the surface like the molten mixture beneath a melting scoop of ice cream. So much of this coagulation occurred, in fact, that her breast flab playfully nudged at the base of the coffee machine.
It scooted several dangerous inches toward the ledge.
Asuka's panicked, outstretched arms were still several feet short of intervening. They drew long shadows over her cleavage.
All she could do was watch.
Her boobs grew until they covered the island entire -- and then there was a slow-motion falling, a violent clattering, and eventually a coffee machine's remains in pieces upon the kitchen floor. Screws and plastic shards glinted in the waning sunlight.
"...nnnnnggggGGGGHH!" Asuka growled through her gritted teeth, but her red-faced anger could not turn back the hands of the clock. And that aside, her expansion left her with another tangential problem.
"...am I lactating now? Now of ALL times?!"
Asuka's downturned nipples were spouting milk like two faucets that were trying to outdo one another. Milk pooled so quickly upon the floor that it invited comparisons to an overflowing sink -- which might be preferable, perhaps, given the abject stickiness that her product was leaving in its wake. A creamy vanilla fragrance settled over the kitchen, pleasantly at first before intensifying into something akin to a potent, caked-on perfume.
And her boobs continued to swell. Dangling nipples made landfall against the ground they had saturated, and breast fat bloated until it squished itself against the under-counter cupboards. To Asuka, the world was becoming little more than a wall of her own pale flesh.
But on her face was not anger.
Asuka's surroundings yielded to her rapid growth -- as they often did -- and in this tumultuous ocean of conflicting feelings, a newcomer of a sensation lapped upon the shores of her soul: exhilaration. It was a damnable, shameful reaction; how could the destruction of property and the shirking of her duties be such a thrill? And yet, there it was, in her curling toes, in her ever-quickening heartbeat, in the burgeoning fire between her thighs.
Asuka's fingers had the length and lithesomeness of a classical pianist. It was an understatedly attractive feature of hers known only to those whom she deemed worthy. But an even smaller number of much more precious individuals knew about their need to cling, their restlessness, their desperate need to occupy themselves -- and those climbing flames of passion in between her legs called for their very name.
"....mmmmf~... m-moo...."
Asuka's hand ventured underneath her skirt. Her vision swam; if an optometrist presented her with the words "want" and "need," they would blur together as much as they had in her addled thoughts. And with the coffee machine done for, it was now her turn to approach a different kind of precipice -- one where indulgence slips into blatant excess.
As the pleasure magnified, so did Asuka's expansion. The exterior walls lining the kitchen began to curve outward.
The coffee machine wouldn't be the only thing she would break today.
