Apology Accepted

By Mich

The interstate has never been my favorite place to drive.  You get the assholes that drive twenty over the speedlimit, honking and flipping you off as they pass.  You get the assholes who lane-surf, seeming to dare each other to drive in between those two cars, only to skip out as soon as they see another closing gap.  You get the assholes who can't seem to understand that sometimes a guy gets down in his luck sometimes.

And then you get me.  The guy who always goes the exact speedlimit.  The guy who won't change lanes if there is someone within five car lengths, either directly behind, in front, or two lanes over.  The guy who, in other words, is really too much of a pussy to drive on the interstate.

Now, I'm not saying that there is anything wrong with the people mentioned above.  Hell, the interstate was obviously made for them; how else is it that these people seem to never get tickets, while I always do when I accidentally do something wrong if I happen to be commuting to pick up my girlfriend?

And that's how I ended up being late to picking her up.  It wasn't something that was normal-- picking her up, that is.  Obviously it wasn't, or I would feel more comfortable on the stupid interstate.  But Trisha's front right IV boot had pretty much exploded off of the axle when she had been driving to work the other day, and it was in the shop, getting some three-hundred dollar repair.  Regardless, it wasn't even the discomfort that I have on that particular stretch of concrete and asphalt that is to blame for what happened; rather, it was the lack thereof.  As it should be obvious by now, I never, ever drive on the thing.  However, Trisha worked in a place that was all the way across town from my apartment, pretty much outside of city limits, and you would have to be nuts to NOT take the interstate there, seeing as how it would take twice as long otherwise to get there.

This is rather ironic, seeing as how my normal description of the interstate is "You would have to be nuts to take that thing!"

To get back to the start of this thing, I had been on the road for about twenty minutes and was finally beginning to relax.  I was over halfway there, no car crashes resulting in a flaming ball of death had occurred, and everyone around me seemed to be acting pretty calmly.  What I did not realize, though, was that they were all slowly speeding up.  These were not the lane-surfers, these were not the cussers and honkers.  No, these were the speeders.  And little old me, twenty-two years young and all too happy to stay alive on that highway that goes between states, unconsciously sped up along with them.  Call it groupthink, call it flock behavior, call it whatever, but eventually we ended up at nearly twice the speedlimit.

I don't know much about why it got that high, but I do know how I didn't notice the squealing that was eminating from my car: I had turned Cake up a little higher than normal, just to drown out my own phobias of car wrecks and such.

Don't ask me why I'm so scared of driving on it.  In all other cases, I'm pretty much phobia-less: spiders don't make me shiver, I've handled snakes a ton of times before, I've gone overseas three times, twice by air, once by sea, but that stupid, stupid interstate has always scared the willies out of me.

So, there I was, driving along, "Short Skirt/Long Jacket" blaring in my ears, when suddenly I heard a different blaring.  These went in, and out, and drove right through your eardrum to your brain.  They were police sirens.  My eyes shot first to my spedometer (110), then all around me.  The interstate was EMPTY.  Well, not empty.  I was quickly catching up on a group of cars ahead of me, and way back behind was another group.  I recognized them as the one I had entered into the Land of Fear with.  I instantly knew what happened: I had accidentally sped up, gotten a lot higher than any of us had meant to, and then the rest of the rat-bastards had seen the cop and slowed down quick-as-you-please.

It was NOT good times.

To skip ahead, if I had continued on as Speedy Gonsolas, I would have gotten to my girlfriend's work ten minutes ahead of schedule.  I could have parked my BMW out front, coolly leaned against it, and it would have been quite romantic and dashing.  Instead, I was half-an-hour late.  I had gotten the drunk test, the drug test, my car had been searched, my complete criminal, physical, and probably dental histories searched.  Finally, I had gotten two tickets: one for speeding, and one for hazardous driving.

I was not a happy camper, driving into the extensive parking lot that is Trisha's workplace.  But I instantly felt worse when I saw her outside.  She marched over to my car, eyes blazing, arms crossed across her chest, blonde hair escaped from its ponytail.

Now, please, do not get the wrong first impression from this.  Most people don't; she's just an impossible person to see as fierce.  Shorter than average, about 5'6", twinkling blue eyes, an almost permanant expression of some secret joke, I always felt lucky to have her.  And almost nothing could make her mad: sometimes I would tease her about her skinny butt and A-cup chest, but she would laugh it off.  She would know that I was only teasing and didn't care, and she honestly didn't seem to mind how she was.

