Attention: The following story contains material that may not be appropriate for readers averse to graphic descriptions of librarians and sexy stuff.� Proceed at your own peril.

10 Days in the Life of a Librarian, Part I

by: Kodos

Day 1

�� It was Friday, about 4:37 in the afternoon, not that I was watching the clock, and I was sitting at the reference desk.� A perfectly beautiful fall day was dying in a blaze of glory outside, and while that was all well and good for everyone else in the world, it meant that the library was absolutely dead.� I stared, glassy-eyed, at the screen in front of me, clicking past pictures of friends on vacation, cats falling off of things, and resisting the siren's song of links promising to reveal the eight foods that melt belly fat overnight or thirty brides I just couldn't handle.�

�� On Facebook one of those �Here's what you were doing X years ago� things popped up; a picture of my whole family, aunts and uncles and grandparents and all at the beach.� And right there next to grandma were me and cousin Cora.� Ever since we were little the two of us had looked so much alike we might have been identical twins, and every time the family got together they played it up by getting us matching outfits for the official family photo.� That had worked pretty well until we turned about about sixteen, and then our appearance started to, er, diverge, kind of dramatically.� I won't run through every summer between then and now, but suffice it to say that ten years on, in the picture displayed before me, the difference was blindingly clear.� There we were, in matching blue and yellow striped bikinis, me giving that �Family Togetherness- Yes Mom, I Am Smiling� smile; my top two flat triangles of fabric stretched across a chest so flat I could practically have ironed my shirts while I was wearing them, and Cora, beaming as bright as a lighthouse, her top strained to bursting by her enormous pair of L-cups (Yes, I know exactly how big her tits are- well, how big they were last summer at least- she's spent the last decade steadily making her way through the alphabet, and I don't imagine she's stopped in the last six months; I'll probably see her at Christmas ready to pop the seams of some hideous holiday sweater, even bigger than ever.� So yeah, I'm not proud of it, but I did go digging through her suitcase one day to check the tag on one of her bras.� It was a huge, kind of shimmery silver thing clearly meant to be enjoyed by others as well as herself, and I could have worn half of it as a hat and looked like some kind of a time-travelling space nun from the future if I felt like it.� It had like, six hooks in the back; I couldn't believe how Cora was even able to stand up with those monsters hanging from her chest, much less sit there beside me with them thrust out in front of her like she was auditioning to have her bombs painted on the nose of a Flying Fortress.

�� Mercifully, my wallowing in envy was interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing.

�� Reference, Central Library, Persephone speaking,� I said as I raised the handset to my cheek, having done this so many times before I might as well have been sleep-walking, my fingers already poised over the number pad, �Mhmm, of course we can renew your books for you; can I have your card number, please?�

�� In a half-waking daze of boredom, I punched in the numbers being mumbled across the ether to me, checked a few boxes, and replied just as I always did, �Okay, it looks like everything went through, so that's three DVDs and five books, all due in 28 days.� Is there anything else I can do for you today?� Thanks, you have a good day too now. Take care.�

�� I set down the receiver and was ready to go back to running out the workday when I noticed that hovering in front of my desk were the biggest set of breasts I'd ever seen.� And I mean massive, so gigantic that they'd have busted out of Cora's bra in a second like it was made of wet tissue paper.� The woman who belonged to them looked to be in her early forties, very attractive, but kind of matronly, her hair up in a bun held in place with chopsticks and a pair of those glasses that seem to be marketed exclusively for people's great aunts.� Her long skirt was belted snugly around her waist, and I couldn't really say if she was kind of soft around the middle or just one of those women who tend towards the Junoesque, but that's probably because I was hypnotized by the way her blouse was stretched out, nearly to her hips, by a bust so immense it looked like she had two overinflated basketballs stuffed into her top, round and heavy and firm.� If there was any doubt that they were quite real, the fact that she had left her top few buttons undone, displaying a breathtaking display of cleavage that gently rose and fell as she breathed, laid any such doubts to rest.

�� I felt my face growing red- I must have been staring at this woman's tits for half a minute now, though when I tore my eyes away from her bosom and stammered out a few words, she only looked back with guileless cheerfulness.

�� Hi- I'm Persephone- Welcome to the, the,� I choked, �What can I help you with today, ma'am?�

�� Good afternoon miss,� the busty woman replied, smiling as if she was used to such a reaction to her figure and might have even enjoyed being able to discomfit another woman so easily and completely, �I've been trying to use your copier but I must be doing something wrong; it keeps doing this.�

�� She leaned forwards as she pushed a few papers across the counter to me, each one with the bottom third of the page a block of solid black.

