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“Awwwww, what a cutie!” Said one of them, scooping her up under the armpits and lifting her bodily, five feet into the air. “So short!” Angela shifted her mouth to one side at that. She wasn’t short, they were just so goddamn tall. And curvy. She looked down, feeling her reasonably-sized chest pressing up against a monstrous swell as the New Women cooed over her. Her hair was tussled, glasses askew as they fawned over her, planting kisses on her cheeks before setting her down. “Sorry, sorry!” Said the first one. “We just don’t get a lot of original flavor girls around here.”

Before she could even respond, another one of them leaned into her. Her round bubble-butt, clad in an inadequate bikini bottom, collided with the side of Angela’s head. It was gentle enough, but with that amount of mass, it still rocked her slightly off balance. “We were gonna go to the beach, did you wanna come with?” The New Woman looked down, her smile somehow both serene and imperious. Angela gulped. It wasn’t a question.

The leotard was one of the best decisions she’d ever made. Keeping her vast and still-swelling lower body clothed was an ordeal in the best of conditions. She’d shredded pants and snapped panties. Shorts had been overwhelmed and stretched to the point of uselessness. Skirts were a fading dream–she’d tried on what should have been floor length and found it pooled around her ankles in front and short enough to be indecent in back. Now, at least, she was technically decent–which was really the best kind of decent, as far as she was concerned.

Her ass was enormous, that much was obvious. But she still liked to say it out loud and watch the looks on people’s faces when they realized exactly how unabashed she was about her huge size. She liked to think it to herself, every time she got a glimpse of the massive pear looking back at her in the mirror. She took pictures of it at every opportunity, and put them together into little collages, or before-and-afters showing how she’d tripled her weight in six months. More than anything though, she liked to put in the time, massaging it with cremes and lotions, taking her supplements every day so that she could make it bigger. And bigger, and bigger. There had to be a stopping point eventually, and most people might have declared it sixty or seventy pounds ago. But while she was a lot of things, a wobbling, orgasmically gigantic pear, for one, she certainly wasn’t a quitter.

The cruise had been excellent, and none of them quite wanted to leave.

The food? Impressive. The company? Incomparable. The amenities? Immaculate. A solid week, on a state-of-the-art ship, with the best care and services they could hope for. Utter, complete relaxation, and the weight that came with it. They were hardly the only ones–every woman on the ship, almost from day one, found themselves swollen, thighs thickening, asses plumping, tits becoming larger, perkier, soft and generous. But in a pleasured, relaxed fog, nobody seemed to think much of it. They had spent a week simply basking in it, the same way they tanned in the sun.

“Ridiculous,” she said out loud, adjusting her thigh-highs upward. Her pink panties, already cut to show off a generous amount of cheek, were being completely overloaded. She wiggled against them, feeling her weight rebound and shake, almost sloshing as her cheeks collided against the straining underwear. Her thighs strained, flexing with hidden muscle against her socks, which responded by rolling down slightly on one leg and tearing a touch on the other.

“Too small?” The photographer asked.