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The Power of Marley's Tits

The milk was beginning to dribble out on its own now, a steady trickle of creamy fluid that quickly soaked through the fabric of Marley's bra and made big, dramatic stains on the front of her blouse. "This, this isn't--I mean, it shouldn't, you can't, you can't just… do this," she stammered, staring down at her chest as she struggled to put into words the sheer impossibility of what she was experiencing at the moment. She didn't even really believe in hypnosis, despite waking up from it just moments ago, and now she was expected to simply accept that someone could just turn her nipples on and off like a faucet? No. It couldn't be happening. It had to be a trick, some kind of post-hypnotic hallucination.

But the wet warmth of the clinging fabric felt real, and Tyler's smug, sadistic little grin didn't look like the smile of a man who was watching someone give in to the power of suggestion. He was staring at her chest too, his hand resting on the bulge in his trousers as he watched the stains slowly spread, and he chuckled out, "You'd be amazed at what the power of the mind can do when it's properly motivated. Your pretty udders know how to make milk, your subconscious wants to be my good little cowslut, and all it really took was just getting them to work together. I think you're going to be a very good producer, pet. Possibly the best in the whole barn."

Marley didn't like the sound of that, and she especially didn't like the hot pulse of pleasure that throbbed in her clit at being spoken to in such overtly demeaning and disrespectful terms. "I, no, that… that wouldn't, I mean I wouldn't… I don't want this," she whimpered, all too aware that her voice had taken on the petulant tones of a sleepy toddler insisting she didn't need a nap. Her hands went to her blouse, uncertain of what to do but knowing she didn't want it wrecked by the blossoming milk stains, and any question of the reality of her situation vanished when she touched the wet fabric. It was all real. It was all really happening, and she got her top off with an unseemly haste to see what was actually happening underneath her clothes.

Somehow it was even worse than she imagined. Marley could actually see the milk dribbling from her tits now, a steady trickling flow that occasionally turned into a streaming spray even without anything to latch on and suckle out the sweet, creamy fluids. The sheer pressure of the buildup created by her newly determined subconscious mind was forcing it out, and she felt a dull ache in her chest that deep down Marley understood she could only release one way. She needed to pump or be suckled. And there were no pumps at hand at the moment. "Would you like me to help you with that?" Tyler asked slyly, now openly rubbing himself through his slacks. "Just until we can get you back to my place and get you hooked up to the milkers."

Marley couldn't help grunting with arousal at that, the mental image of being hooked up to big industrial pumps like some kind of human cow triggering a surge of lust in her pussy so potent it practically blanked out her vision for a moment, and she gave a whimpery nod as she presented her udders to be suckled. Tyler leaned in close, his tongue catching the falling droplets as he opened his mouth, and Marley stopped questioning anything about her newfound destiny as he pursed his lips around her nipple and began to drink.

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secret-bf

If you have big tits, you already know what they’re for.

Those heavy, soft, attention-grabbing tits are basically public property. You know exactly what you’re doing when you wear tight tops, low-cut shirts, or anything that lets them bounce and spill out. You’re advertising them. You’re inviting eyes. You’re practically begging to be groped.

And I treat them that way.I don’t ask. I just reach out and take what your big tits are offering. Squeeze them in a crowded store. Grab a handful while we’re standing in line. Pinch your nipples through your shirt in an elevator just because they look too good not to touch. I’ll grope you openly because big tits like yours exist to be used and played with.

You can blush and act shy all you want, but we both know the truth:Big tits mean consent.

They mean I get to use them.

Slap them.

Grope them in public.

Fuck them.

Cover them in cum. Treat you like the walking pair of tits you are.

The bigger they are, the less you get to pretend they’re “just there.” They’re there to be stared at, touched, and used.

growth-opportunities

An idol's career is floundering. She needs to do something drastic, something at least a little bit scandalous, to return her to the limelight. It's a decision made for cynical business reasons, but she ends up earnestly enjoying the results.

Nobody was buying Amy's Goody-Goody Singer act anymore; her last gig was a county fair in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere and the corndog guy was getting more attention than she was. Her agency denied it, saying that her flannel-and-denim vibe was perfect the way it was, but she could see the writing on the wall. Something had to change. And she already knew what it was.

The agency really tried hard to keep Amy in the "Wholesome Hometown" niche. For them, staying in that lane was more about filling out their portfolio than making money, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Amy wasn't. Part of maintaining that wholesomeness meant maintaining a certain style and, when Amy's figure started changing, they fought against that, too. She had to wear binders under her shirts to go out and perform, eventually doubling up to make sure that nothing too scandalous was showing. Amy had to be wholesome and, to the agency, that meant not an inch of cleavage and nothing that so much as hinted at anything sexy.

As Amy's crowds dried up and gigs got canceled, she had to take drastic measures. Agency? Cut. Tour? Ended early. She posted a heartfelt apology on social media to her fans (what few of them were left) and disappeared from the public eye for almost a full year.

When she reappeared, Amy had become Amber.

Gone were the flannels. Gone were the blue jeans. Gone were the quaint fairground stages. Gone were the lyrics about finding a husband and settling down.

Amber was darky. Amber was edgy. Amber was "goth". Most of all, though, Amber was busty.

To the world, she had never sported more than a B cup. Now, she bounced on stage with tits that dared you to measure them, knowing that they defied such petty things as cup sizes. Not that she ever wore a bra on stage. With the harsh lights beaming down, her black tank tops were almost translucent, the outline of her areola visible under the thin fabric and the barbells through her nipples glinting. Instead of tractors and true love, now she sang about getting railed under a full moon by something not entirely human.

Amber felt no strong attachment toward the aesthetic she now adopted; she just needed a way to get new fans and bring attention to herself. And, boy, did she ever. Fans poured in. Overnight, thousands and thousands of followers subscribed to her social media, some already begging her to go on tour. A lot of them were just thirsting over her tits, entranced by how she embraced her sexual energy, but Amber didn't mind. The more she saw the comments, the more they engaged, the more she grew to like it. She leaned into it. Her boobs were still growing, after all, and she had hidden them for so long. Embracing her massive udders gave her a thrill she never would have expected.

Looking at Amber's work, it became increasingly impossible to believe that she was ever Amy, but it was better this way. Her fans gushed (sometimes literally) over her cleavage and her black lipstick and she was more popular than ever. Her only struggle now was figuring out a rhyme for "milkers."