Of course, she COULD get mad, if she had good reason.

"You TOLD me you could get here in time!  You TOLD me that you could drive me!  You TOLD me that I wouldn't have to ask my boss for a ride!  And now I've already missed that interview, and it looks like I'll be late for my brother's wedding!"

I stumbled through apologies, but she didn't seem to hear.  Instead, she threw herself in the car, slammed the door, and told me to drive.

I did: five miles under the speed limit the whole way home.

We didn't talk much on that ride.  I tried to mutter my excuse twice more, but the first time she interrupted me with an "I don't want to hear it!" and the next time just turned her head away.

Eventually, I dropped her off at the church the wedding was at, and drove home to my apartment in silence.  I didn't know what to do.

The next day I figured she would be cooled down enough to hear a heart-felt apology, so I called Trisha up.  I only got her answering machine.  Thinking that she was screening me, I almost didn't leave a message, but then decided that would seem even more assholish than leaving a bad one, so I struggled to sound both apologetic and helpful.

"Hey, Trisha.  Look, I'm-- I'm so sorry about yesterday.  I already tried to excuse myself, but I know that it didn't really help at all, and that it was completely my fault, so I won't anymore: it was entirely my fault.  Look, I know you missed the interview, but maybe if you explain the whole car trouble thing to them, they'll understand: not everyone in the world is unsympathetic to car problems.  Anyway, I really want to make it up to you, but I don't really know how, so if you could call me back, I'll do pretty much anything you want, babe.  I just don't want to blow my relationship with you just because of some idiotic thing I did."

The deed done, I found myself lounging on the couch, wondering what to do.  Would it seem too stalkery to drive over to her house?  Too needy?  What if she really IS screening her calls from me?  Should I call again in a few days?

My ponderings were interrupted by my phone buzzing.  It was Trisha.

"Hey--" I started, but Trisha cut me off.

"Jake, look, I'm really sorry," she said, sounding sincere.  "No, I'M the sorry one, it was my fault," I said, attempting to sound sincere-er.  I detected that small smile in her voice as she continued.  "Well, yeah, that is true, but I'm sorry for blowing up so much.  I mean, that happens all the time, where I just zone off and go with the flow."

"But I made you miss your interview," I interjected, amazed that I was trying to place more blame on myself.

"Well, yes," she said, sighing a little, "but I called them up, that was why I didn't pick up when you called before, and they completely understood.  I guess you were right: not everyone in the world is an unsympathetic butthole."  She gave a little laugh, and I allowed myself to join in.

"That's great!" I said, genuinely happy that it had worked out.

Then Trisha said it.  "However..."

I stood stock-still.  "However what?"

"However, I would still like to call you on this making-it-up-to-me deal."

I silently cursed, but I would have to go through with it.  I had promised, and, if it ensured we would stay together... "What do you have in mind?"  I crossed my fingers beneath the cell phone.

"I want us to take a trip to the beach!"

My heart sunk.  All was done for.

I know what you're thinking.  What healthy young man wouldn't want to go to the beach with his attractive girlfriend?  There's sand, sun, surf, and swimsuits!  All the things a fellow needs to survive in life.  And, while all that is true, and while I really DID want to go, there was one thing in the way:

My OWN job.

I deliver food to all of the local restaurants and other eateries in pretty much the entire city.  Not only is it well-paying, but it is extremely steady business: no matter how slow the flow of people gets in any restaurant, they will always have an order of food every week, thus making sure that I deliver them food, and my company gets to sell it to them.  However, do to extremely horrible planning on quite a number of people's parts, I ended up only delivering food on two days, and those two days just happened to be Saturday and Sunday.  It seems like a bad deal, only working two days out of the week, but, as I said before, because business is good, the pay is lucrative, and I work twenty hours each day in those two days.  It seems like it should be illegal, and I'm pretty sure that there are some legal loopholes in there, but there you have it: I pull a forty-hour week in one weekend.

The beach is five hours away, so any trip is a two-day trip.  And Trisha only got the weekends off.  So, in essense, going to the beach meant giving up on one week's pay.  It killed me to do it.  I felt physical PAIN.

I gritted my teeth.

"Sure," I said.  And that week's pain slipped right through my fingers.

