Every morning you wake up and your tits are a little bit bigger, a little bit heavier, a little bit fuller. You feel them weigh on your chest, jiggling and sloshing as you rise up from bed, bouncing as you walk over to your dresser. Even wrapping your arm around them, feeling their softness bulge over and under, isn't enough to fully dampen the movements of your growing tits. You already feel the familiar dread in your chest as you pull open your drawer and pull out a bra. You know it'll be too small, too tight, forcing your growing tits to bulge over the cups. It always is, day after day, even after upgrading to new sizes. But what choice do you have? Your shirts do nothing to hide the obscene shape your tits take squeezed into the too-small bra. If anything, their tightness just highlights the uneven shape of your soft, wobbling tits. Everyone will see. Everyone will know. They can't be hidden and it gets worse every day.
And that's exactly how I want it to be.
I want every jiggle, every wobble to be a reminder of what I've done to you. Every time you feel your tits brush against something or rest against the table as you lean forward, I want you to think about me and what I've done to you. I took you and molded you and reshaped you and grew you and grew you and grew you. And now, more and more every day, your entire world revolves around the tits I gave you. Nobody looks you in the eye anymore. People gawk at you and stare at you and whisper about you as you walk by them, tits sloshing with every step. Every inch you growâevery inch that I force onto your chestâshifts the focus of your entire world a little more towards your tits. They're eclipsing the rest of you, taking over your life. All because of me. I wanted this for you. Now you have to live with it.
And it's only made worse by the fact that it feels so fucking good.
You spend hours every night groping yourself, kneading your tits, tugging on your nipples. The perception of your tits as the center of your being isn't just external, but shifting internally, too. The bigger I make you, the more your life revolves around your tits. More and more frequently, you fall asleep dizzy and basking in orgasmic glow, mindlessly repeating "I'm just tits. I'm just tits. I'm tits. I'm tits." There's a part of you that worries that your tits will eclipse your identity if I keep making you bigger. There's a part of you that can't fucking wait.
areudirty
titsay
prguitarman
