D Cups are too small

100% CHANCE OF GETTING IMPREGNATED BY ME 👀👀🍉🍉😋😋🤤🤤

Your breasts have swollen to the extreme. You outgrew your most forgiving bra in a matter of days and in the weeks past, your body has contorted into a symbol of lewdness and lust. It's getting harder and harder to ignore. You feel as if the Adversary itself has taken hold of you, whispering impure thoughts into your mind and twisting your body into the image of depravity. Though you are not certain, you can feel it in the heft and wobble of your breasts that your cup size has firmly moved to the far end of the alphabet, if not surpassed it entirely. The sensitivity of your bosom has increased along with its size, to the point where your robe rubbing against your nipples forces you to pause for breath against a cold stone pillar, trying to make niceties for the passing women, begging the Lord above that they don't notice the warm blush on your cheeks.

Finally, when you can't take it anymore, you turn to the one person you feel may be able to guide you. They say that judgement is reserved for His Holiness alone, though that revelation has not made its way to the ears of the Mother Superior. But there's someone else. Someone safe. Someone strong.

The timid rapping of your knuckles against the wooden doors is answered by a gentle "Come in, child." His voice sends a warm shudder down your spine, stroking a neediness that you didn't know you were capable of. As you push open the door, you're greeted by his warm smile and you can't help feeling a bit weak. Father MacMillan. Or Peter, as he liked to be called. You take a few unsteady steps into his office and his concern is immediate. "What's the matter, my lost lamb? Come, come. Sit. Tell me what plagues you." He quickly crossed the room, closing the door behind you before leading you into the chair at his desk. He leans against it, looming over you, kindness and understanding in his eyes. "You're a brave one, Sister Scar to come see me on your own." Your hand feels safe in his. "Tell me everything."

And so you do. You tell him about the growth. About the sensitivity. About the urges. About the devil on your shoulder putting temptation after temptation in your path. You even pull your robes right against your burgeoning figure, feeling the praise in the look of surprise on Father MacMillan's face, the sharp inhale that follows. Finally, at the end of your story, you ask him plainly if this is divine punishment for something. The question seems to take him by surprise, chuckling softly.

"Goodness, no, Sister. This is not retribution. This is a gift." His hand is strong and firm as he suddenly takes hold of your breast, squeezing it through your robe. Instinctively, you moan, quickly covering your mouth to stifle the moan. "Surely, breasts as perfect as these must have been sculpted by the Creator personally. This is not a punishment, but a reward for your devotion to the Almighty in everything you do. You are truly remarkable, Sister." His praise and his touch batter against your higher reasoning, eroding your thoughts, leaving you whimpering and helplessly aroused. What we words you were going to say in response are stifled as his thumb brushes over your nipple, a fresh moan bursting out of you.

"The Lord commands us to do a great many things, Sister. One person cannot do them all. I believe they have chosen you to follow one of their most important, fundamental commands." He shifts slightly, lifting his leg and pulling his trousers tight over his crotch. The sight of the bulge lurking beneath, the obscene way it snakes halfway down his thigh, creeping closer to his knee as it hardens, makes your eyes widen and your mouth water. "It is a command that cannot be done alone, Sister. You know what it is, don't you?" You nod, unblinking, staring at the growing cock before you. "Say it. Speak the words."

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. "Be... Be fruitful. And multiply."

You gasp as the bulge twitches, shining as precum soaks into the fabric at the tip. "Very good, Sister. That's exactly right."

- @growth-opportunities

(I've never written anything super religious before, hope I did it right!)

Hooooly shit, this is amazing, thank you so much! I might be thinking about this one for a while, especially since the words "huge breasts as a blessing from God" are driving me mildly insane.

Just an idea inspired by your original story. If it strikes you, I would love to see what kind of story and/or image pairing you could conjure with it. 💋

P.s. your work is so good, it’s why I made a tumblr.

Goodness, you flatter me! Thank you very much for the kind words! I'm always a bit astonished at the idea that I could be inspirational, but I'm very glad that you found me to be so! And I'm glad you joined us! I really like your idea, too!

Addison sat up in bed and was immediately pulled back down. The impact back onto the soft mattress made the colossal udders that sat on either side of her slender torso jiggle and slosh like they were full of water or, more accurately, full of milk. A deep, frustrated groan built in her chest, rising with her anger. These stupid fucking udders! God, she fucking hated them! She just wanted C cups! She just wanted to not be flat as a board! But they never stopped growing, never stopped swelling, never stopped engorging with- Shit.

