we are those people who are only interested in one thing and that one thing is the only thing that it is worth even thinking about but there are others who do not understand others for whom what we do is not only wrong morally but spiritually there is only one thing that we can say to those people and that is that they are wrong we look upwards and we see the omnipitent the all powerful and the glory that is the giver of fun and of all things that are truly enjoyable
Canto I History is boring.
Never have we seen so much arguing. In this mild little town where we try and co-exist with our fellow creatures, where we spend the time in nodding acquaintance with our neighbours, the very last thing we expect is some sort of major problem. We don't expect a falling out, not in a personal way, only when things get a bit tight, or the wrong items of clothing are picked up. Sure there are disagreements, but they're just small scale things, they're about dropping litter, or not having the newspapers in time for breakfast on Sunday, or the fact that there aren't any 44 ZZ bras when the women want them.
Perhaps some background information might be in order, just to allow you to visualise us, so that what I am about to tell you shall be understood. Our town, which some would consider too small to be a town but too large to have the status of just a village, has had a peculiar history and an even stranger population. Because for some considerable time, since the uncovering of a little known by-law, all of the female inhabitants have had or been able to have incredibly large...
Canto II Never Believe Anything
Life is never as easy as you want it, because I can sit here with my feet up on the desk touching my breasts, stroking them as they hang heavily on my tight firm stomach, the silky sensation of my own skin causes a delightful shiver to overtake me. Like water lapping over me at the seaside, my hand somehow feels disembodied, as though it belongs to another. My nipples spring up under my ministration, erect now I can tweak and feel the stiffness under my palms as I move my hands in circular motions around the end of my breasts in turn. The soothing smoothing slight pressure igniting me.
Peter sits opposite me, pretending that he isn't really interested in me, but the smile on his face and the pressure in his underwear tells me another story. I know that that hard organ of his will soon stuffed into me, and we shall permit ourselves the glory of orgasm. But I must wait, playing with my large breasts, imagining them as at the moment of orgasm they will grow larger and larger. As he pumps, as we pump, bump and grind, they will expand and we shall watch them, we shall become even more aroused and turned on. The excitement with mount and we shall make love some more.
But it grows too much for me, he sits there with an erection the size of a canoe, reading books on Tantric Sex, smiling at me, torturing me with expectation. He knows that very soon I shall be unable to restrain myself and I shall have to go over to him, tear his underwear off, rub my breasts all over him and then seal my lips around his hot, straining, aching...
"This is not going to work" The writer told himself, throwing the pen to the floor and ripping up the paper. And then out loud he said: "For Christ's sake"
"What's wrong, you miserable bastard." Said his friend, flicking through his shoe fetish back catalogue. "What you whinging about now?"
"I'm trying to write this bloody story, but it just won't work."
"What you mean?"
"Look," the writer seemed very angry all of a sudden, "I want this story about a village where all the women have got big tits..."
"Been done loads of times before."
"This is different."
"O yeah, that's right: 'different'. That's all you fuckin' want. Why not, for once in your fuckin' life just write a story about tits that just get bigger and splash in some sex."
"What's the point? That's what everyone does. I want to do something with a bit more style."
"Look, you ain't fuckin' Anthony Burgess and you never will be."
Canto III Post Cards Not Welcome Any More
Mrs Maria Wolfe has probably the biggest ones in the town, some say they she had to be born by caesarian section because she would be unable to come out the other way. Mrs Wolfe is in her late twenties and has been growing significantly larger since she left the local school. I remember her then, much smaller than she is now, but still with very impressive boobs. I had salatious thoughts myself, licking my lips, thinking about what I would like to do if I wasn't the head master. If I wasn't being watched by my wife. She had large breasts, as has every woman here, but these were different, these were ones which were going to be tremendous, ones which were going to be the largest seen in living memory. Or should that be in love of mammary?
Maria was the kind of girl, so the ugly rumours which were bandied around would have you believe, who would let any man take advantage of her. But from what I've heard it was quite the reverse. After them paying for drinks and the cinema or even a meal, she'd force them, at tit point, to give her orgasms. Not something that men would take acception to, a young sexually active and attractive girl allowing you to have your way with her. But there was, and I stress these are just rumours, a difference... as though she somehow took more than just semen. Almost as though she were sucking the live force out of them.
And there was another eldritch part to this: each time her bosom seemed to get larger.
"Wait, wait, wait." Said his friend. "This is all too sudden."
"You said get to the sex and the breasts."
"Yeah, but you were talkin' about style."
He screwed up the paper and tossed into the bin, then inserted the pen into his friend's nose. "Look, first you say that style has no place..."
"I didn't say that..."
"...and then you say that this isn't good enough. Make up your bloody mind."