�� Oh- oh, I bet know what that is,� I chirped, relieved to be handed a problem so routine that I didn't have to think and try to ignore the elephants in the room at the same time, �Here, let me get the key and I'll come back there and help set it straight for you.�

�� Thank you my dear,� the red-haired woman said, �I thought it would be something you'd run into before.�

�� Oh, uh, yeah, it happens all the time, actually,� I said as I grabbed the override key and walked beside her through the middle of the stacks, trying not to stare too hard at her massive boobs, �The copier's supposed to know which way you've got the paper turned, but it's kind of old, so sometimes you just have to turn it the right way before your copies turn out right.�

�� Thank you so much for coming back with me to fix it,� she said, letting out a sigh that made her chest heave impressively, �I've always been a pretty good chemist, but I just never quite got the hang of making machines cooperate with me.�

�� Oh, uh, no worries, it happens all the time,� I said, sure that I had turned so red that she had to be thinking I was either the biggest ditz in town, or some kind of tit-happy lesbian, �So, um, what kind of chemistry are you into, then?�

�� Well, to tell the truth dear,� she said brightly as we reached the old Xerox machine, �I'm a lactation specialist.�

�� A- a what?� I stammered, trying to come across as sociably interested, but just as stunned as if she had said, 'Why yes, I do have enormous tits; I notice you've been talking to them exclusively since I came in, how do you like them; are they quite big enough for you?'

�� Well, you know,� she explained with the easy enthusiasm that most people who enjoy their work take in explaining it to others, �I help new mothers, you know, women who want to do the natural thing by nursing their baby and, for whatever reason, have trouble producing enough milk to take care of the little ones.�

�� Oh, um, so, is that like a teaching kind of a thing, or do you write prescriptions or something for that?� I said, certain I sounded like a clueless Millennial to this woman, and desperate to hold onto what little remained of my dignity, �So, is this what you were trying to copy?�

�� Oh yes, it is indeed; see, it's got my name right there at the bottom,� she said leaning forward and stabbing a finger at a line of cursive right above some vibrant blue letters spelling 'Certified Lactation Consultant', �And it's both yes and no; there is a big part of my job that's just teaching these girls how to make a few changing in their diet and their nursing schedule, but what I've really got enormous experience with is the therapeutic side of things.� I don't put my girls on any of that pharmaceutical stuff that everybody's pushing these days; I've studied since I was a little girl at my mother's knee to develop more natural ways of stimulating a woman's body to produce milk; I don't like to brag, but I've had spectacular success in my work over the years.�

�� She said this all as easily and un-selfconsciously as possible, as if she were so comfortable with her breasts that it didn't even occur to her that I might notice them, even as I stole another glance at her prodigious bosom as I pushed the green button and the copier whirred to life again, the copy sliding out a moment later, still warm as I offered it to my singular patron.

�� Here, ah, how does this one look?� I asked, having glanced at it myself only long enough to notice that it looked like some kind of a recipe.

�� Oh, that's just perfect; thank you!� she gushed as she reached out and took the paper, giving a little jump of delight that I could swear made the seams of her top creak audibly, �Here, can you run me off another four then?�

�� Sure, just let me key them in,� I agreed, the copier beeping as I queued up a few more, �So; is this a flyer for your business or something?�

�� Actually, I'm very selective about my clients,� she demurred, �I run my own practice and could never just go and advertise to the whole city like that.� There's a certain type of young woman who has the most to gain from my talents, and I prefer to find them, rather than the other way around.�

�� Okay, um, that makes sense, I guess,� I agreed lamely as I picked up the small sheaf of copies, along with her original and handed them to her, �Here you go Ma'am, all set to go.�

�� Wonderful; you've been ever so helpful,� she exclaimed as she took her stack of papers, before fixing me with a strangely penetrating look, �Say, you wouldn't happen to know anyone in need of my services, would you?�

�� Ah, no, not me,� I admitted, at once embarrassed and guiltily excited that this breathtaking woman thought I might be interested in, well, boosting my production, �I'm not even seeing anyone right now, so it's probably going to be a while before I'll be worrying about feeding a baby.�

�� Well that's alright; we each find our own time,� she assured me, opening her purse and looking at me expectantly, �Here then, how much do I owe you for all these?�

�� Oh, no worries; you already paid for the ones that didn't turn out,� I assured her, �Thanks for being patient while I got the machine working right, though.�

�� Thank you, my dear,� she said with a warm laugh that once again tested the strength of whatever she was wearing under that blouse of hers, �I'm just happy you took the time to get everything worked out for me.� Here, before I go, would you happen to have a shredder somewhere around here?�

�� Sure; it's back in the workroom,� I told her, �Do you want me to run those through it for you?�

�� Yes, please,� the woman said as she handed me the stack of bad copies, her arm pressing tightly against the side of one enormous breast as she stretched her arm towards me, �It isn't that they've got anything really private on them, you know, but I'd feel terrible if anyone got ahold of my recipes and, well, abused them.�

�� Of course,� I agreed readily, still more than a little awestruck by this womanly goddess poised before me, �I'll do it right away.�

�� Thank you; you've been ever so helpful,� she said, turning to leave and then pausing to briefly to say, �I do remember this kind of thing, you know; if I can ever do you a good turn, don't be shy about looking me up.�

�� And before I could decipher what that might mean well enough to form a coherent reply, she was striding down the length of the library, toward the front doors, her skirt swaying just enough to show that her hips were rather on the broad side after all, while her lush bosom, so immense that I could see the full curve of her breasts bulging wider than her body even from behind, neither jiggled nor seemed to encumber her in the least.� As I pondered idly about how much time she had to be spending every night doing lower back exercises to be able to pull off that trick, the lights flickered on and off.� It was ten minutes to closing, and still modestly entranced by this impossible woman who had just swept through my library, I looked down at the half-crumpled handful of papers I still held.� The topmost bore the title: �Serum to Naturally Stimulate Mammary Development and Lactation�.