I could hear her give a small clap and a little jump for joy.  "Yay!" she said.  "Oh, yes, yay," I muttered sarcastically to myself.  I had to hand it to her: this was perfect punishment.  She had been bugging me to go stay a weekend with her at the beach since even before we dated, but I never could.  But now she had me.  "So then, this weekend?  Can you make it work?"  I checked my list of phone numbers to call in a case such as this.  "Yeah, I can make it work.  As long as I can get someone to cover my shift, the boss doesn't care."  Peter, the other guy who did the hour-long, daily deliveries as a part-time job, was always bugging me to take one of my weekends.  "Great, then!  I'll see you at my apartment Friday at three!"

I hung up.  "Sure.  Great."  Looked like I would have to dip into my savings to pay those tickets.

The rest of the week slunk by slowly, in anticipation and dread.  Tuesday I had had the life-threatening conversation with Trisha.  Wednesday I called the place that rented beach houses and made sure that one was open for us.  Thursday I moped.  Friday morning I packed.  Then, finally, I climbed into the Beemer and drove to pick up Trisha.

It was a major sign of her excitement that she was waiting for me outside of the house she rented, her suitcase by her side, already wearing a bikini top and some khaki shorts.  She had cinched a belt tightly to keep the shorts on her narrow hips, but they still sagged noticably when she started jumping and waving at the sight of my car.  I couldn't help but grin at her antics.

I opened the passenger door from my seat.  "Get in, you goof," I said with a smile.  She smiled right back.  "It's good to see you won't be moping through our whole weekend together," she said as she shoved her suitcase in the back.  I gave a grunt and stepped on the gas.  We were off.

The five hour ride wasn't too bad.  I had my iPod, and Trisha happily DJed the whole way, picking out those kind of songs that you only keep in case a very specific situation arises, and are completely stupid in any other case.  You know: the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme, or the Macarena?  Maybe you aren't the kind of person that does that, but I like to be prepared.

In any case, we completely avoided talking about our fight earlier, and just had fun.  It was nice, and something that I realized we hadn't done for a while.  In fact, with Trisha working every weekday, and me working the entire weekend, it had been hard for us to actually maintain a real relationship.  "Hanging out" on weeknights when Trisha had work in the morning never really satisfied either of us, and now we had 50 whole hours together.  I gradually found out that I was actually looking forward to whatever would happen that weekend.

And, boy, did it happen.

By the time we got to the beach house, it was 8:30, and the sun was just about to set.  I got our suitcases into the house just as the sun was touching the ocean, and I went out back onto the porch with Trisha.  I slipped a hand around her waist, and she slipped one around mine, and we gazed out across that expanse together.

"It's beautiful," Trisha said.

I looked down my shoulder at her face.  "No, you are," I said, my tone more serious than I meant.  She looked up and smiled.  "Thank yo--" she began, but my mouth was already on hers.  I'm sure it was a movie moment: us kissing each other, holding hands, the sun setting behind us on the endless expanse of the ocean.  I wouldn't know.  I was a little preoccupied.

We made love that night for the first time in I don't know how long.  Don't get me wrong: we had had sex several times in the past month (carefully planned around when Trisha had morning meetings), but that night we actually MADE LOVE.  And, just like my girlfriend, and just like the sunset, it was a beautiful thing.

I woke up to the smell of eggs frying.  Stumbling half-asleep into the kitchen, I was mildly surprised (but not so much, considering the hints I had) that Trisha was cooking breakfast for both of us.  "Hey," I said, "you didn't have to do that.  This weekend is your treat, not mine."

"Yeah," she said, a small smile playing across her lips, "but, I don't know, I feel bad.  I mean, I know that you're saving up for a car, and I'm depriving you of a week's pay, and--" but I interrupted her with another kiss.

"You're going to have to stop doing that," she giggled around my lips.

When I drew away from her, I held her shoulders and looked into her eyes, serious.  "It's fine.  Everything is fine.  I know that everything is working out, and I know that I was stupid, but I've also been stupid about this.  We needed to do this.  I guess... I guess I just needed an excuse."

I suppose that satisfied her, as I'm sure she must have felt that way, too.  She turned back to the eggs.  A few seconds later they were done, and they tasted just as good as everything else felt.

After I took a shower I changed into a swimsuit, a t-shirt, and some flip-flops.  Before leaving the bathroom, though, I checked myself in the mirror.  Twenty-two, just above six feet in height.  Not really muscular, but toned, a soccer-player's body.  Back then I swam laps at the gym almost every day, and it kept me really fit.