His friends lifted his nostril away from the pen. "All I'm saying is that you could've made a sort of mystery out of it. Like a thriller."
"What do you mean 'whose tits keep on growing'? Bit bloody obvious isn't it? The one who keeps going to Marks and Spencer for the larger sized bras."
"No, I don't mean that..."
"What do you mean?"
"O, I don't fuckin' know."
Canto IV Back to the Rumpy Pumpy
I remember when it all happened, when I first had the idea that I was different to the rest of the town. I didn't really seem much different from them, we all had large breasts and of the women I didn't have the biggest, not then. But I was larger than everyother girl in my class at school.
Peter is putting down the book and he is looking at me with a hunger that will only be sated in one particular manner. My hands play longer strokes on my breasts and I feel the passion rising within.
It reminds me of that first time, the first time that I realised what power my womanhood had over men, and especially how big boobs made them look at me in a absolutely different way.
If Peter were him then it would have been in the classroom after all of the others had gone home. He wanted to see me, not because I'd done anything wrong, but to talk about a few things. I didn't think anything of it. I was just a young girl, I was inexperienced. I was...
If Peter were him he would prop me against the desk, he would tell me that I was an attractive young girl, that I would grow up into a beautiful woman. He would rest his hands on my shoulders and then gently caress my cheeks, bend down and kiss my mouth. I would have strange sensations in my stomach, my brain would feel muzzy, and yet my hands would reach around his neck and force him closer to me, his chest crushing into my boobs, his lips would open and I would ram my tongue into his mouth. As our bodies grew closer I would feel, through the material of his trousers, my first fully grown erection.
If Peter were him... If Peter were him...
Peter's hands begin to explore my body, as I close my eyes and allow the sensuous adventure to begin. Inside my soul begins to melt, soon joined by my loins.
Canto V Bloody annoying or what!!
It was Mrs Pantagruel who first began to become annoyed with the entire situation. She was on record as saying that she was going to fight the decision of the board to oust her as Booby Queen during the May festivities. It was clear, so she said, that she had the biggest breasts of all the women in the town and as such it was her right. Some of us tried to mention to her that Maria was larger, but she retorted that Maria, being only seventeen, didn't count as a woman yet, she was still only a girl. When I indicated that Maria's eighteenth was only a few days away, that was when she lost her temper and began hurling things around.
Outside standing like a fertility goddess with the stomach reduced she stood, wearing bikini briefs and a skimpy top that revealed a huge expanse of her chest.
Canto VI Remember 'member 'member what a womber womber womble you are!
Mrs Pantagruel wasn't that big, she wasn't as half as big as I am now, but she was the biggest one they had. And when I stood outside with next to nothing on, just jostling and jiggling my tits I think she was really annoyed. She started spitting abuse at me. She started huffing and puffing, I s'pose to try and make herself look bigger than me. But all of their eyes were on me, staring and staring. Mr Member the Head Master was there too, and he just stared at me. He must have been thinking how much bigger I was getting.
He came over to me, once Mrs Pantagruel had gone, and placed his arm around me. He did it when most of the committee were there so that he could give me a good feel and say that he hadn't done anything, in case I said something I s'pose. But I wouldn't've said anything, when his fingertips just brushed the diaphonous material I felt the electric charge that I was getting more and more now. I was getting the feeling that I wanted to fuck him there and then. All of them. By that time I was just a crazy lust bucket. It kept getting in my head. And I had reached the point when I just couldn't get enough of it. I wanted all the cocks in the world.
But I was chaste with him. He moved his lips and made a dull noise with his vocal chords, but I didn't hear a word of it. I was just thinking of him being naked.
Peter's just rolling the condom on to his penis now. That thin piece of latex that always looks too tight on him. I lick my lips and imagine the first entry, trying to believe that it is the first. But I'm too loose and he's not quite large enough. If he was hung like Frank the postman, that'd be a different matter.
Frank was probably the biggest dicked man I ever had, long, wide and forever hard. When he knew my parents were on holiday and I'd been left home alone, he knocked at the door saying that there was a special delivery for me. When I got there he'd stuck his knob, his massive massive knob, through the letter box. Like a fool I opened the door, and nearly ripped it off. That might've been a good mood, a real flesh and blood dildo for those times when you just need something to scratch that hard to get at itch...
Peter's taking my hand and we're moving to the bed. He's rubbing oil on my breasts and his tongue is running circles around my large, engorged nipples. This continues for a while and then, the Tantric lessons forgotten he reaches down to my groin and begins to rub my...
The writer's phone began to ring, he put the pen down and picked it up.
"Hi, it's me." It was the writer's girlfriend.
"Hello."
"You don't sound too happy. What's wrong?"
The writer looked at the A4 pad on the desk and tried to think of some words to say that had nothing whatever to do with large breasts or sex or anything not related to his girlfriend.