�� My heart raced.� I felt like I had just stumbled across a magic lamp on the beach, or found the Holy Grail for a dollar fifty at the thrift store.� It seemed too good to be true, and yet, this woman, the sheer size of her breasts- I knew she could have just been one of those rare cases where some hormonal imbalance leads to spectacular overdevelopment; hell, for all I knew she had padded those monsters out to make them even more impressive- it wasn't like she was showing off all that much cleavage.� Maybe she'd been lying about being a lactation specialist or whatever, but it all just fit too well for me.� If it was a joke, how did she know that this was a dream come true for me?� I told myself I was just being practical, Occam's Razor and all that, but in my heart of hearts I knew I was believing because I wanted to believe.

�� There was no one else around; just a few customers up front checking out before we closed.� I set the papers on top of the copier and gently smoothed out the creases.� The top half of the page was a list of ingredients- one part this, three parts that- easy enough for a girl who'd spent as much time in the kitchen as me to follow, and most of the stuff I even recognized; hell, half of it I probably already had at home somewhere.� I made note of the few ingredients I wasn't familiar with; they weren't completely alien, just not things I'd ever needed for anything before.

�� Hey, Seph, there anyone else back in that part of the branch?� my manager, shouted from the front of the building, �If you don't mind checking the study rooms back there I think we're ready to close her on up.�

�� I think we're good back here, Kylie,� I called back, �As long as the woman in the green skirt I was working with has come by you already.�

�� Yeah, I think we all saw her walking through,� Terra answered with a laugh, �Here, come back up then and help me get everything shut down.�

�� Be there in a second,� I replied, glancing again at the instructions in my hand, anxious, nervous, stupidly excited, �I've got something I need to stash in my purse and then I'll be right there.�

�� I felt like I was walking through a dream as we closed up the library; if I hadn't practically been able to count out the cash register with my eyes closed I'm sure I would have made a hash of it, so eager was I to get home and study my new-found treasure.� I almost- almost- felt a twinge of guilt at keeping the pages instead of shredding them.� She had been so very friendly, and here I was holding tight to the very thing I had promised her I'd keep out of the wrong hands, like mine.� All the same, I felt a thrill of excitement, as if I had wandered into an old bookstore, only for the wizened old keeper to shut a singular book as I entered and warn me not to open it, as it was only for girls who were ready for truly grand adventures, before shuffling off to the back room and leaving me alone with such a tantalizing prize.

�� I drove home much faster than I should have, obsessed with studying the recipes further, and sure that if I even glanced at the paper I'd be so distracted I'd likely end up with my car wrapped around a telephone pole.

�� I pulled into the driveway and ran up the walk, the empty spot where my roommate usually parked making me grateful that Elena was out of town for a conference all week, and I had the whole house to myself for whatever adventures might happen to develop in the days to come.�

�� I paused in the kitchen to mix myself up a quick and dirty margarita; I was caught up in a dozen different fantasies at once; I needed something to take the edge off.� As I hurried to my desk, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, struck for a moment, and not for the first time, by how unfair it all felt.� In so many ways I looked like every other woman in my family: a pretty face, if not quite one fated to grace the cover of a glossy magazine, a nice figure overall, athletic but with enough about my hips to let me fill out a pair of yoga pants pleasantly enough.� And yet there was that one difference, or two, depending on how you're counting.� Unlike all my female relations, I was flat as a board in front.� My mother, who still liked to keep fit, had probably spent enough to buy a new car or two for whoever invented the sports bra, and my older sister had worked her way through college by earning some big tips at one of those just-for-the-lads chicken wing joints, while my younger one had studied opera, and filled out a Valkyrie's bustier so well they had to go back and make alterations just so she wouldn't spill out of it on stage during her big solo.� Even my cousin Cora, who in every other way looked so much like me that we could probably pass for twins, was so fucking enormous that it was impossible to hug her without feeling at least a little dirty, while I could do braless jumping jacks in my front yard without drawing the least bit of attention to myself.

