I just needed some extra money but the research study I signed up for turned out to be run by some loser nerd I used to mock back in school for staring at my tits during class. Guess he still likes them since they just WON'T stop growing after he injected me with these stupid shots for his 'research' :(
You refused to touch them.
You refused to give that little perv the satisfaction.
The freak was bad enough back when he was merely (if you can call it that) gawking and starting and undressing you in his mind. At least then, you had the social pressure afforded to you by being so busty to remind him of his place in the hierarchy. Now, however, the tables had turned. You needed that money and that meant that you needed him a lot more than he needed you. You knew it and you knew that he knew it.
You did your best to endure the humiliations he put you through. Your only source of comfort was the thought that he didn't make you take "before" pictures, though that could only provide so much refuge. The excitement on his face once he noticed you were growing still haunted you, resurfacing with every bra you outgrew and every time you caught a glimpse of your reflection. Each week came with the embarrassment of having your measurements taken and the ultimate test of patience and grace in the form of not punching him when his hands got too close to your tits. As satisfying as it would have been, getting him back not only for turning you into a cow but also for all every time his intense, lustful staring made your skin crawl, you had to sit there and take it. One wrong move would forfeit the money and all of this would have been for nothing.
So you fought back in your own way by doing everything you could to deny that you were growing. You didn't look at them. You covered the deepening line of cleavage as best you could. You didn't even touch them any more than was absolutely necessary. A single concession was made in the form of buying a larger sports bra, but no matter how big you got, you just kept stuffing yourself into it, refusing to get a bigger size. He was no doubt spending hours upon hours fucking his fist to the thought of what he was doing to you and you wanted as much distance between his fantasies and your reality as possible. Once you got your reward, you could be done with him forever. At first, that kind of disobedience was easy.
After a few weeks, your breasts became harder to ignore. Not only were they massive, with every little move you made rippling through their softness, the smallest touch would sent jolts through your body. They were growing bigger and more sensitive. No matter how hard you steeled your resolve, neglecting your breasts became more and more difficult. Embarrassment burned in your cheeks after what was meant to be a quick shower lasted until the water ran cold, too lost in the sensation of running your hands over your soap-slicked breasts. Squeezing your udders into that sports bra became a test of strength as your breasts bulged out of it and a test of wills as well, pushing back against the desire to grope and knead and paw at your tits.
Arousal smoldered in your core as you tried to go about your day. Your breasts would accidentally brush against a door frame or, god forbid, a person and your knees would nearly give out. Your cheeks ached from blushing whenever you realized that you'd been not just resting your breasts on your desk but grinding them against it.
The worst was late at night. Each day was spend being edged through your breasts and the unsatisfied desire festered inside you. You laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, painfully aware of your breasts with no recourse. Your pajamas shifted as you breathed and slid over the sensitive mounds. When you tried going without, the sheets did much the same and leaving those to the side left you vulnerable to the subtle air currents blowing about the room. Your heightened awareness of your breasts meant that you could feel your own heartbeat pulsing through them. Minutes stretched into hours as your body pleaded, begged, demanded to be touched. But you wouldn't do it. You couldn't give him the satisfaction.
By the end of those eight, torturous weeks, you were at your wits' ends. You barely slept and, when you did, you were plagued with dreams of your own growing tits. They had swollen into these colossal udders, ones that overshadowed your old size and redefined what it meant to be "big." As much as your body craved it, you hadn't given in to the need that burned between your legs. Pink haze clouding your thoughts had been your default state. As needy as you were, you could barely remember your own name. The whole of your perception was focused around your bust. You were your tits. And they were you.
You stood there and let him take his measurements. The touch that you once loathed now made you whimper and rub your thighs together. You knew, however dimly, that you were supposed to hate it, but a sickening part of you was begging him to go further. With eyes closed, you did everything you could to stay focused on the money. You just needed to get through this, get paid, and you'd be done. The specific number was lost in the haze, but you knew it was a lot and so you repeated that to yourself. Trying to keep yourself together took so much of your focus that you didn't notice that the measurements were done. In fact, several moments had passed without his touch. Maybe it was over. Maybe—
Your legs gave out under you and you dropped to your knees. He hadn't even needed to touch you. Just blowing cool air over your exposed, needy, quivering, sensitive nipples was enough to break through the last of your barriers. The impact of your knees against the ground ripples upward through your breasts and just that stimulation is enough to have you throwing your head back and bellowing out the lewdest sound you had ever made. You couldn't resist any longer. Your hands flew to your breasts. Flesh bulged out between your fingers as you kneaded them, tugging them, stretching them and clapping them together. Weeks of edging and denial had left you nearly feral and now there was nothing to hold you back. Frantically, you hefted one of your breasts in your hands and dragged it up to your face. As soon as your lips locked around your nipple, an orgasm rocked through you. Your desperate screams were muffled by the colossal tit in your mouth, but that can only do so much. As it passed, the muscles in your body relaxed and you collapsed onto the ground, panting, barely conscious.
As your mind tried to piece itself back together, you could hear his voice drifting through the bliss. It ought to have made you sick, but all you could do is listen as he told you that you've done such a great job and, if you were interested, he would be willing to offer five times as much money for another round of treatments. You groaned at the thought only to yelp, his finger tugging on your nipple. You could hear the smug grin in his voice as he told you that you didn't need to make a decision right away. You're free to think about it for as long as you need. But he knew and you were slowly starting to realize that there was no coming back from this. The addiction to this kind of pleasure set in immediately. Your tits had become the center of your universe, the center of your being, and you only had one goal: to make them as big and as sensitive as possible.
