Most of the stories on this site start with some sort of disclaimer, but I guess that doesn’t really apply here. This isn’t a fantasy tale…more of an introduction. So without further ado:

Hi 

My name is Erika, and I have a fascination with big breasts (especially growing ones) that I’ve always wanted to divulge, but was too scared to talk about. I thought I was alone in the matter until last year when I discovered this site. I thought about the idea for a long time and decided to tell the story of my own fixation and development.

It all started in middle school. Well, more accurately it could be said that it all didn’t start in middle school. I experienced the wonders (read: horrors) of puberty, but when all the girls around me started developing, I was left flat as a board. I wouldn’t have minded so much if middle school girls weren’t so middle-school-ish. Anything that could be used to divide people into cliques and form pecking orders was leapt upon immediately. I had just moved to a new state right before starting school, so I was at a disadvantage to begin with. My first friends were members of the soccer team as I used to play a lot and fit in better with the guys than the girls. As their chests started to grow, I fit in even less with them. I was often ridiculed for my flat chest; the smaller girls were actually the meanest in reality (so unlike the stories, I know) because they needed someone to pick on and I was easy prey. I developed weird feelings for the biggest girl in my class (it’s funny to think now that I used to think her boobs were huge!) that I passed off as jealousy, but I think part of me knew even back then that I liked boobs more than most girls.

Things never got better in middle school, but life was easier when I moved to a high school in another town. I was still pretty much flat as a board, but it didn’t matter as much anymore. Now that the initial stages of development were out of the way, it wasn’t such a huge deal. I made friends (again joining the soccer team) and pretty much nerded out at Dance Dance Revolution parties all my first year. Life was pretty good.

One reason life was so good was something I never told anyone: there was so much more boob! I continued to pass off my feelings as just jealousy, but I’d catch myself staring at some of the busty seniors more and more. Dress code technically prohibited any shorts a girl could feasibly find as well as tanktops and camisoles of all kinds, but as always people found a way around it. The teachers were pretty lax about it too, and I spent my first year enjoying the view of both sides of the street.

Then came the summer, which is where the story gets more interesting (to anyone who’s actually still reading this). All of the sudden, my body decided it wanted boobs. Now. It was as if it had been charging up a defcon boob strike all this time, and I exploded from the tiny mosquito bites of my freshman year to a small C cup practically overnight. All of the sudden, I had boobs of my own! I didn’t know how to react; I was thrilled and terrified at once. I was giddy with excitement all the time, but at the same time didn’t really know how to live with boobs. I had given up all thoughts of ever needing to figure out bras, and found them to be a lot more complicated than expected. All of my clothes, most of which were baggy t-shirts, fit differently.

Most importantly, I couldn’t hide it from my friends. When I went back to school, everything felt different. I had the whole summer to get used to my new breasts, but as I spent a lot of it on vacation, I barely saw anyone from my high school. And when I finally did see them, they saw a whole lot more of me. Rumors flew; there was speculation of stuffing, pushups, even surgery. It was rough for a while, but eventually the gossip died down and I resumed most of my friendships.

Helping to fight the rumors, but hurting the friendships, was my continued growth. After their initial explosion, my boobs continued to slowly swell. I didn’t notice when my roomy C cups began fitting better, but some of my friends sure did. Guys that I had hung out with all the time suddenly treated me totally differently. Girls that wouldn’t give me the time of day suddenly talked to me, and my flat-chested companions of freshman year felt betrayed. None of this mattered too much to me, because secretly I was too busy being thrilled by my own expansion to care about petty social rivalries. I went to bed at night thinking of them slowly but surely growing every day, hoping that when I woke up they’d be just a bit bigger. I daydreamed about them in class and even secretly looked online for anything legitimate that would help them grow bigger, faster.

I never found any product aid, but my body fulfilled my wish for me, and by the time I left high school I was a full 32 D and proud of it. I had also changed my wardrobe out of my extended tomboy phase and tentatively wore what I called “girl-shirts” on a more regular basis. A fitted-t was not exactly scandalous, but it was adventurous by my standards. Inherently shy, I was unhappy about having to make a whole new set of friends at yet another new school, but at least this time there wouldn’t be the drama.

My first year at Virginia Tech was pretty standard stuff. I changed my mind about my major about a hundred thousand times, loved my room-mate, grew to hate my room-mate, took a bunch of Intro to Whatever classes, the works. I didn’t drink much, and the wildest thing I did was try some new hair colors.

That wasn’t the only change my body underwent, however. My boobs continued their slow march outwards. I didn’t believe it at first, but they began to feel more firm, and by the time my bras were creaking I saw a doctor. He said nothing was wrong with me, but gave me a prescription of birth control pills to help regulate my hormones. I held to the regimen dutifully, but grudgingly. I didn’t want to admit it, but I wanted my chest to keep growing. I was proud of my chest, and I still dreamt about them swelling bigger and bigger. My obsession with big boobs was as strong as ever, hidden away as my deep dark secret.

I spent a lot of time brooding over my decision to go to the doctor. Don’t get me wrong; I never went all emo. I still hung out with my friends and studied hard and watched a lot of anime. I gave up soccer (college sports are a lot different than high school) but made sure to keep in good shape. It was just in the quiet times, often late at night, that I pondered my desire to keep growing and wondering if the little pills I took each morning were a mistake.

I was so busy brooding over this, in fact, that I failed to notice that my growth hadn’t stopped! My sophomore year had me pushing the confines of most of my once-roomy D cup bras, and I couldn’t have been happier about it. My confidence returned full swing, my grades were up, and my social life was on the rise. With my new self-assurance, I finally grew out of my conservative shell and went about enjoying life a little more. I discovered the joys of alcohol, went to a lot more parties, and generally had a good time. Over the summer I had rented an apartment off-campus and picked up a job at a local Gamestop, giving me an excuse to stay away from my mother and some nice pocket change on the side. With it, I funded another wardrobe overhaul (with the help of some more experienced friends). Who knew you could actually stay cool in the summertime? Turns out you don’t have to wear jeans and bulky clothing. Still, I made sure to stay on the safe side of the fashionable/slutty line. Funnily enough, some of my most scandalous clothing turned out to be tops that used to be favorites of mine, back before my college days. Some of them I knew needed to just be thrown away.

But I never have. Still at Virginia Tech, every now and then when I’m alone, I engage in the guilty pleasure of slipping one of these tanktops over my head and struggling to stretch it over my chest. I love looking down to see my breasts billowing out of them like so much rising dough. I love hearing the strained creaks of old bra straps and camisoles built for someone with my 25 inch waist and a substantially smaller bust.

And I still sometimes fall asleep at night dreaming of my boobs growing bigger and bigger and bigger. I watch as my tiny camisole straps struggle to hold their increasing weight before snapping under the pressure, as they rise out of my favorite dresses until my cleavage could only be described as obscene. I love the idea of breasts getting bigger and bigger, and I’m happy to have found a community that doesn’t (I hope!) condemn me for it. I’d love some feedback (you can email me at [email protected]), and I’d even like to try my hand at writing some fiction of my own, so feel free to send me any story ideas you may have!

P.S.

To answer some questions you might have:

I’m currently fully fitting double-D bras, which I know are pretty small for a lot of the stories here, but in real life are pretty sizeable (if I may say so myself)

And yes, they still get growth spurts from time to time

- Erika