�� Still, maybe that was about to change.� My drink sloshing thickly in one hand, the library milkmaid's recipes flapping in the other, I plunked myself down at my computer, flattened out the papers in front of me, and pored over them.� The ingredients looked a little more exotic now that I had the time to read them in detail, but I figured I could get all but one or two at the health food store a few blocks away, and as for the last couple, a few intense minutes of reading online gave me enough to go on; though I had to do a quick map search for a farm supply store in town that would still be open on a Saturday night.� Bingo- just about fifteen miles away but straight down the turnpike; I could practically feel my shirt growing tighter already.� I read further, to where the recipe described how I'd need to put everything together, boil it, cool it, let it settle out and skim off any foam on top.� None of it looked all that complicated to me; I wasn't going to need to set up an alchemist's lab in my kitchen or anything, but not a single word of it made sense to me.� Some of the nutritional and vitamin supplements I could kind of suppose where they fit in, and when I'd looked up where to buy the weird stuff, there had been a little bit (mostly warnings, though) about how some of these substances could affect hormone levels and body chemistry, but I'd be flying blind on this one, left with no choice but to follow the recipe as closely as I could and hope I knew what I was doing.

�� Not for the first time since my fateful encounter with the buxom woman at the copier, I felt a twinge of doubt.� Was I crazy?� This felt like something a crazy person would do.� Was I really going to mix up some kind of a- a potion with all this weird junk I didn't understand in it and then drink it?� And assuming I didn't land myself in the hospital from that, did I really believe that it was going to give me bigger boobs?� I was walking out of the kitchen and caught my reflection in the hall mirror as I went.� I didn't need to think- I grabbed my keys and pulled the door shut behind me.

�� Three hours and about a hundred and fifty dollars� worth of freaky ingredients later, I was home again, clutching bags from half a dozen different stores, still feeling keenly embarrassed at having mispronounced the name of what was apparently a very common supplement for dairy cattle, at least if you're the kind of girl who hangs out at the co-op instead of the library.� All the same, I had everything I needed.� I poured myself another drink as I set all my supplies out on the kitchen counter, checking each carefully against my recipe before pulling down my largest mixing bowl and digging out every measuring cup I owned.

�� Things didn't get off to an encouraging start; when about three ingredients in, I accidentally added two times as much of something as I was supposed to and had to decide whether to throw this batch out and start over, or just double up on everything and make twice as much.� Well, if this stuff actually worked as advertised, I figured it would be nice to have plenty on hand, just in case having big boobs turned out to be a disappointment and I was obliged to go for enormous ones.� I tried to envision myself with tits like the woman in the library.� I couldn't even imagine how my chest was big enough to give a pair like that space to grow.� They were just too massive, and even though looking back she had moved easily enough, pulling change out of her purse, handing me papers, I realized that every day had to be a struggle for her- getting dressed, picking things up off the floor, just reaching out in front of her without smacking into her own bust- had to have shaped so much of how she went through life.� Yeah, maybe I did want to be big; bigger than my sisters, maybe even bigger than Cousin Cora (if only to see the look on her face when the whole family went to the beach next summer and I was the one putting her bikini top through the wringer for a change), but I couldn't ever see myself wanting to get that big.� Even as I talked myself down from such ambitions, I felt the warmth growing within me, a shiver of receptiveness radiating through my body.� Maybe I knew I didn't want boobs so big I'd have to lean back just to type on a keyboard without mashing every key at once with my tits, but there was a part of me that found the notion too alluring to be dismissed entirely.

�� About halfway through the recipe, the air was so thick with all the different stuff I was throwing in that I started to feel light-headed.� I rushed to open the window, wondering if having two drinks before settling down for this little chemistry project had been a good idea after all.� Maybe I'd gotten my figures wrong after all; there was a lot more of this stuff than I had planned on making; before long I was having to stir it extra carefully just to avoid spilling any.� Heating it on the stove went easily enough, though the minutes dragged on like hours as I waited, and leaving it all to settle in the fridge for a while was torture, but when I finally, hands trembling with expectation, pulled it out and set it on the counter, I felt vindicated.� The large glass bowl held a concoction as white as milk, yet as clear as moonlight, just like the instructions said; surely this was a good sign.� Okay then, time to put it to the test.� I looked at my recipe again, and my heart sank.

�� There, just below the last instructions for preparing the recipe, was a bold line that read, �Dosage: In cases where mammary development and ample lactation are urgently required, once daily drink one full-� only to be cut off by the thick black bar the filled the lower third of the page.� I didn't know what to do.� I already had no clue how this stuff even worked (assuming it did work), how was I supposed to guess how much I was supposed to be taking?� If I played it safe and tried say, a teaspoon a day and the dosage when I was supposed to be drinking half a cup of it, my own cups weren't going to be getting any fuller any time soon.� Then again, just how potent was this stuff; what if I drank a whole glass of the stuff and I was only supposed to take a little?�

�� Staring at the glistening bowl as I paced the kitchen, I tried to work it all out.� The entire recipe had been by fractions; I had no idea if I'd mixed up five years� worth of this stuff or a week's supply.� I was desperate not to have come this far only to chicken out on the brink of something I'd wanted forever, and looking at the ingredients again, I didn't see anything that looked out and out poisonous if I took too much of it.� If I drank a whole glass of it at once, I'd certainly be getting way more than the recommended dose for some of the supplements, but since a lot of those were designed to be used by dairy cows anyway, I'd kind of made my peace with going off-label when I started cooking this up.� Looking back, I think I'd already made my decision the moment I realized the recipe didn't tell me how much of this stuff to drink.� I told myself that there was no way this stuff would kill me or anything; the worst thing that would happen is I'd wake up sick and spend Sunday curled up on the bathroom floor next to the toilet cursing my own stupid boob-lust.� Besides, I figured, even if this turned out to be ridiculously more potent than I expected, and I woke up in the morning with boobs the size of my head, I could always just stop right there, couldn't I?� I mean, that would be a bit bigger than I'd ever really thought about becoming, but it wouldn't exactly be a catastrophe having to rush out and charge myself a few new outfits for work, and I wasn't going to keep on growing until my tits swelled up as big as beachballs after just one drink, was I?

�� No, the risks didn't come close to outweighing the rewards (which would hopefully have more than a little weight themselves)- I grabbed a heavy beer mug from the cupboard, dipped it into the bowl, held it aloft, as if toasting to my hoped-for endowments, and drank it down in one go.� The elixir was sweet, almost cloying, and thick, though it flowed down my throat easily enough.� In my stomach it felt about five times heavier than it had in my hand, and a wave of dizziness left me clutching the counter for support.� And then it passed.� My belly still kind of felt like I'd just swallowed a gallon of melted butter, but the kitchen stopped spinning soon enough.�

�� Nothing.� Not so much as a tingle in my chest.� I felt silly for being disappointed, even if this stuff was for real, it wasn't magic, able to blow my boobs up like balloons the second I gulped it down.� I felt under my shirt; everything was just the same as usual, twin bumps so pathetic that the fact that they were there at all was more an insult to my dreams than any realization of them.� As my fingers slid over them, my small nipples perked up at my touch; they were something at least, and I'd always consoled myself with the occasional tales I'd heard from much bustier friends who said that they'd lost a lot of sensitivity there once their boobs got really huge.�

�� There was nothing else to do right now then, just wait, and hope, and keep drinking this stuff down until I either got some encouraging developments, or didn't.� I pulled out a couple old milk jugs I'd washed out and put aside for some project or another, and used a funnel to fill them both up with the serum, shoving some stuff aside in the fridge to make room for them.� Hefting their weight as I stuffed them onto the lower shelf, I fantasized about what it would be like to have breasts as heavy as these two jugs, feeling so much warm, soft weight bouncing against my chest whenever I hurried up a flight of stairs, or jogged across the street to beat the traffic light.

�� It was Saturday night, and I was tired.� I felt like a python that had just swallowed a cow; suddenly so drowsy that I didn't even remember pulling off my clothes as I stumbled into my bedroom and under the covers before sleep took me.

�� Sleep was a cage, my dreams all filled with that desperate, futile urgency that seizes each of us in the pangs of a burning fever, and under the influence of far more potent medicine that is generally wise to take.� I don't remember much of what I saw; I just remember running, running, awake enough to feel the blankets wrapped stiflingly tight around my body, but too heavily asleep to wake up and free myself from.� I felt so hot, just wishing I could wake up enough to pull the covers off, though I felt a cold sweat soaking the sheets where they touched me, my stomach knotted with cramps.� I floated near close enough to consciousness to know this wasn't right, that I should get up and call a doctor or something, but too far away to put the pieces of my mind together enough to do anything.� After an eternity of churning urgency and chaos, at last I lapsed into merciful insensibility, and felt not another thing, at least that I can remember.

Day 2

�� When I blinked my eyes against the light of the sun, it was already round over the horizon, and even with my wits unscrambled, it took me a minute to put myself together well enough to untangle myself from the grasping sheets.� As I rolled over, my chest brushed against the mattress, and I had to choke back a scream.

�� A bolt of pleasure more powerful than any climax I had ever endured surged through my body like lightning, as if my nipples were screwed tight inside some vise of boundless bliss.� Stunned, I struggled to sit up, and looked down in surprise at my chest.� As best as I could tell, my breasts were no larger than before.� My nipples, however, were another case entirely.� They were swollen fully twice as big as I'd ever seen them before (and having played with a few suction toys in my desperate, lonely years, I'd coaxed them to some pretty impressive dimensions on a solitary, memorable night or two).� Each was thicker than my index finger, and nearly an inch and a half long.� They quivered needfully in the morning light, each flushed to a rich, hot, rosy hue, so erect they hurt.

�� My body still pulsing with the aftershocks of such a wrenching climax, I tenderly gave one of my nipples a pinch.� Nothing too hard, no more than I'd done a million times before when I was trying to get myself in the mood for a little self-abuse.�

�� This time I did scream.� I don't even remember if it was words or just a shriek of ecstasy; all I felt was a jolt of bliss arcing from my hard tips to the core of my body, hitting every pleasure center in my brain like a runaway train.� I must have collapsed; I was on my back looking up at the ceiling now, my other hand, not waiting for permission from me, was already down the front of my panties, exploring delicate folds more warm and wet and swollen with desire than I could remember ever enjoying before.� I slid a finger inside myself; my body welcomed it- I felt like I could have forced my whole hand inside me if I wanted to.� I trembled on the brink of climax again, my femininity tightened involuntarily, as I brushed the smooth skin on the back of my hand against my throbbing nipple once more.�

�� This time it wasn't nearly so overwhelming; I only came as hard as I usually did after an evening of drinking and playing with myself while I read dirty stories online and did my best to wear out the batteries in a couple of my favorite toys.