A damp spot near her fingertips reminded Addison that her little pity party had a time limit. If she was to go about her day, she'd need to milk her udders, another huge fucking waste of her time that wouldn't be necessary with the cute breasts she had wanted. Sliding off the side of her bed nearly brought her crashing to the ground. The swing and hang of her boulder-like tits threatened to drag her off her feet and, as much as she hated to admit it, she knew it was only a matter of time before they did. She could practically feel them growing and, while engorging with milk overnight made it hard to tell, she knew she was waking up bigger than when she went to sleep.

With gravity pulling in a new direction, Addison had to fight back against the instinctive letdown that her gargantuan udders wanted. She needed to get over to her breast pumps first. While she could have moved the milking station closer to her bed, she refused to do so on principle. She refused to let her tits take over her life. Every inch of ground they took was wrested from her by force and she wasn't ready to surrender. She wasn't some big titty bimbo, after all. She never wanted to be bigger than a D cup. She had read online that DD tits start to cross into the territory where you have more tits than brains and the thought of that had been sickening. Now, she tried her best not to think about it, especially as she all but dragged her enormous udders across the room. Each heavy footfall sent her tits wobbling and swinging and every time they clapped together, however lightly, Addison tensed. She ignored the light patter of her leaking milk hitting the floor. She refused to acknowledge her tits in any way. She wasn't a bimbo. She was better than this. She-

The world spun and the ground slid out from underneath Addison's foot. Stepping right into a puddle of her own milk, she slipped, gravity finally winning out. Thankfully for Addison, there was a table there to help catch her fall. Unfortunately for Addison, she landed on the table tit-first. Between the weight of her own body and the force of the fall, she squeezed her tit against the table a milk fired like a jet from her nipple. Despite herself, despite everything, Addison howled out a moan. With a pathetic look on her face, she glanced at the milk now gushing from her tit and then over to the milking station. It was just a few feet away, but she told herself it was too late. She was just going to have to do it manually.

As she wrapped her hand around her nipple, having to really reach around to the other side of her udder, another moan trumpeted from Addison's throat. "Fuuuuck! Fuck these fucking udders! They're so fucking biiiiig!" Each squeeze sent milk spraying out and waves of pleasure washing over her. Her arousal was like a spring. Shame and denial had wound it up right and now all that pent-up energy was being released. One tit rested on the table while the other hung down from her chest, the perfect spot for her to push her hips forward and grind against it. "Uughnn, fuuuuuck! My huge, milky titties are turning me into a fucking bimbo cow! I've got more tits than brains ten times over!"

Slightly repositioning her hips wedged her tit between them and the side of the desk. Once she knew it wasn't going anywhere, her hips started to move in earnest. Each thrust came a little bit faster than the last. Milk splattered at her feet. "I didn't want these fucking udders for this exact reason! They're turning me into a boobie-obsessed slut! Can't go more than a few hours without milking my huge udders! Can't go outside without everyone gawking at my gargantuan, slutty titties! Everyone wants to touch them! Squeeze them! Suck on them! Drink from them! I should just give in and fucking let them!"

With a sudden lurch, Addison's body bent forward. Her face was smothered by her own udder, perfect to muffle the lewd scream that ripped out of her throat. Her hips started to properly swing, the steady sound of her thighs clapping against her tit filling the air. Her face was red when she lifted it up again and hair matted to her forehead, but her eyes were rolled almost completely back. She bit her lip. "I should just give up being normal and enjoy them while I can! I won't fucking stop growing! I'm gonna get bigger and bigger until I can't even fucking lift them anymore! Then all I'll be able to do is hump! My! Fucking! Udders! All! Fucking! DAY!"

Addison punctuated each word by doing exactly that, finishing by squeezing her breast between her thighs. Her hands kneaded all the tit she could reach. Her throat was hoarse. She was so fucking close. "I'm just tits! I'm just fucking tits! Not Addison! Not Addie! No future! No life! Just tits! Just big, huge, gigantic, jiggly, juicy, milky TITS!"

1: I *really* enjoy having a huge cock. I'm big enough that my friends sometimes struggle to take my full length.

2: I want tits, but like C cups. I'm unashamedly obsessed with giant udders, but I like being kinda androgynous/masc. the women in my family are all top heavy though and I'm a little worried that I'll end up with tits that rest in my lap and that I'll end up titfucking myself all day every day

First and foremost, your identity is still valid whether or not you use hormones. You're a woman regardless of whether you've got a massive, swingin' dick or gigantic udders or both!