Stepping through the door I met Trisha, wearing the same outfit from the day before.  And you know what?  Other men would probably say differently, but just then, it seemed Trisha was perfect.  Her breasts were small, and completely covered by the small bikini top, her butt was skinnier than most men would have liked, but, right at that moment, I didn't care.  I took her in my arms and held her there, with her head against my chest, and she seemed like the perfect fit.  I remember thinking "I can't get any happier than I am right now, with this girl."  And, silently, we set off down the beach.

The boardwalk was oddly empty, only a few people here or there.  It was only about nine o'clock, but there were normally more people on a Saturday.  We set our towels down near the tide line and put up our umbrella.  "What do you want to do first, honey?" I asked, and was surprised when she looked around and rubbed her flat stomach.  "Actually," she said, a little embarrased, "I only had one egg.  I'm kind of hungry."

"Well, we have sandwiches," I offered, "but, if you eat yours, I'll have to give you mine for lunch, and you wouldn't want me to go hungry, would you?"

Laughing, she said no.  "You know what?" she asked.  "I think I'm in the mood for ice cream."  "Ice cream?" I said.  "It's not even ten yet!"

But she was already setting off down the beach.  "Don't worry, mother, I won't spoil my lunch!"

I shook my head and stipped off my shirt.  I had already gotten most of my sunscreen on when I heard Trisha coming back across the sand.  Well, to be more precise, I heard Trisha's tongue coming back across the sand; sometimes the girl eats louder than a pack of pigs.

I looked up and saw her licking a double-scoop of a flavor that was almost too white to be vanilla out a waffle cone.  "Where did you get that, and what flavor is it?"

She stuck a thumb backwards.  "There's this ice cream place back there.  Joe's or Jim's or something generic like that.  They were the only ones I saw, but they had a whole bunch of fruity flavors.  This is coconut."  I grimaced.  She probably got coconut so I wouldn't steal any licks from her.  How many people like coconut, anyway?  Certainly not me.

"Is it good?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah," she said, in between slurps.  "I don't even think it's artificial flavoring."

"Huh," I said, and leaned back on my towel.  "Come on, sit down, stay a while."  I patted her towel, beside me.

"Okay, just hold onto this for a second."  Trisha handed me her waffle cone while stepping ut of her shorts, at last revealing the bikini bottom she had on underneath.  Despite the audio evidence, it looked like she had hardly made it through one scoop of her ice cream.  That was the first odd thing of the day, really.  I looked at her sideways as she put on sunscreen.  She caught my eye and gave a laugh.  "What?"  "Nothing," I said, giving a mental shrug, but then I looked out of the corner of my eye.  Were her...

Some ice cream dripped onto my hand, ice cold.  I yelped in surprise, but didn't drop the cone.  Trisha's laugh rang out again as she reached for the cone.  "Let me help you with that..." she said in a faux sexy voice as she bent over to suck the ice cream off my hand.  "Oh, my," I said, in a fake baritone voice.  "If we keep on this track, I'll have to take you right back to the house, now won't I?"  She finished by giving my thumb a slight suck, and then promptly went back to her ice cream.  As she slipped back to her towel, I felt her brush against me, and felt a shiver of excitement run through me.  She's mine, I thought.  And I love her.

I propped myself up on my elbow to look at her.  Now she was reading a paperback book as she ate her ice cream, carefully holding it away from her so that she wouldn't drip on the pages.  It didn't stop her from dripping on herself, though.  One fell right between her breasts, then slipped down to her belly button.  That small smile on her lips again, Trisha traced her finger along the trail, up between her slightly visible abs, then up the shallow canyon her cleavage created, until her finger popped into her mouth, sucking the drip from it.

Then I realized what I was seeing.  Cleavage.

Trisha must have felt my look turn into a stare, and glanced over at me.  "What is it?"  I couldn't even point.  "Your... your..."  In a burst of insight I reached across and just grabbed one.  It was still small, but it was rounder, and definitely bigger.  Her bikini top was actually filled.

And then, instead of horror, or fright, I saw joy spread across Trisha's face in a way I hadn't seen before.  "Oh my God!" she said, astonished.  "I have boobs.  Real boobs!"  Putting her book down, she brought up her hand and grabbed onto the breast I wasn't handling.  "They're not huge, but they're at least... at least..."