"O, I'm just busy. Been writing, that's all. Trying to finish that article for the paper."
"That's all you ever do, young man. You ought to get out more. Write write write. You know I can't remember the last time we went to the cinema."
The writer bunched his fist and then released it, before crunching his eyes closed. "We went to see that film... you remember I fell asleep and spilt coke all over my trousers."
The writer's girlfriend chuckled. "O yes. It was really funny."
"I didn't think so."
"I'm sorry Mr Grouchy." There was a pause while the writer began to have an idea, he stretched over and hooked the writing pad with a hand and retrieved the pen which had fallen on the floor with a foot. He started to write. "I just phoned to ask if you wanted to go to a party I'm going to."
The writer put the phone down and walked over to his desk for some of the pieces of paper that he'd finished writing on, and flicked through.
"Are you still there? Hello, hello."
He picked up the phone. "Yes, sorry I had to do something."
"I miss you."
"Yeah, I miss you. Talk to you later. I'm incredibly busy."
He cradled the phone.
Maybe if she had bigger breasts he might want to see her more? Maybe if she lived up to the expectations he had, he might feel that he loved her. Was that it? Was the problem that he didn't love her?
Canto VII Get Real!!
Peter's humping isn't quite what it normally is. Or maybe it's because I'm thinking of other things and not the job in hand. I didn't used to be like that. I'm looking at the ceiling and just wondering how many times I've been in this position, how many orgasms I've been waiting for and how many times I've been disappointed.
"Do you want to put them off or what?" The writer's friend said. "This is supposed to be a fuckin' Breast story."
"But this is just getting inside her."
"The only 'getting inside' they're interested in is with their dicks not their minds. Okay! Scrap that bit and start again."
But in a moment, as though he's on his second wind Peter find his stride and I'm getting there, the pleasure is mounting ready to burst like a swollen river surging through the flood barriers. I look down and I see them, my breasts as they pulse and seem to be replete with energy. Like I'm a dynamo storing the sexual energy and chemistry. The nipples alter from their pinky colour to a deep scarlet and expand. Then the flesh glows and the breast matter builds, pushing into Peter the flesh spreading outward. The growth makes me feel marvellous. Fuller and rounder and bigger and just getting to the point where they're, I'm going everywhere.
"It's amazing," Peter says after he's done, but I could go for longer and longer and longer. "You never cease to amaze me."
"You're pretty amazing too." I tell him, but feel that he hasn't got the staying power of Mike, I can't say that to him. For two obvious reasons.
Canto VIII A twist beyond the pale
Michael Court was a very pleasant young man he was one to help old ladies across the road, do your shopping if you were ill or lend a hand when you required it. He was liked by everyone, the only fault he had was that he had an eye for the girls. It was said, by the tittle tattle tellers that he'd been through more girls in the town that a dose of the clap, but I say that only as historical record and not to disparage his memory or that of his family. Some said that he vanished because he'd made a number of girls pregnant and didn't wish to be hounded by the CSA, some that he'd been told to leave once the mayor discovered that he'd been linked to both his daughter and his wife, others that he'd been abducted by aliens. All I know for sure is that the last time I saw him he was going to the woods with Maria.
Maria came back alone, looking happier and bigger than ever...
"Oh you've made it too fuckin' obvious now, haven't you. Give 'em some credibility."
"It's about style, not about plot." The writer took another larger gulp from his beer glass.
"You've gotta make 'em want to read more haven'tcha."
"They can always skip the bits they don't like."
"You're in danger of 'em skipping the whole fuckin' story."
The writer thought about his girlfriend for a minute, wondering what she was doing, also wondering if he could persuade her to have implants. Of course if she did agree then abviously she'd want them to be a size that she wanted, not what he did. How big did he want her to go? He couldn't really think in inches, only what he thought looked nice, and if he faced up to it, he wanted them to be as big as possible. Would that be as big as possible and wasn't harmful to her, or just big big big? As big as Lolo or just really rather tiny like Paula Yates? Possibly if she had huge ones she'd turn into one of those women for whom only one name would be enough. She might be a celebrity...
"Look are you going to buy me another pint or do I have to buy 'em all night?"
Canto IX Death of a party
Mike was really nice. He was always so nice to me, I think I'd always known that he had a soft spot for me, and I had a soft spot for him, between my legs. He always was really pleasant, he bought me drinks, took me to the cinema, even on my birthday took me out for a meal. And I wanted him, I wanted him badly. I would look at him and would secretly rub my boobs when I was aware that he was watching me. I loved that aspect of it. The secretiveness of it.
The time when he actually had me first, was in his bedroom. His mum and dad were out and we were just lying on his bed listening to some music. I was burning up. I had to have him. I said I was hot and asked if he minded if I took some clothes off. His eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. But with an even, or as even as he could, he said "No, go ahead."
