“Step two is where we truly get started,” Damien said. He held up a vial to the light. The camera popped it on the screen behind him. There was a clear fluid inside. “The product of over a decade of work. Safe, effective. And most importantly, mild. What woman wouldn’t welcome another cup size or two?”
“They’ll look forward to Boob Flu.”
“They’re calling it Boob Flu,” the anchorwoman, Mandy, told the viewers. She was a living prop, with noticeably expanded mammaries and a big smile to tell everyone about them. A cardigan barely constrained the sides of the bouncing boobs. “And it’s sweeping the nation!”
“It’s a real flu—with a quite unusual side effect,” the anchorman said. “Affected women are seeing surges in estrogen and related hormones—with obvious results.”
“Oh, Michael, it was unreal,” Mandy said, giggling. “Every time I sneezed I’d, uh, bounce that much more. Up top I was a flu-ey, gross mess, but below the neck…!”
“Um. Yes. Doctors say that the unusual returns are harmless and should be, well, enjoyed!
Doctor Paulson had personally examined the tits of six dozen women, and his professional resolve was struggling. There had been a lot of volunteers for the study.
“How many cup sizes?” he asked the latest volunteer, a latino girl in pigtails. One of the few to try and stick to t-shirts.
“At least two, doctor,” she told him. He cradled her assets, feeling the warmth in both hands.
“I see. And the level of sensitivity? No less in sensation?”
“Oh, uh, just the opposite, um, doctor,” she told him. He had expected the answer. The girl was squirming and her eyes were intent. Just like the rest of them.
“Okay, you can go,” and, since they all asked the same question, “the bathroom is just outside, to the left.”
Later, he dictated into a nearly full tape. “Sensitivity is well up. Which makes no sense. Sudden growth should lead to a decreased level of nerve activity. The skin should be stretched and, if anything, painful. Not… supple.. and firm… and.”
Doctor Paulson shook his head, and rewound the tape to try again.
Caroline had run track in middle school, in high school, and had walked on—literally—to the college track team. She had done so many charity runs her closet was stuffed with cheap t-shirts. And then she had run a fever and emerged with a handful that bobbled up and down every time she sneezed.
Her other girlfriends were sticking to recumbent bikes. But that wasn’t going to stop her.
She bought the strongest available sports bra from the now-struggling Nike story, where the lady’s side was gathering dust. And first she taped her jiggling twosome down with heavy tape. On top of that went the bra. Finally, feeling somewhat supported, she went for a run.
There was just the slightest wobble. It was different, sure—her entire center of gravity was pitched well forward, and Caroline had to arch her back differently. But she could RUN.
She put on a little more speed.
At the one mile mark she noticed that there was just enough room for her new, heavier nipples to caress the space age fabric of the bra.
It.. tingled. And the tingling grew stronger with each step she took.
Caroline frowned, distracted. Other sensations were hitting her, too. The trickle of damp sweat down the top of her boobs, prickling each nerve. The way the undersides rubbed, unceasing, against the rough tape. Once it got damp it was like—like a tongue.
She was breathing faster, and it wasn’t because she was tired.
At mile two Caroline abruptly turned around, and ran even faster.
The sensations were building now, and radiating well out from the slew of hot, warm feelings concentrated on her expanded titties. Little sparks were traveling down her arms, down her legs…
To the middle of her legs…
Caroline panted, openly, and groaned as she swung into a turn. Each bounce was a beautiful agony, and she could feel each patch of skin, every inch of fabric.
She made it to the dorm room, dimly aware that her roommate wasn’t there, slamming the door behind her, ripped off the bra and tape. Caroline kneaded desperately at her nipples, whining under her breath.
Her other hand slipped beneath her waistband.
High school boys had never been happier. Every time a girl went out, sniffling and feverish, they waited with heightened expectation for a newer, bouncier, more bountiful co-ed to return, top-heavy and aware of it.
The girls weren’t sure what to do. Those with tiny boobs, now upgraded to a healthy set of sweater-stuffers, were just ecstatic to get access to scoop tops. Medium-sized girls were realizing that basic Old Navy sweaters now caused a tide of erections in their wake. Big girls, those few blessed by puberty the first go-around, had to be careful not to knock over furniture.
