It was that perfect sort of secret- the kind between you and hundreds of strangers. Every few nights, whenever that urge tugging at the base of her skull got too loud to ignore, she'd give in to the impulse and post an update on her "progress". A racy cleavage photo, deeper each week. An under-slung low angle shot when they got big enough to block her face. Always just a tease, just barely pushing the envelope, always raising her pulse and telling her push further, bolder. But always, she told herself, always tasetful. Private, scandalous, but....tasteful.
It had started as strictly private and contained matter, she had promised herself. A supplement ordered from amazon, in the strict confidence of her and herself alone, to add just a smidge of heft and tone to her chest, a decision agonized over through weaks of self conscious topless posing in the mirror."Just a little", she told herself. A week later she'd felt her bra biting just a little on the soft skin of her back. All at once, the die was cast. Oils, ointments, a daily massage regime, pills of every color downed with reckless abandon as "just a little" settled into a daily cycle of "just a little more".
When she'd started blogging her growth she barely had anything to show off. "Just a record" she told herself, as she posted that first flatly lit modestly t-shirt clad closeup of her torso with a "before and after". A scant inch or two. Again, time and temptation have way of skewing that little word, "just". The same shirt once a week stretched skin-tight and obscene, the same flat lighting casting deep curved shadows between the stop-motion heaving of her rapidly expanding mass.
For the first few months there was a tidal-like motion as her sillouette spilt over her bra, then reset to a smooth curve as she bit the bullet and upgraded her underwear a few cupsizes, only for the pulsing cycle to resume. Once or twice she took a racier shot with no shirt at all, showcasing the red bite marks of strained elastic and cotton on soft smooth skin. When she'd released the vice grip of the bra hook, the hoplessly small DD-cup assembly had sling-shotted with a relieved 'ping' and soft thud onto the floor of her bedroom. "Am I going too far? I could barely fit my boobs in frame that time?", she had wondered as her peripheral vision caught the outline of her figure with her now almost head-sized tits in the bedroom mirror. The cold air goose-bumped the skin of her increasingly sensitive bare chest before the thought could even finish. The whisper of a gasp had slipped the thin gap of her lips as hand rocketed by animal instinct, had hit the 'post' key.
Her follower count grew in concert with her chest, the gravity and sensitive mass of her swelling, plumping tits suckering in more and more strangers as it did her own attention. In her dayjob, even hiding under loose draping clothes, she could feel the tugging in her shoulders and back as she straightened her spine against the pounds of raw nerve endings, tingling like fireworks, that shuddered her breath everytime she leaned wrong and let them brush her desk. In a private moment she'd steal a look on her phone and check the aftershock of notifications from her most recent post. 'Jesus...that many people watching'? Consciously she'd sworn off another deep-cleavage selfie, but unconsciously the back of her mind had already started that chanting, relentless tugging again.
It had been half a year, every morning waking up to the soft brush of silk sheets on the smooth skin her tits splaying under her sleeping body, each night falling asleep to the soothing groping of her muscle-memory self-massages. Each morning weighing and measuring and finding that her tits were a little heavier. They'd sagged a little at first, brushing midway to her belly button, until she'd learned a trick in her supplement regime to lend them an ageless bounce and perk. The exposed skin of her under-boob tickled her anytime she walked past her aircon (topless of course, no reason to ruin a shirt in the privacy of her own home).
Her posts had followed an escalating cycle of creeping escalation followed by a bashful retreat, only to start again: each time a little further, a little bolder, a little fuller. After her last post, a barely PG13 webcam shoot of her oversized tits bulging past her hand-bra gripped fingers cast in pale monitor light, she'd sworn to put a stop to all of it.
It didn't even last a day. "Maybe just a little more".
"Maybe just one more photo".
"Maybe just one live stream".
"Maybe just....one order of these rapid growth serum pills"
She clicked her camera on, lights dim and curtains drawn. It was early evening, a few dozen viewers clicked in immediately. She had a cheap brand store white T on, the right size for her torso but hilariously undersized for her plumping braless tits. The light was dim enough to hide the outline her her bare chest under the stretched cloth, she was only backlit by the gentle string lights of her bedroom. All the same, a quiet part of her shivered unbidden at the splotchy dark pixles that she knew outlined her nipples. "Just my little secret" she promised herself. Her stomach gurgled with the pills she'd downed with dinner. The box said to only take one, but they always under-dose them, she'd learned. Legal reasons.
The viewer count clicked higher, scraping the low side of a hundred. She blushed, her head hidden well above the camera frame. She angled her waist to the left, to the right. Dim LED lights halo'd the curve of her enormous chest. She'd had to push her chair so far back just to frame them now that she could barely touch the keyboard. Now they plumped out under her chin against any law of biology or gravity; she could see the tempting buds of her nipples from above everytime she looked down when changing. She felt her heart in her chest and swallowed hard: maybe try something new, just this once?
She reached down and yanked the release on her chair, angling back and showing the sheer feminine mass tensioning the threads of her shirt apart. The whole top half of the frame was cotton shrinked wrapped boob. Her eyes languished on the preview for moments, minutes... "I should stop. I should turn this off. I shouldn't be doing this". Then it happened...her heart quickened in an instant, like hitting the drop on a roller coaster. Her pulse was beating, hammering, inside her ribcage. Except it wasn't fear, or shock, it was.... oh fuck
She felt it before she saw it, the pin-prick constellation of rippping threads and the dragging of ragged material over compressed skin. She swore, the first time anyone had heard her voice on camera. Her voice was pitched and strained with a high octane squeeze of emotions. Panic? Surprise? Something she didn't want to admit? Whatever she was saying, it was cut short by that feeling again- presssing up into her like insistant angling fingers. She fumbled at the keyboard, trying desperately as she tried to slap at the "end stream" hotkey as she felt more and more weight pressing into her ribcage as her tits grew a fraction of an inch with every pounding heartbeat.
Her scrabbling hands tried to protect her modesty as she felt the receding seams disintegrate under her fingertips, the cheap shirt splitting and falling into tatters about her. She couldn't focus- that pounding pulse was everywhere. It was in here ears, the skin of her chest, her thighs, her lips. Her fingers dug into the soft skin of her thighs as she leaned back further. She bit her lip, some corner of her head keeping the now lost vigil of privacy for her voice. Her chair creaked, she could feel the back of it bite into her spine with each pulse. Oh god...Oh fuck....how big was she getting?
Through half-lidded eyes and rasping breath she managed to lean herself forward a few inches and spy her monitor through blurry double vision. '10,000 viewers' was the last thing she saw as another moan was caught halfway up her throat, hips flexing as final coherent thought wondered just how big she'd get.
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