I did a striptease for him. Blouse was the first to come off, allowing my big boobies to bounce into view. Then my skirt was pulled down. Then my bra came off, after I'd, with great difficulty, I was so hot, unhooked it, finally my knickers. But Mike was just staring at my titties.
"You're pretty big."
I smiled, and nodded.
"You're the biggest in the town."
Again I nodded.
"Can I..." His hands reached forwards, nearly touching them and then stopped, as though if he tried to without my permission they might disappear.
I looked at him, a smile on my lips. And I nodded.
It didn't take long for him to be naked, and for us to be shagging. He had a fairly large willy, not the biggest I'd ever had, but by no means the smallest and it felt good. It wasn't really like making love then, it was too restrained and too quick. It was just a quick shag. The increase in breast size wasn't that noticeable the first time, just about larger. After a moment he was ready again. And I smiled. This time, I was sure the orgasm would last longer and I'd grow larger.
I was correct: and I expanded, pressing into his chest, his eyes grew wider and his smile widened.
"Yes," he was screaming, "yes."
"Keep with it, baby." I panted, feeling him slow down to watch. "Keep with it."
"You're telling me to what..?"
"O come on," the writer would say, "just have implants and then we'll get married."
The writer shook his head, that would never work. He started fiddling with his pen, scrawling a few lines on the notepad. How could he say it? It was impossible and stupid, she'd go bonkers! It would be like her telling him that she didn't love him because his penis was too small, or his muscles weren't large enough. He loved breasts and he wanted her to have bigger ones, that was all, but no matter who he'd say it to her she'd take offence. Bloody women!!
The writer's friend came back to the table with some more beer.
"What's up mate? Can't think of a good way to carry on the story?"
"Course I can."
The writer's friend shook his head. "What's gonna happen next then?"
"I don't know. I've got more important things to worry about."
"Like what?"
The writer didn't speak, but folded his notebook up and put it away.
"Come on, tell us."
The writer opened his mouth, but closed it again.
Canto X Terminus Maximus
Peter is getting ready for his next time. He is tying up the end of the last condom and putting another one on. Normally I would lick off all the cumm, I would want to suck it all out of the handy little container. But I'm stuck thinking now and for some reason don't feel like doing it. My breasts are really heavy now and incredibly large, but I want them to be bigger so I'm readying myself for the next step upwards. The next ultimate super orgasm. Like I had with Mike that time.
Peter is smiling at me as he gets on top of me placing his hands either side of my mighty meaty bosom, as he rams himself inside up to the hilt I feel good. We start.
It's only when he feels something odd happening to his willy that his expression alters, I think that he is trying to stop, but is unable to, I can feel the BIG ONE coming, there is a wash of colour and light all around me, and when I wake I am alone and bigger than ever. Bigger than ever.
I smile, and begin to rub my new improved breasts.
"Look," says the writer to his girlfriend. "I've got something to tell you. Something very important."
"So have I darling," says the writer's girlfriend. "I'm going to have breasts implants."
"You're going to have what?!?!"
"Breast implants. The biggest ones they have. I've been looking around your flat and I've seen some of the magazines you've been buying and the stories you've been writing. And I've decided."
((It was at this point that the author known to us all as Kunikos disappeared. We have assembled all of the pieces of paper that had his distinctive purple crayon on them and put them into a bag. Pulling out a segment at random, similiar to, but we stress not the same as, a technique utilised by William Seward Burroughs in a number of his novels, we came up with the narrative as above. During the previous four weeks in letters to the Times Literary Supplement a number of professors have not been discussing this work at all, and we of the Norfolk Board of Expansion are very distressed to hear this and exhort them to do so. We have looked through Kunikos's diary for the time prior to his diappearance but could find nothing of import save a mentioning of a dinner engagement with a mysterious woman only called Maria. Although we understand that a number of people would like to know how the narrative finishes, we, his literary executors, thought that others may like to see what remains of his final story. We must, therefore, until some future time or unless further papers come into our possession which continue it, leave this story languishing in limbo.
Michael A Sim, The Norfolk Board of Expansion.))
(c)1999, Postcards from the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown Co Ltd.
Note found in the plastic bag:
"I have been asked to point out that the characters in this piece of fiction are all real, other than those appearing between the title and these prosaic words. The character of the writer is in no way based upon myself other than the grey hair and limp. Limp what I'm not permitted to say.
I am indebited to both the late Anthony Burgess for writing "The End of the World News", and Michael Moorcock for his Jerry Cornelius series of fiction; these both conjured the idea for this story: and lastly but by all means least of course I must say applause applause to Post Modernism.
And now I must go, thank you for listening. This is finally it there will be no encore."