Rumors spread that Camille Stefans had carelessly worn high heels, and, unbalanced, fallen face-forward. Only to be saved by the new cushioning beneath her necklace.
“Mom, if you drop me off, I swear to god that I will throw myself in front of this car and DIE when you run me over,” Rebecca told her Mother.
“That would make me very sad, dear,” Rebecca’s Mom said.
“Not that the car would even hurt,” Rebecca muttered. “Probably bounce right off me. I’m like a bumper car now.”
She sneezed. Rebecca had been down with Boob Flu for nearly a week. No one at school had had it longer. It had been a miserable, vomiting, coughing, tit-expanding week.
“They’re just breasts, dear,” Rebecca’s Mom said. She smiled, pleased. They had both been sick. And now she slung a pair of rejuvenated, gravity-defying tits in Ann Taylor casual tops. “They don’t define who you are as a person.”
“I already knew that,” Rebecca muttered. “I read the young adult books you gave me.”
They pulled outside the school. There was a crowd of boys just hanging around the entrance, casually perched on benches with iPhones ready for amateur photography. The ‘boobwalk’ was a lot of fun to watch.
Rebecca slunk down in her chair.
“I’m still sick, lets go back,” she said.
“Hup hup. Out you go. Come ON, Rebecca. No one even knows you HAVE a chest.”
Rebecca’s wardrobe had, at least, accommodated a bigger bust, once they had picked out an emergency bra at a ransacked Macys. Rebecca wore a black riding coat with brassy buttons on top of a pair of deliberately distressed jeans.
She got out of the car. The male attention was immediate and intense. Rebecca had been out for an entire week of class. Maybe even sick over the weekend. And word had spread—the longer you were out, the bigger you got.
“I KNOW YOU’RE NOT GOING TO WORK!” Rebecca screamed, as the car zoomed off. “I KNOW YOU’RE GOING BACK TO FUCK DAD!”
She hugged her jacket tighter. Boys tried to gauge how far her arms reached. The jacket was just making interest worse. Now they KNEW she had tits. And she was hiding them. All around them strode nubile young girls with too-tight tank tops, spilling out in nipples, and they couldn’t turn away from the female in the long jacket.
Rebecca flushed, and felt the tips of her nipples, deep within layers of clothes, flush red.
“Welcome back, Ms. Wright,” Principal Mason said, approaching from the left. “We were starting to worry about you. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”
He was a forty-ish man with a layer of pudge congealed on top. His goatee belonged to a younger, thinner man.
“Um, thanks Principal,” Rebecca said. He had ignored all of her efforts to get suspended or banned for political activities.
“I came out here to mention the dress code, since so many of our… ladies… have had a difficult time with their… assets.”
That was the truth. A small proportion of the girls, the ones with backseat reputations already, were flaunting tube tops and creamy expanses of titflesh. Kaycee Whitman, the school bicycle, ambled past with her stomach showing and six inches of cleavage, a red nylon ruffle gathered in a bow at the middle of her chest.
“Kaycee, please put those away,” Mason said, chasing after her. “I mean—you know what I mean.”
But it wasn’t going to be any use. Rebecca could tell. Bigger boobs were everywhere, and the dress code was a helpless relic of a small-titted world. Cleavage limits were going to need to be expanded, nipple slips would have to be tolerated. She walked away, and a shell of boys followed her.
She found Candice and Anne advertising by the library, in the shade.
Candice eyed her outfit. “Rebecca, what are you hiding in there?” she asked, with a touch of concern.
“I’ve got three of them now. Yeah.”
Anne raised both eyebrows, half-believing. The stocky girl hadn’t gone very far with boob flu, emerging with a high-riding set of knockers that nonetheless worked on her compact frame. She had squeezed them into an old, loose bra, and buttoned a blouse on top of them, but the buttons strained. A few nearby boys eyed her breathing with interest.
“Not really, Anne,” Rebecca told her. “What are you two doing?”
“We’re starting a new club! It’s the APG!” Anne said.
“Which stands for.. what?”