"At least a B-cup," I finished.  It was true.  That bikini, previously a bit big and a little saggy, was now a perfect fit for Trisha's chest.

I should have seen the connection immediately, but I didn't.  It wouldn't have made any difference, really, I just can't see how something that obvious escaped me.

Suddenly, I felt Trisha's breast begin to swell.  "Holy crap," I said, "they're..."  "I know, genius," Trisha said, unable to stop the jibe.  She kept licking away at that ice cream, watching the show.

It was slow, kind of like watching cupcakes rise in the oven, only I wasn't just watching, I was feeling.  Over the next several minutes, Trisha's chest grew until the bikini didn't fit, it was actually a little tight.  Her breast, by this point, was completely filling my tightly cupped hand, and was starting to spread apart my tightly clenched fingers.

"Wow," I breathed.  "This is amazing."

"I know," Trisha said, just before biting into her cone.  The second scoop was gone, but a large amount had collected in the bottom, and was starting to run down her arm.  She licked it up dutifully, before firmly attaching her mouth to the hole in the bottom.  Her eyes never left her breasts.

The growth picked up speed without warning.  Before I knew it, Trisha's warm skin was pushing my fingers to the limit.  I tried to keep the whole boob in my hand, but it was impossible; they were more than a handful by now.  The bikini was stretched tight across both mounds, and her nipples were very visible.  As Trisha put the last piece of the waffle cone into her mouth, the swelling suddenly slowed, and then stopped.  I couldn't help myself; nuzzling in closer, I put my mouth on her left breast, and gave a long, slow lick.  Rolling over her, I straddled Trisha's body, now leaning to the right breast.  I gave this one a soft suck on the newly formed flesh around it.  Trisha's eyes rolled up into her head, and she brought her own hands up into play, softly kneading her chest.

"Uh..." she moaned.  "This bikini is so tight now.  Let me just loosen it a little."

Loosen it? I thought.  Why not just take it off and be done with it?  Nonetheless, I had to back off as Trisha sat up, and then, quite frankly, was a little surprised when she suddenly glared at me.  "Can I get some privacy?"  Privacy? I silently asked.  One, we're on a beach, two, we had sex not twelve hours ago!  I turned around, anyway, just as she was untying the string the back.  When I got the all-clear, I turned back to see that she had just let out more string before tying it again.  The triangles of cloth that made up the bikini, before so big seeming, were now only coving about half of Trisha's breasts!  They had to be D's by this point.

She gave me a sly wink.  "You know what?" she asked, slowly slipping onto her knees while she leaned on her hands, giving me a bird's eye view of her new cleavage.  They seemed like they were going to fall right out of her top.  "What?" I asked slowly back.

"I'm going to get more ice cream!  Do you want any?"  She was back on her feet, her hands on her hips, all slight suggestions of sex gone.  "Uh... sure," I said, confused.  "Just lead the way."  She laughed and pointed at my crotch, where my swimming trunks were tented quite a bit.  "I think you should stay right here.  What flavor do you want?"  I blushed.  "How about banana?"  "Great!"  And she was gone, bounding across the sand to the board walk.

My mind whirling, I collapsed backward into the sand.  Distantly, I heard some kid say something about "that guy" having a stick in his pants, and some distant grandmother shush him.  But I was somewhere else.  What was going on?  What was causing this?  I mean, it was great, and all, what guy doesn't want his girlfriend to have big breasts?  But I had been satisfied.  I had been happy.  And so had been Trisha.  Right?

I heard footsteps coming back and looked up.  Trisha was carrying two cones, one a double-scoop in a yellow color, the other that same unnatural white, but this time with three scoops, forming a triangle of ice cream I wouldn't think possible in that waffle cone.  She had a lot of bounce in her step, but I think it was on purpose; her breasts were bouncing every which-way, trying to escape that tight, undersized bikini top.

"Here you go!" she cried, falling to her knees next to me.  I took the offered cone, but didn't dig in.  I was a little busy with other sights.  Trisha sighed impatiently.  "Come on, try it!"  Dutifully, I gave a lick, only to find that it was really as good as described.  It didn't have that gross, too-sweet taste that artificial banana has.  In fact, as I started to lick and bite more, I started to find real chunks of banana in the ice cream.  It was delicious, and I told Trisha so.  "See?" she laughed.  "I told you, Jake!"  And then, now that we both had refreshments, her growing breasts began again.