That being said, though, I can definitely understand where you're coming from! Massive, wobbling udders are next to impossible to ignore, especially when you're hopelessly obsessed with and addicted to them. And that's when they're on other people! If you had a pair of your own like that, you'd be utterly helpless. You'd never be able to focus on anything else! Even if you could find a bra that were big enough to hold them, you'd be constantly aware of their incredibly heft pulling down on your chest and your shoulders. If you thought it was distracting to see huge tits wobble and bounce, now you'd be able to feel it with every step you take. Showers would take hours as you feed your obsession, rubbing a soapy hand over your udders while the other hand rubs elsewhere. Just a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, clothed or otherwise, would be enough to set you off!

The other side of it is that you really have no idea how big HRT is going to make you. While your family history might make your desired C cups less likely, there's nothing that means definitively that you'll stop when you reach their size. You might just keep growing, hormones putting in the work to pump you up bigger and bigger and bigger. I'd imagine it to be both chilling and affirming to hear that you're too busty to fit in anything a traditional bra shop has in stock. It seems like you're already used to those around you being curious about a size they've never experienced before, but this time there would be a fair bit of envy in their glances towards your immense bust.

The first week of Stella's thirties were a blur. She could hardly tell where one day ended and the next one began. If she had really focused, she might have been able to tell the difference between warm daylight and the cool streetlamps peeking in around her blackout curtains, but her focus was entirely elsewhere. The smell of sex hung heavy in the air of her bedroom. Under her desk, a wastebasket sat overflowing, lost in a mountain of spent tissues caked in cum that was at varying stages of drying and hardening. Thick ropes of it were splattered across the walls and over her bed. More so than ever, her room had become a den of hedonistic pleasure. The lewd moaning and the sounds of sex blasted out of Stella's headphones, almost completely covering the rhythmic plap! plap! plap! of her colossal tits slapping against her thighs, her cleavage lubed up by the precum that gushed from the tip of her pillar of a cock.

This time last week, Stella had been completely different. For starters, she was monstrously drunk. Who could blame her? It was her thirtieth birthday, one that represented the threshold into the life she truly wanted to live. The first half of her twenties had been spent figuring out who she was and the second half had been spent becoming who she was always meant to be. Her thirties would be the time to finally just be that person! If you had asked her sober, she would have said she was happy with the body the hormones had given her. Drunk, however, there was one shortcoming that she was desperate to fix. She staggered around the bar, going up to each one of her friends, thrusting her chest forward and begging them to pinch her tits. "Come on, please? A pinch for an inch? All I need is a couple of inches and I'll be good! I promish!" Stella giggled at the stunned flustered expressions on her friends' faces. Her giddiness only grew as she finally did get a pair of pinches, two on each breasts. But, it came at a (playful) cost, one of her friends pinching her bulge, suggesting that the extra inch down there was a birthday present from her. Stella tried her best to hang on to her faux indignity for as long as she could before erupting in yet more giggles, collapsing into her friends. She was just so happy.

"Guughhnnn..."

Stella grunted. Her hips tensed, pushing the nearly three-foot-long column of cock upward through her own cleavage. Her arms did their best to wrap around a pair of tits that had made two laps around the alphabet and were making their way towards a third. Between her thighs, her swollen balls (each nearly as big as her head) tensed and yet another in a countless line of loads sprayed from the tip of her cock. Most of it rained back down on her own tits, adding to the slick mess between them, while some of it landed on the floor and a little landed in her own hair.

-🚂

Same thing that happens any time someone embraces their identity and starts living their truth:

AN ANGEL GETS THEIR FUCKING WINGS!

After that, of course, is when the real fun begins.

The pills already did a good job of softening her chest. They puffed out and budded until they got heavy and full enough to properly hang, truly looking like breasts. Adding HRT to the mix only made the growth accelerate. Pretty soon, she was outsizing her friends, growing well past sizes that had taken them years to reach! It was a little embarrassing to have to get fitted for a bra for the first time, but it was affirming in a way she didn't know she needed and having her friends there to support her really helped.

The attendant's jaw dropped open when she saw her newly enormous breasts. Their size was difficult to believe to begin with but even more unreasonable was the idea that she had never been fitted for a bra. Thankfully, her friends were quick to jump in and justify it for the attendant, who seemed skeptical but at least stopped asking questions. The process was new and flustering. Getting her new breasts lifted and moved, feeling the cool tape measure sliding over her new, sensitive tits, made her knees weak and her heart pound. She had never felt anything like it. Thankfully for her, the shop had exactly one bra that was close to her size, but the attendant warned her that it might be a little snug. Both of them knew that it probably wouldn't last long. She walked out of the store wearing the bra, her friends showering her in compliments of how good she looked wearing it, confident in her figure and excited for what future growth might bring.