“Depends who asks,” Candice said. She didn’t seem disappointed in her own expanded assets. Candice was even dressed stylishly, by her standards, with a shiny metallic blue top cut in half by a black stripe. The top even plunged a little low, just enough to hint at a pair of teardrops. “For me it’s the American Political Group. For Anne it’s the Animation Promotion Group. Look, college applications are due in a few months, I can use another club.”
Rebecca studied the signup list. There were more then a few names. There were boys listed there.
“What’d you tell the boys?” she said.
Candice sighed. “I heard Michael call it the Amazing Pneumatic Girls.”
Michael. Rebecca remembered Michael. And some of the other boys there—mostly from the AP classes, boys who knew something about bands with girl drummers. They hung there in here memory, not quite the same as before.
“Hey, I’ll sign up,” she told them. And signed.
“So I guess life goes on, huh?” Candice said, hopefully. “I mean, it’s all just going to wash out. We’re all equally bigger. It’s just a math problem. It cancels out.”
“I think it’ll be nice,” Anne chimed in. “And.. uh…”
She leaned forwards.
“Aren’t they sort of SENSITIVE?”
Candice and Rebecca didn’t say anything.
“Because I wasn’t, um, tiny up top or anything, but I have this friend online that always said that boobs were wasted on girls, because we never knew how great they were. Well… I’m wondering if that’s still true.”
Candice lowered her voice.
“Okay, I don’t want this about, but… they do kind of… need to BREATHE a little more. They get.. tender.. if I wrap them in too much stuff. I’m sure it’s because they’re brand new. I looked it up, you know, it would cost thirty-thousand dollars for this kind of workup. That’s a steal.”
Rebecca shook her head. “You two aren’t seeing the big picture. This isn’t about a little extra weight. This is about boys versus girls.”
“Whatever, Rebecca,” Anne said, snorting. Her buttons fought a rearguard action against the heaving underneath her blouse.
“No, really. How am I going to go running with these… these things? It’s a joke. And I can’t even see my toes anymore. My TOES. And I have big feet. We’re just going to be teetering sexual ornaments for the boys.”
The table sitters eyed their friend. “Rebecca, exactly how big are you?”
“Nevermind,” Rebecca snapped, and strode away.
It was already starting. The boys didn’t even have to say anything. They just had to admire, to make a few offhand remarks, to NOTICE the dangling, useless.. ORNAMENTS preceding every single girl at school.
Paris Hovenkamp strode by. She had always been bookish, shy, her hair in a long braid that hadn’t changed since middle school. Now her tits squeezed out both sides when she hugged books to her chest. She had a boy next to her, chatting, his eyes drawn downwards to the crevice framed by a formerly innocent blue cashmere sweater. She was encouraging it, the tramp, letting his eyes rove over the milky white of her skin.
Rebecca had to shake her head, to clear it.
The weather was cooperating. The campus of Cielo Valley High was well-kept and beautiful, with bright green grass and pressure-washed trails.
And then she was in the middle of the Quad. Where, if anything, the story was worse. Out on the outskirts were the shy, mousy girls who liked Jane Austen novels and books with vampire boyfriends. This was the vicious center of the social world, where the girls already flaunted the dress code, teasing what they could in jean shorts and all-synthetic tops from Forever 21.
In the overstretched nylon the girls they looked like the intro to a cheap porno. Vice-Principals scurried back and forth, trying to enforce some kind of dress code.
“Hey, Rebecca, can’t we get a look?” one of the boys called out.
“Go fuck yourself to DEATH,” Rebecca said.
“Whoa, it’s for medical purposes! We need to see how sick you were. C’mon, Rebecca, you could be the biggest girl in the school! Don’t hold out on us!”
Cherry Andersson. She was at least 93% Swedish and was one of the few girls as tall as Rebecca was. She could’ve been an athlete and run track. Instead she had settled for bleached blonde hair and a big pair of high-riding titties.
They were even bigger, now. Big spherical globes, riding high on her chest, nipples sticking out prominently behind a brassy faux-leather corset from Target.
“Can I see?” she asked, politely. Friends of hers settled behind Rebecca.
“No.”
“I’ll show you mine,” Cherry said, tugging at her shirt. The boys cheered. Every male eye in the area snapped to the display. Vice-Presidents started to converge.