"Jake," she said, excitedly, but I shushed her.  "I know, I can see them."  The tight bikini was actually starting to deform the flesh as it piled up behind it, forcing boob out of the sides, while the triangles of fabric slowly crept downward.  Using one hand (the other was holding her cone to her mouth), Trisha pulled the fabric up and over the bottoms of her breasts, centering them on her nipples, once again.  But I could see that that would be a problem soon, too: the points were no longer points, and instead seemed like tiny fingers poking at the cloth.  If they were growing along with Trisha's boobs, it wouldn't be long before we would have nothing for her to wear, short of a towel.

As her growing mammaries passed out of the usual cup-sizes, they became less of the rounded cones that young, healthy breasts take the shape of, and became much more spherical.  I'm guessing it was because their bases ran out of torso to spread across.  Once again the bikini became a hindrance, as the strings that held it in place were getting too tight, and were cutting into Trisha's flesh.  She whimpered and guestured at her back with one hand.  I shook my head, confused, so she rolled her eyes in exasperation, and clamped down hard with her lips on the edge of her cone.  Reaching back, she slowly loosened the bow-knot that was holding her bikini together, let it out a few more inches, and then tied it back with the remaining string.  It looked like it was a difficult tie; she only had an inch left to both sides.

I don't really know why Trisha was so insistant on keeping that bikini on.  Maybe she was scared her magically growing breasts would flop to her knees the second they lost support.  Maybe, in her dazed mind, she wanted to keep any sort of dignity that remained.  Or maybe there was another reason only she knew.  Regardless, the bikini was now dwarfed by her massive breasts.  For a moment, Trisha took her cone away from her mouth to lick her lips.  "How big do you think they are by now?" she asked.  I didn't know.  I started to tell her that they were about as big as her head, but I stopped for a simple reason.  It had stopped.  What else had changed?  I contemplated this question as I licked my ice cream.  I had finished with the first scoop.

The ice cream.  Trisha had stopped eating it to ask me, and only now resumed licking.

A bit of aerolae appeard around her bikini and slowly began stretching outward.

"Holy shit," I breathed.  "It's the ice cream.  It's the ice cream!"

But I only found Trisha rolling her eyes.  "Duh.  I figured that out, like, ten minutes ago."

"You knew?" I asked, incredulous.  "But I've been eating it!  Who knows what it's been doing to me!"

Her smile grew wider, and she pointed at my crotch.  I looked down, and gasped.

It was huge.  My swimsuit was pulled completely tight against my penis, and, only now, did I feel extreme discomfort at this.  Looking furtively left and right, I moved it into a more comfortable position, flat against my leg, before realizing that it was almost poking out of my swimsuit leg!  It wasn't just the length that surprised me, and it had to be at least ten inches, but the girth, too!  It seemed twice as thick as before, and the head, purple and swollen, looked like a ripe plum.  I experimentally took a lick of the delicious banana ice cream and actually saw my penis swell out a tiny bit more, felt a tiny bit more blood reach it, and even felt my balls shift position a little.  Pulling away my waistband I was surprised to see that they, too, had grown a bit.

Trisha's smile seemed like it would split her head in two when I turned back to her.  She was down to her last scoop, and her breasts were nearing the size of basketballs.  The aerolae of her nipples were now showing in two places, but the bikini was holding out well, considering how much it was stretching.  Yes, I could tell: how else would the part between the cups have gotten so wide?  And I knew that there had been less string to the back than there was now...

In my contemplations, I had gone back to eating my ice cream.  Slowly, ever slowly, I could feel the hot iron that was my penis slowly creep up my leg.  My testicles, meanwhile, were really starting to lay in the sand.

A sucking sound eminated from Trisha as she moved onto the last part of her cone.  The remains of her three scoops were funneling down the waffle texture right into her mouth, and the results were immediate: her breasts were done filling the space between each other, and were moving onto anywhere else.  When she stood up, her back muscles clearly showing from the strain, I saw that her boobs weren't just visible from behind: you could see most of them that way!  And what a sight to see: they quivered and jiggled every which way, just as two giant globes of fat should.  The bikini, meanwhile, didn't move a millimeter.  It was cearly stretched to its limit, and would give out any moment.

