Now it meant that I was ogling my older sister. Christ, I thought, is this incest or what? When she caught me looking at her getting dressed she didn't explode with anger at me, as I'm sure I would have. But she didn't know what was going through my mind, she couldn't see the thoughts that I was having. What would she have thought then? She would have probably slapped me or screamed at me. But all she did was shake her head, turn around to continue to dress and said: "Can't I have any privacy!" I can see her breasts in my mind's eye now. White and milky, with nipples that were really quite big, almost out of proportion with the rest of her. The areola of each was wide about the size of one of those round tea bags and the nipple looked about the length of my little finger joint.
She hadn't had a boyfriend for some time now, and after listening to her conversations with her friends I found out she was worried about the size of her breasts.
"Yeah, but Sally's enormous. Have you seen the way Craig's eyes are always on her. And Paula, she's an F. Can you believe that! And she's four months younger than me."
I've only recently got to grips with the letters and all that, so at the time I didn't really understand. But I'd seen Paula and she had the biggest tits I'd seen. On the list she was number one. Cleavage that was endless, breasts that I just wanted to touch, and lick and nuzzle. We'd followed her around for days just on the off chance that something, anything, might happen. There was a possibility that she'd fall over, that she'd run and stop in front of you allowing you to witness the delicious breast juggle that brought you to your knees.
"Are you kidding me." I wished I could hear the other person. "Where? No way. Never heard of it. How much? Ten quid! Ten quid! You reckon. She used it! No, you're pulling my plonker. Oh, yes," she sneered into the telephone receiver, "ha ha ha, very funny."
When she came off the phone her face was pensive and her brow was furrowed. "What's up Ange?" I asked, twice: but she didn't hear a word of it.
I heard her go down to the hall and pick up the phone. I put my mag down and leaned over the stairs. At first it was all gossipy rubbish, but then she said: "Are you sure. Paula went there. You're not just saying it. What, really!"
Paula's name caused my ears, amongst other things, to prick up. Paula with the mighty, magnificent, large breasts. When she put the phone down I bolted into my room and pretended to continue to flick through some mags. I needed have bothered, she was so absorbed within herself she wouldn't have noticed if I'd been hurling custard pies at the walls. She picked up her purse and her jacket and walked down stairs. A smile chiselled on to her face like the Mona Lisa.
I don't know why but I felt the compulsion to follow. Yanking on my denim jacket I crept down stairs and shadowed her down the road into town. It was exciting and caused me to believe I was some sort of spy. I was Harry Palmer, or James Bond, on the trail of an evil but beautiful counter-espionage agent. First of all she went into the Marks & Spencer ladies lingerie section, I just peered at the pictures of the women wearing just bras and panties and shivered with expectation. Then she left and went up the hill, past the Job Centre and the florists until Angela seemed to duck into an alley way. My febrile imagination caused me to stop for a moment and reassess the situation. Maybe she'd stopped there to see if she was being followed, maybe she saw me in M&S, I could go up there and she'd jump out or pull me in and tell me to go home. My curiosity forced me to carry on regardless, Bond would go in knowing full well that it was a trap. He'd be prepared for anything.
I needn't've bothered. She wasn't lying in wait. When I reached the narrow alley I just caught her going into a door some twenty or thirty metres down. It was a broken down old shop, called Merl's, a battered shop-front like a disused Oxfam. The windows were dirty and dusty. Peering in I saw lots of things on the shelves, bottles with liquids or clumps of what looked like earth or powdered nutmeg. My sister said something to the owner, an old woman dressed in black who looked incredibly fat, then this fat woman said something back. Angela nodded and then took out two tenners from her purse (that must have been her last weeks wages from her Saturday job), and was given two jars that she slipped into her jacket. She turned to leave and I ran over to some dustbins and chucked myself behind them.
Footsteps out of the shop ebbed away and I went back to the shop window to peer in again, but there was nothing to give away what this shop sold or what Angela had bought. But I had an idea. I had a damned good idea.
"Where've you been?" Angela asked when I got back, she'd wrapped herself in a towel and dripping bath water all the way to her room. (I wish I was your towel! I thought.)
"Went for a walk." She could've only got back a few minutes before me, but she'd already had a bath. Odd. "Where'd you go?"
"None of your business." She went to her room and slammed the door.
Fine, I thought, fine.