She could’ve refused. Cherry didn’t scare her. Cherry didn’t even seem to matter, all of a sudden. It was the boys, all of the boys, the hundreds of men watching her body, anxious and desperate to know just how amazing her tits were.
They had to get free.
Rebecca unfastened the buttons on her jacket and thrust it back.
They weren’t any bigger then Cherry’s… but they were better. A teardrop, each one, naturally resting together in a long line of cleavage. Just firm enough to be pliable, bouncy, but not so high as to look like a mere bump. These weren’t bumps. They were titties.
The boys appreciated the view. Underneath her jacket Rebecca had, for some reason, gone with an old middle school t-shirt, stretched comically out from the collar.
There was scattered applause. Cherry shrugged and wandered away, mistakenly confident that boys liked beachballs better.
Rebecca refastened her jacket and strode away.
She went straight to the bathroom. She sat herself on a toilet and locked the door, and shrugged out of her jacket. The lanky black-haired girl slowly put her hands underneath her shirt.
And then, for the next twenty minutes, she kept her eyes squeezed shut and bit her lip as she rhythmically squeezed her hot and bothered nipples. She managed to keep from whimpering in the silence of the bathroom.
“Why do they have to be so sensitive?” she whispered.
It was only later that she realized that every other stall was filled with a classmate, panting, doing the exact same thing.
Outside, in the quad, the Principal and Vice-Principals corralled girl after girl, issuing admonishments and written warnings for acres of overexposed tits, until, overwhelmed, they retreated to the office and gave up.
That was the last day anyone tried to enforce the dress code.
The editorial offices of Vogue were lit up well into the night. If they wanted to, the assembled editors could look out the window and see handful after handful of well-endowed girls parading around the streets of New York.
Fashion was in turmoil. Tits had never really been ‘in’. They were crass. Grossly sexual. Models never bothered with them, if they could.
“Every model looks like a porn star, now,” the fashion editor moaned. “And that’s not all. They’re eating again. The mammaries need the fat, they tell the brain, the brain tells the model. You put a nice dress on them and it bulges all over the place.”
The head editor tapped a pencil to her lips. She was of two minds on the subject. On the one hand, her wardrobe was a shambles and she was walking in heels like a five year old again. On the other hand… she had ridden the subway that morning, and each rumble had made her shiver like an overexcited schoolgirl.
“There’s no way around it,” she told them. “Here’s our headline: TITS ARE IN. And we put someone with a big chest on the cover.”
“What should they be wearing?” the fashion editor asked.
“I’m not sure it really matters,” she told him.
“Another one,” Kurt said. “Upper right monitor, in the parking lot.”
Nick looked up to check. And there they were, another pair of excellent tits, shaking at the security camera up on the P2 level. These belonged to a duo of college girls, giggling and egging each other on.
“Another two,” Nick corrected his subordinate. “Or four. But yeah, thanks.”
Boob Flu was one thing. The store had run out of bras one or two days in, and, even now, entire countries were working overtime to supply a dramatic need for stretchy elastic bands and supportive undergarments.
Although not as much as you might think. Many were going bra-less. Boob Flu boobs were grade-A titties: high, firm, tight. The word “perky” had never been better used.
“I give them an 8.” Kurt said.
“7.” Nick told him. “The one on the right—not enough cleavage. She needed another day to get them perfect.”
“Yeah, but you got to look at the nipples, the nipples are key,” Kurt insisted. “Good nipples raise you an entire point. Bad nipples and you lose it entirely. And these girls are good to go.”
“They’re all good to go,” Nick said. He wrenched his eyes away from the monitor just in time to catch a girl giving a smiling peep show in the middle of the store. In cosmetics, for heaven’s sake. And this was a mid-20s businesswoman in a knee-length wool skirt. The other women in the aisle were just laughing.
She was a 9.
“10 walking into the store,” Kurt said, his voice jumping up a notch. It was true. Even from the grainy, low-quality film in the security booth the men could see the creamy upper skin, the heavy handfuls of milky titties. There was no way she was wearing a bra.
Nick checked his watch. His shift had ended two hours ago. This girl was already teasing at her buttons.
“I’ll go put on another cup of coffee,” he said.
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