"I'm getting one more, I think," she said flippantly.  "I think you could use one too, don't you think?"  Dumbly, I nodded, then tilted my head back to suck down the last of mine.  She gave her grin and set off.  I watched her go, realizing that, just as my ice cream also was affecting my balls, hers was affecting her behind.  It wasn't big, oh no, but it was definitely rounder and fuller.  My fifteen-inch boner suddenly felt even harder at the sight of her nice round ass bouncing away.  I couldn't even hide it, now: it had crept almost all the way up to the crook of my knee, and was straining against the leg of my shorts in an attempt to get centered again.  It seems like the bigger it got, the firmer it took a stand on its placement.

As Trisha walked back to me, I saw that she was really going for the gold.  Three scoops of white ice cream made up the base of her cone, all of them crammed together, with another two perched on top.  I had the same setup she had before, with the two cones for a base and a single one on top.  Obviously she only wanted my penis entirely too big for use, not entirely too big to move.

She plopped down back onto her towel, and, as she did so, her bikini top finally gave up the ghost and snapped under her right arm.  The tiny, tortured triangles fell away to reveal two thick nipples, as big as my thumb from the first joint, seated right in the middle of saucer-sized aerolea.  As for sagging?  The huge things moved about an inch downward before stopping.  Apparently they weren't just extremely soft and jiggly and magically expanding: they were magically held up.

She began licking her final cone.

This time around, I watched more than just her breasts.  I watched as her bikini bottom slowly crept inward as more butt grew out.  I watched as her ass crack first peeked over the waistband, then pushed out more.  I watched as her nipples plumpened up a little more with each lick.  And I watched as her eyes grew bigger and bigger, as her free hand traveled first along one huge surface, then groped around to tweak a nipple, then down to stroke her pussy once, then back up.

I watched as the center of gravity for both breasts shifted so that they slid off of their precarious perch on her chest to grow on either side of her.  They were bigger than beach balls.  Onto her second scoop.

She grew, and I did, too.

I watched as the head of my penis pushed past my knee, the shaft now as thick as my wrist.  It was filling up the space between my leg and my pants leg.  And, just as that was becoming tighter, so was the groin of my suit.  The softball-sized testicles stuffed in them were becoming a hastle.

I watched as Trisha went into her third scoop, and her nipples became out of her free hand's reach.  By now they had swelled up to the size of shot glasses, and were both a deep reddish-brown.  Their aerolae were just as swollen as the rest of her, and it was these that Trisha lightly brushed with her fingers.

I watched as she reached down to stroke her groin again, only this time I saw what I had missed: that her pussy lips were puffing up, too.  The thickest, most prominant, yet TIGHTEST camel's toe I had ever seen was growing even fatter.

I watched as Trisha's third scoop disappeared.  There were two left, and her breasts were piling up alongside her, already closing the space between themselves again.  They reminded me of those cheap beanbag chairs you get in college.  Her nipples were extruding into the sand, digging holes.

My penis, meanwhile, was resembling a flagpole more every minute.  I guessed that it was about two feet long when at last I sucked down the rest of my ice cream.  It felt like a third arm extending from my crotch, and my balls felt like two cantaloup dead-weights smashed against each other.  Silently apologizing to the invisible grandmother, I yanked my shorts down past my balls, painfully redirecting the trajectory of my shaft.  Not knowing what to do, I ripped the cheap shorts apart, letting my huge member stand forward in all of its glory.  Relieved, I heard a plop behind me, and a whine.

I turned around, but wasn't used to the pole sticking out of me, as it smacked right into something hot and yielding.  It was Trisha's right boob.

Not knowing what else to do, I collapsed into the thing, hugging it massively with both arms.  Then, opening my mouth wide, I sucked at the flesh.  I heard a high-pitched moan, and then a voice.  "Jaa-aaaaAAAAke..."  I stopped what I was doing and stood all the way up.  Over the hill I could see Trisha's blonde hair.  I stepped to the side and found another boulder of flesh, and two flip-flopped feet sticking out between the two.

Putting my arms between the soft loads, I gently pulled them apart.  You could get lost in that cleavage.  I revealed the happy/sad face of my girlfriend.  "Hey," she said.  She was propped up by both hands, the cone upside down in the sand.  "I dropped my ice cream."  "How much was left?" I asked.  "Just the dregs at the bottom of the cone."  "Well," I said, trying to sound reasonable, "You can eat that part, can't you?"  She grinned and picked up the cone, eating it from the point forward.

