Works/Expanding On an Idea

She says she likes my breasts because they're small.

You don't want these, she says. They hurt every day and they make my back hurt too. They bounce around and get in your way and weigh you down.

She likes my breasts because they're small. She says. I love her breasts because they're big.

Sometimes I watch her, sitting at the table across from me. Her with a figure like an pneumatic cartoon, me with the gentle line of an Arp sculpture. I imagine her breasts growing, growing until their weight has made them sag enough to collide with the table top. She looks down, puzzled, then drops her fork. Tomato sauce splashes onto the top of her left breast and her neck. I walk around behind her chair, lean in and nuzzle her like a deer, licking it off.

Cut that out, she says, too distracted. Look at my breasts. This is really strange. By now they are more than filling the available space, descending into her lap, the table's edge making a deep dent as they push against and over it. Good thing you're not wearing a bra, I say. Come into the living room, you'd better take that top off while you can.

But - but - I need to get to a hospital, she stammers. This is crazy. What's going on?

Relax, I say. I'm sure they'll go back to normal soon.

I tug on her hand - she stands up and follows, dazed. In the living room, I pull and cajole her t-shirt over breasts it was never designed to contain. She cradles her breasts in her hands and tries to lift them. They spill out over her fingertips. They're still growing, she says. Now that I'm holding them, I can feel it.

Sit down, I say. She sits. I sit next to her. I lean into her lap and put my mouth on the nearer nipple, rolling my tongue over it. She shrieks. Are they sensitive? I say, trying to be innocent.

How can you think about that right now? she asks. Why not? I reply, and lick her nipple again. She squirms and pushes me away. I'm not kidding, she says. This is serious.

She stands, with some effort. While she sat, her breasts had filled her entire lap. Bending forward from the weight, she makes her way over to her room and the table with the telephone.

Who are you calling? I ask. The doctor, who do you think? she replies.

I watch as she stands impatiently, obviously having more and more trouble standing as her breasts continue to swell. If she continues leaning forward at that rate, and they continue growing at the same rate, soon they will reach her knees. The doctor's office has placed her on hold. She doesn't look happy.

I put a CD in the player, turned low to not interfere with her call. The hole in the CD would fit over her nipple, just snug enough to stay on, like a piece of jewelry. The CD itself would cover her areola, but only barely. I could get one of the 2-CD sets out; then they'd match. The White Album might look nice.

She thuds behind me and I spin around. She has dropped the phone, gone to her hands and knees, breasts spreading out where they meet the floor like beanbags.

Help me, she says. Get them back on the phone. I can't stand up anymore.

I move to the phone, stand in front of it so she can't see me. With my finger I hang up silently. I speak one-half of an imaginary conversation. The doctor is out. I make it plausible. There is no immediate danger. They will send an ambulance as soon as they can, since the condition is obviously not urgent.

I put the receiver down, turn around, and gasp.

What I am looking at is a fair approximation of an earthball with a person lying on top of it. Her feet do not touch the ground. She is floating atop her breasts, arms and feet hanging off, waving ineffectively. I walk around to see her face. She is shaking her head dully, eyes wide and mouth open, in complete disbelief.

She recovers when I work my fingers around her waist, pressing in against ballooned tissue to unfasten her jeans. Hey, she says, what's going on back there?

I'm taking off your pants, I say. I think you'll be more comfortable.

When is the ambulance coming? she asks, and I realize I have probably wasted a good made-up conversation.

When they can get one, I say. It might be a while. They don't think your condition is urgent.

Not urgent? she sputters. I can't move. I can't do anything. What do they consider urgent?

Shhh, I say, rubbing the taut skin of her breasts, one hand to either side of where her legs rest in front of me. How do they feel?

Pretty good, actually - she says, and then she sighs at the feeling as I caress the overtaxed skin.

I gradually manage to get her panties down over her legs and off. I suppose that was to make me more comfortable too, she says wryly.

I don't say anything. I move her legs apart, and begin to lick where her cunt is against her breasts, prying my tongue into the narrow space where they're pressed together. She squeaks.

What, you don't like that? I ask. I press one hand into her breasts on either side to steady myself, and go in again with my tongue, sliding it up along the sensitive skin of her breasts and then moving directly into her crotch. Poking my tongue in hard to overcome the pressure. She gasps.

Hmm, this is tricky, I say aloud. My tongue is not quite long enough, given the position. Don't go away, I can't resist saying as I walk into the other room.

I get our favorite silicone toy and some lube. Squeezing the dildo in my hands to warm it up, I go back into the living room. She can't see me. I push hard and rock her forward, rolling her like a ball, so that her head tilts down and almost hits the floor. She stops herself with her hands. Hey! she says. Have you lost your mind?

I walk around onto her side and pull her legs up into the air, away from her breasts. Now she almost looks like she's doing a headstand - next to an earthball. I slide the lubed toy into her and she squeaks. What's that for? she asks. You were doing fine on your own.

I rest her legs against her built-in beachball again and roll her back so she's resting atop. How's that feel? I ask.

Wow, she says. Um, my breasts are pressing against it, holding it in.

That's what I thought, I say.

I reach for her butt, squeezing one cheek in each hand gently, and begin to rock her back and forth over the rug. Head almost to the ground, then rock backwards until the feet touch the ground on the far side. Back and forth. Her breasts rubbing and brushing against the deep pile rug, and her full pussy caught between the rolling pressure of her own swollen breasts and my hands firmly against her ass.

Back and forth. She begins to gasp every time I push, every time her face rocks forward.

I can stop if you like, you know, I say.

Don't you dare, she pants.

Back and forth. Face forward - exhale loudly - feet back - inhale sharply. She sounds like she's doing Lamaze breathing.

What did you say? I stop suddenly to ask.

Faster, she says faintly.

I put one hand on her ass and another on her spine between the shoulders, and begin to rock her as quickly as her size permits. She pants like a locomotive, fast and loud. Chug chug chug. Wetness from her cunt is dripping down shinily over the round surface she rests on; I can see it between her slightly spread legs. She is moaning now.

Then, from her mouth, comes the sound a balloon makes when you hold the neck taut as you let the air out. A loud squeak, very high at first but dropping in pitch very fast. And as she makes this noise, as the air rushes out of her, her breasts deflate and she tumbles down to the floor, cushioned in her fall as they rapidly shrink away to normal.

And she is lying face-down, spread on the rug, dripping into it, sweating, exhaling. Her whole body in contact with the carpet again.

She says that big breasts are a real problem. She says I don't want them. Well, goodness, I know that.

I never said I wanted them for myself.

Copyright © July 2007. Do not distribute or reproduce.