�� This had to be a dream or something; it just couldn't be real.� I mean, I'd been hoping that I'd wake up to the sight of a nice pair of firm, heavy handfuls just waiting to bounce around and make my shoulders sore, but I don't think I'd really expected anything to happen until, well, this.

�� Was it a dream?� I'd had enough of them the night before, certainly.� I pinched myself, I don't need to tell you where, and almost blacked out as another climax exploded inside of me, and left my lungs heaving for breath.� No, this had to be real.� I could feel my heart hammering away in my chest, my fingers, my feet were tingling so badly I could barely feel them; I felt so completely drained of strength that I wasn't sure I'd even be able to stand up if I tried, and yet, I wanted more.� I had the house to myself for the next few days; I wanted to spend all day in bed, just playing with myself, rubbing myself down and squeezing my plumped-up nipples until I passed out from sheer sexual exhaustion, and if after a few hours of that failed to leave me quivering with more pleasure than any hundred girls deserved to experience, well, I was pretty sure I still had a bag of clothespins down in the kitchen, and I was definitely in a more experimental mood than usual today.� For now though, I was just going to lay in bed until I discovered just how many times I could make myself come before my body-

�� My reverie of self-flagellation was interrupted by the buzz of my alarm.� Dammit; I was going to be late for church.� For a moment I thought about just skipping out for the day; clearly I had other very urgent and demanding matters to attend to at the moment, but then, aside from the amorphous guilt I felt at the idea of skipping church to stay at home all morning and play with myself, I remembered that the choir was supposed to be leading the program today, and three other altos were already going to be out of town.� If I wasn't there that would just leave Diana, and she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.� I sighed, and not in the happy way that my new developments had made so easy for me; I had to pull myself together and go.

�� Getting dressed was torture.� When I tried putting on my bra, something that I had never really needed before in order to look decent in public, it rubbed against my aching peaks so arousingly I had to wrap my hands around the bedpost not to collapse to the floor.� Even when, through gritted teeth, I managed to fasten the clasp behind my back, they still poked out so far that I worried I they were going to puncture the thin fabric of my cups.� There was no way I could even walk to my car like this, much less sit through an hour in front of the whole congregation.� I was going to have to improvise.

�� I unhooked my bra and shrugged out of it, my nipples even more obscenely plump than before after their brief, stimulating, captivity.� I needed a shower; the fever-sweat of last night still clung to my skin, and after my morning's exercise, I was sure I reeked of sex on top of that.� There was no time.� I pulled on a skirt, stuffed my bra and a blouse into my purse, and threw on the lightest, baggiest t-shirt I could find.� It was just bearable enough that I was able to walk downstairs without making any sounds that would surely earn me some well-deserved stares in church.� Before I headed out the door, I threw on an old jacket, something loose enough to hide the twin daggers trying to poke through the front of my shirt, and tried to slouch enough that it didn't rub against them too distractingly.

�� The drive was a nightmare; before I'd made it three blocks, I found myself steering with one hand and pulling my shirt away from my chest with the other, so every bump didn't remind me just how sensitive my bumps had become overnight.� I pulled into a drug store, parked in the furthest corner of the lot- okay, there were going to be people in there, I had to keep calm- and stiffly found my way to where they kept nursing pads.� One brand proclaimed itself to be the softest and best-padded there was- perfect- I grabbed it and walked up to the checkout girl.�

�� She looked at me funny as I made nervous small talk about the weather, I wasn't sure if it was because she couldn't believe that someone as flat as me (I toyed, for a moment, with the idea of taking off my jacket to show I wasn't exactly flat everywhere anymore) could be in need of nursing pads, or because I was about as calm and natural as a woman with a live grenade stuffed into her panties.� Either way, both of us were relieved when the machine took my card and I was able to scramble back through the sliding doors.

�� As soon as I was in my car, I made sure the coast was clear and I wasn't about to scandalize some old lady out walking her Pekinese or anything, removed my jacket, awkwardly managed to wrestle myself into the bra I'd brought, grateful, twice, that my car was reasonably soundproof, and desperately ripped open the pack of pads before stuffing two into each cup.� It worked, mostly; I didn't look like I was in danger of putting anyone's eye out anymore, and now that my chest was appropriately swaddled I didn't feel quite so much like a lit match in a roomful of dynamite, though it was still very hard to ignore what my body was begging me to do with it right now.� Off came my baggy t-shirt, and on went my good blouse, which, I noted with approval, actually showed off a gentle bulge to my chest, though that was surely more because how amply I'd padded it than any real developments underneath.� I put on my makeup in the rearview mirror at the stoplights along the way and finally parked and emerged from my car in the church parking lot at, ta-dah, 10:58.