Mum and dad got back put everything away and told us they were going out for the evening to meet friends or something or other and to be good.
"That's okay, I'm going over to Steve's," I said.
"You out tonight, honey?" Mum asked Angela.
"No."
"It's Saturday night."
"I'm aware of the day."
"Aren't you going out with Gary?"
"No." Angela said with venom.
"Have you broken up?"
"Yup."
"But why. You seemed to get along fine."
"I wasn't up front enough for him."
Dad called from the hall: "Marie, are you coming! We're going to be late. Again."
"All right, all right. You're to be back by half ten, young man. I'll ask Angela."
"Okay, okay."
They went, then I left leaving my big sister all alone with her two jars.
I sneaked back into the house after about half an hour, and crept upstairs. Sure enough Angela was in her bedroom, the door open in the belief that she was all alone, she sat on her bed in front of her mirror, and from my vantage point I could see everything. She was topless and had opened one of the jars and was rubbing a white cream over her breasts. First one and then the other. Her breast flesh undulated slightly, as her average sized tits allowed. "Bye bye, Bs," she said, "hello Ds. I hope." She continued to apply the stuff by the handful, but it wasn't like the face cream that she and mum put on, you didn't have to rub it in a lot, it was sucked up almost instantly.
Then after a while, maybe five or ten minutes, it started. She yelped a bit, and flesh seemed to be built up on her tits. Growing and swelling and becoming more and more full, shifting under the skin, stretching the skin which seemed to be made from an elastic that wouldn't break. They were lunging towards the mirror like each boob was being filled up with water. They began to shake and jostle like two jellies on plates. Soon they were bigger than footballs, then basket balls, swelling out. She screeched a little until finally, to her relief, they stopped. "Bit heavy handed with the cream I think, my dear." She said to herself. "Bit late now. How do I explain these?" She placed her hands under them and pushed them upwards. "Pretty heavy," she said, "but very pretty." She shrugged to the image in the mirror and the tits wobbled delightfully and then smiled.
She got dressed and I rushed downstairs, making, of course, too much noise. "Hey," she said over the bannister, "who's that?"
"Only me Ange. Steve wasn't in."
"Oh, right. I didn't hear you come in."
"Not my fault if you've gone deaf."
When she came down she was wrapped in her dressing gown trying to disguise her new attachments. It was obvious though, even through all of that wrapping.
"Have you put on weight?" I asked.
"Cheeky bugger. What's it got to do with you?"
"You look a bit bigger. A bit fuller."
There was a smile on her face but she didn't say anything.
I went to the video rack. "You wanna watch a vid?"
"Sure."
"'Only Fools and Horses'?"
"One of the Christmas shows." She said.
I put it on. I wasn't really interested in what Del Boy and Rodney got up to, even if it was the funniest programme in the world. I just wanted to make her stay downstairs. I kept looking at her out of the corner of my eye, and slowly I could see some of her cleavage, her big gap between her new ginormous knockers.
I said I was going to the bathroom. I found the two jars where she'd left them, in her dressing table drawer, one was about half gone the other was unused. If they were that big after half a jar what would a whole jar do? I picked up the half full one and went into the bathroom. I could make money and friends with that stuff. Give it to some of the girls to give 'em big tits and that might lead on to something else for me. If I could somehow put it in their bras... Steve would be so envious if I could get the girls.
I searched through the bathroom cabinet, found an old jar, cleaned it out and put some of the cream inside, probably just over half of what was left. I doubted if my sister would need any more, not unless she wanted to be a mega-mega big titted girl. I think I'd like that!
There was still some cream left on my hand, I was about to wash it off when I had an idea. If it does that to girl's tits, what'd it do to my prick? I'd love to have a bigger dick, that'd be something else for the girls to love. So I pulled down my trousers and my boxer shorts and wiped the residue around my dick. Just like on Angela's boobs it soaked it very quickly. I washed my hands, put her supply back and secreted my own in my school bag.
I went back to the bathroom, sat on the toilet and began to wonder how big I'd get, I became excited and was conscious of every movement or sensation in my groin. After five minutes it began to happen. My prick began to swell up getting to the width of a cucumber, then wider still till it was as wide as a small melon, and the skin went smooth and silky. The glans burst through the foreskin and became wrinkled. My mouth opened and my tongue must have flopped out, I couldn't speak. After two minutes the transformation was complete, my dick had turned into a breast.
finis