I felt the flesh in my hands grow thicker, fatter, pushing me in.  In the corner of my eye I saw a nipple the size of my fist grow a tiny bit thicker.  And, down below, I heard a snap as the elastic in Trisha's bikini bottom gave out.  Her thick thighs and juicy ass had finally been too much for it.

Trisha finished her final cone and opened her eyes.  Then they opened wider.  "Oh my God, Jake, oh my God!"  Her eyes were affixed to my massive cock.  I grinned sheepishly, but she shook her head.  "I want that in me!  Now!"

"But-- too big-- hurt you--" I stammered, unbelieving, but she shook her head again, this time slowly and sexily.  "I don't think that will be a problem."

Ready to believe anything, I let go of her massive breasts.  They moved back a little into place, but I could still see my beloved's face.  Pulling her bikini bottom apart, I saw that I had been correct: her pussy lips had, in fact, been swelling.  But so had her pussy.  It wasn't gaping, and it wasn't stretching up toward her stomach or anything.  But it was... bigger.

Gingerly, I directed the head of my cock toward her vagina, and then gently pushed in.  It was tight, I'm not going to lie, but it was a pleasant tight.  A sexy, gratifying tight.  She didn't just moan.  Trisha yelped.  I pushed more and more in, and finally had at least a foot and a half before I knew I could go no further.  By now Trisha was absolutely screaming in ecstasy.  As I began to pound her, I reached to my sides and grabbed onto her breasts, kneading and kneading them like dough.

It felt like we were there for hours, Trisha experiencing orgasm after orgasm, and me experiencing... well, they were close to orgasms.  When at last I came, though, I filled up that tight spot right quickly.  The gallons of sperm that my oversized testicles were constantly making just wouldn't stop coming, and so it squirted out all over the beach, all over Trisha's breasts, and all over the base of my cock.  When at last I finished, and I pulled out, I collapsed back onto Trisha, our mouths meeting in another loving kiss.  My penis was going soft, but I felt like I could go again... and again... and again.

When we woke up, it was sunrise again.  I realized that we were both completely covered in my dried semen, so, taking the towels, I walked down to the water.  It was difficult to get used to my giant, sagging cantaloup balls, and my flopping sausage of a penis, but I guess I adapted.  Once there, I washed completely off, and then thoroughly soaked both towels.  Walking back to Trisha, I scrubbed her off the best I could, before rinsing the towels off again.

When I came back, I saw that she was awake.  She spoke softly.  "Jake, Jake, Jake.  What have we done?"  I didn't have an answer.  "We need to get covered up," I said, "and we need to get home."

We had brought two extra towels, and I was able to fashion a gigantic bra for Trisha: two towels serving as cups, and the other two serving as straps, after I ripped them in half.  Trisha didn't believe that she would be able to stand up, but I reassured her; I had seen her back muscles developing.  Sure enough, she stood up, and at last I could get a handle on how big her bust was.  Remember those college beanbag chairs I described earlier?  Well, imagine if you took three of those and made a giant beanbag chair.  Each magnificent breast was the size of that.  They obscured her knees, but she could walk.

For Trisha's bikini bottom, I took the remaining material from  her top and lengthened the sides with a few choice knots, and then had her slip them on.  With her knew ghetto butt they didn't cover much, but it did make her legal to walk, and held in her amazingly puffy vagina lips.

And for myself?  I took my shirt and wore it for pants.  It ALMOST had enough in the crotch for me to be comfortable.

In this fashion, with our hands-in-hand, we walked back to the beach house.

The rest of the story isn't nearly as exciting.  To get home, I rented us a van, and Trisha sat in the back, while I felt like someone had punched me in the crotch every time I shifted gears.  I knew that I would get pulled over if I got an erection from those objects obscuring my rear-view mirror, so I had put on the loosest pants possible, in an attempt to hold in my runaway cock.  Unfortunately, loosest possible still made my balls feel like they were in a vise.

Trisha didn't go into work that week, but, believe it or not, she did the following Monday.  By then she had managed to get an enormous custom bra.  Her new measurements are 168-24-42, and she normally doesn't wear any top other than her bra: it is massive enough to cover almost everything, yet still leave almost a yard of cleavage.  It takes both of us to get it on in the morning, but I'm such an expert at zipping it up and cincing the straps that it hardly takes five minutes.

Every morning while I help her she looks at me with the most worried expression on her face.  "I'm sorry," she says.  "I'm so sorry."

But I just smile back, like at a joke I can see but she can't.  "I don't think you need to apologize for this, honey."