�� I tried not to catch anyone's eye as I hurried to the choir room, dreading what would happen if I ran into any of the more hug-happy members of the congregation.� As I grabbed my dark robe out of the closed and pulled it over my head, I wondered if I might be able to slip into the restroom, unbutton my blouse and take off my bra without anyone noticing, but the bell was already pealing; I was out of time.

�� The next hour was unadulterated torture.� When we we're sitting there listening to the announcements, it was tolerable, barely, but as soon as the call came for the choir to rise, I, forgetting how hard it had been just to get here this morning, stood up straight, set my shoulders back, took a long, deep breath, and promptly saw spots as I tried to smother an untimely cry of delight.� Diana, right beside me, threw me a concerned look as I swayed unsteadily on my feet, as I wondered if my best bet might not be to just fall down and let everyone think I'd fainted (though the idea of someone deciding to be a hero and give me CPR put an end to that), and thinking that maybe my tone-deaf companion might have been just as well off without me after all.�

�� I barely whispered the rest of the hymns after that, just swaying along with the rest of the choir, and hoping that no one would notice.� I don't even remember what hymns we sang, what the homily was about, what date the pastor said the autumn picnic was going to be moved to if it really did rain next weekend, all I was aware of was the two sharp points rubbing maddeningly against their prison, and the constant, simmering fire that burned between my hips, threatening to explode into an inferno at the slightest provocation.�

�� It was finally over.� The bell tolled, and I made my way to the edge of the sanctuary, hoping no one would notice me, much less stop me to talk.� I threw my robe into the choir closet- someone who wasn't boiling over with lust could hang it up- and tried to slip out to the parking lot.� I had to get home, now.�

�� Persephone, how have you been?� a familiar voice boomed out behind me, as I turned weakly and sighed in defeat.

�� There was Mrs. Calhoun, Sunday school teacher, pillar of the community, and general force of nature.� She was scarcely more than five feet tall, and so matronly that she was nearly as wide across the bust as the woman from the library, though the rest of her figure was much more proportional to her well-fed bosom.� She was nice; the made the best macaroni Ark of the Covenant I'd even seen, baked the most delicious Christmas cookies, and even sent me a sweater she knit my freshman year of college.� Any other time I'd have been delighted to stop and fill her in on everything that was going on in my life, but now-oh crap, she was coming in for a hug, her plump arms spread wide to scoop me up against her voluminous bosom-

�� Oh, honey, are you feeling alright?� she asked as she came close enough to get a good look at me, her plans to give me a squeeze mercifully fading her mind, �You look so pale today, and you always carry yourself so nicely; why are you slouching like that?�

�� Ah, um, I've been fighting some kind of bug all week; I just haven't felt like myself,� I lied hastily, realizing how lucky I was that Mrs. Calhoun had come to such a wonderfully wrong conclusion about my current state, �Oh, and I took a bit of a fall in a field hockey game a few days ago too; I think I might have bruised a rib or something.�

�� You poor dear; why did you even come out this morning?� You ought to go straight home and get some rest,� she advised me with the certainly of someone who has raised a large number of children over her life.

�� Uh, that's a good idea,� I mumbled, actively trying to look as wan and sickly as I possibly could, �Thanks, Mrs. Calhoun; I'll go straight home and spend the rest of the day in bed.�

�� Glad to hear it; you need to take care of yourself after all,� she beamed, and before I could run away or fake a seizure and fall to the floor in a gibbering heap or escape somehow, she swooped in and gathered me up in for a hug of truly epic proportions.

�� Squashed against her warm, heavy chest, my nipples felt like they were liable to explode.� I couldn't help myself; I came, hard.� I screamed, not very long, at least I had that much control over myself, but loud enough that everyone around immediately fell silent.� Stunned, Mrs. Calhoun immediately released me, and I somehow managed not to fall into a senseless pile trembling on the floor.� I felt a blush spread across my face, somehow managed to ignore everyone else, and gave her a sheepish look.

�� Sorry, yeah, I definitely think I bruised a rib,� I explained lamely, clutching my side and wincing in what I hoped was a passable imitation of pain, �You're right; I think I'd better get home and go to bed now.�

�� While everyone around me was still looking perfectly confused about what had just happened (I could only imagine the conversations that would be going on over lunch at a dozen or more respectable homes half an hour hence), I made good my escape, hopped into my car, and tore out of the parking lot.� As I put a little distance between the church and me, I actually had to stifle a laugh; the expression on that woman's face after when I screamed with the kind of rapture that generally isn't looked for at the early Sunday service was priceless.� I hoped Mrs. Calhoun would live out the rest of her days thinking she'd just been a little too enthusiastic in her embrace; the idea of her ever suspecting that holding me close to her matronly bosom had made me come was almost too deliciously embarrassing to contemplate.

�� I think if I'd actually hit any red lights on the way home, I would have ripped open my blouse, yanked off my bra, and just hoped that I didn't get pulled over; every bump in the road; even the gentle vibration of the engine coming up through my seat was just too fucking arousing for words.�

�� By the time I pulled into my driveway and unlocked the door I was so full of pent-up horniness I felt like I was seconds away from exploding.�

�� If I had been on familiar terms with anyone in town who was even remotely acceptable I would have called them up, demanded they come over for the most mind-blowing sex of their entire life, and not let them go until they were too exhausted to stand up straight; I even wished Elena wasn't out of town right now; I hadn't really done anything with another girl since second year in college, but right now I was just wound so tight I could pop.� I didn't even make it up to my room- as soon as the kitchen door shut behind me, I reached up my blouse, under my bra, and pinched my throbbing nipples as hard as I could.� I think I actually passed out, and I'm pretty sure the scream I heard as I went down was my own.� The next thing I knew, it was an hour and a half later, I was laying on the floor with my skirt and panties down around my ankles, half the buttons on my blouse torn off, and my bra awkwardly pushed up to my neck.� I was sweaty, thirsty, absolutely exhausted, and still so turned on I could feel myself spasming and tightening as I trembled on the edge of another tidal wave of orgasmic bliss.

�� I managed to gulp down a couple glasses of water; my throat was burning, but keeping my hands busy in the kitchen long enough to make lunch was out of the question; I still needed release, and I needed it now.� I dropped the rest of my clothes as I raced- well, staggered up to my room, spread myself out in bed, and just gave in, utterly, to my desires.� My nipples weren't getting any less sensitive; if anything they were only growing more so.� The room echoed with my cries, a damp spot quickly forming and expanding on the sheet beneath me as I indulged my appetites; before I lost count I had already made myself come at least fifty times, and I kept right on coming for a good long while after that.

�� When I finally regained myself, the sun was setting over the trees, and for the first time since I had woken up that morning, my burgeoning desires were satisfied.� I still didn't risk putting on anything that might be too stimulating, but I at least pulled on some pajama pants and a shirt that I could leave comfortably unbuttoned in front.� I commanded myself to get into the shower, so delightfully spent that it didn't even cross my mind to do anything beyond wash the smell of sweat and sex and church lady perfume off my body, and then willed myself down to the kitchen again to force myself to have something for dinner.

�� Nothing in the fridge looked good, until I pushed a bag of salad out of the way and discovered three quarters of a chocolate cake left over from a work party the week before was still sitting there, uneaten.� For some reason, I was immediately certain that what my body needed right now was fat, calories and sugar, so I grabbed a fork, plunked my sumptuous leftovers on the kitchen table, grabbed a big cup off the shelf, and went to the fridge to pour myself a nice, cool, glass of milk.

�� And then I noticed them, the two jugs of thick, faintly iridescent liquid sitting there from the night before.� I didn't even think as I took one out and poured myself a glassful- it wasn't until I sat down at the table that I actually gained the presence of mind to ask myself if drinking even more of this stuff was really a good idea.� If my nipples were still this arousingly sensitive tomorrow, there was no way I could make it through a full day of work; I'd have to call in if I didn't want to get fired before lunchtime for either screaming my heart out when a patron brushed against me in the stacks, or because someone caught me in the restroom frantically trying to slake my desire.

�� But then, that was kind of liberating, I mused as I plowed through the chocolate cake and sipped at my glass of milk.� If I was already resigned to calling in sick until I could figure out what was happening to me and how to deal with it, then what was the harm of having a little more?� After all, aside from the two very prominent changes that the previous night had brought about, my chest was still just as unimpressive as it had ever been.� Hell, if another dose of this stuff made me feel as incredible tomorrow as I'd felt today (at least once I got a little privacy), it was worth burning through a day or two of leave.

��

�� As I pushed the last crumbs of cake around the empty platter- my gosh, had I really eaten all of it just now? - there was no doubt in my mind.� I picked up the mug full of swirling pearl fluid and drained it in one swallow.� It still weighed unnaturally heavy in my stomach, and after putting away so much cake, I was feeling uncomfortably full already, but this time I at least had enough sense to get upstairs to bed before I started feeling dizzy again.

�� My dreams that night were nearly as disorienting as the night before, though tinged with only a hint of the same enervating fever.� There was something about my body that was changing, something huge and irresistible and impossible to let anyone else see.� I needed to get out; I needed some privacy before it happened.� I could feel my heart beating in my chest, and something heavier as well, throbbing, warm and ponderous against my ribs.� I was running through the back halls of the church, its modest space swollen into a massive labyrinth, as I ran headlong from one strange dead-end to another, my every step driven by desperation, by certainty that I had to find a way out, I needed to get home before something within my body developed any further.� I remember finally crashing through the church door- falling, slowly and endlessly- until I landed in my own bed, far larger and softer than I remembered it, and feeling, even in my dreaming flesh, the same quickening desire that had mastered me all the day before.