AN UNMISTAKABLE FIRMNESS

The album feels heavier tonight. It wasn't just from their weight, though that’s certainly a factor.

"April 4", circled in red ink next to a blank place where a photo should be. It was almost morbid. 

“Just another fill,” she muttered, though her hand trembled holding it. They’d say insane.  They said it was reckless, but they never saw how those words twisted inside her, fueled the fire.

Bra straps dug in as her shoulders strained.

The album was not all blank places after all. 

She opened through the album, its worn leather cover, soft under her fingertips, held the faint scent of cologne.

Each photo captured another moment in time, a testament to her dedication, another boundary pushed.

The first few showed a beautiful, smiling woman. She had some junk in the trunk, but her blonde hair shone in the light.

She'd smiled, a rarity in those days, as she was already imagining this polaroid's place in the album. What it represented. Day 0. 

Cotton eyed this artifact of her old self as she felt the leather book in her hand.

It was a pretty dress, but the way she'd tried to push-up herself into having cleavage hadn't aged well.

The next polaroid, '800cc' written under it, with a date.

To her now jaded eyes, barely noticeable—a subtle enhancement. But one that had made heads turn and sparked fantasies in strangers' eyes.

Then came the more overt ones: 1800cc, where her cleavage became an art form. The room filled with arousal as she traced the outline of each photo, her fingers lingering on the woman staring back at her—younger, but still undeniably breathtaking.

The custom expander implants hadn't been cheap, nor the fillup appointments. A year of her salary, far as she knew.

But it didn't matter; the thrill of anticipation was part of what made this collection so intoxicating.

Cotton remembered when the saline arrived at her door, the package had taken her completely by surprise.

Guess it's time… 

While she'd seen these saline bags at the clinic, they too seemed... heavier here.

There was a latent significance to their presence in her bedroom.

She would likely never go back to those sterile white walls after this threshold was crossed, was that why?

Maybe there was just a shit-load of them. 

She lingered on the photo, her first home-fill. She’d lept from 2500cc to twice that in a single day.  The expression looking back at her said it all. 

Whatever this undertaking was, regardless where it started, it had gathered critical momentum.

A surrender to a force more powerful than reason. The snowball was growing.

As the pump beeped and another 250ml of fluid flooded into each of her globes, Cotton could almost feel the process carve a space out inside of her, only to rush to fill it with saline. 

Each breath she took, the pressure built in waves from her clavicle and came to rest on her ribs.  It was a delicious ache, a tightness so profound it bordered on pain, each new milliliter adding forcing her impossible fullness to yield just a bit more.

Touching her tiny nubs of nipples, Cotton couldn’t contain her moan. Sensitivity loss? Her distended areolas were practically glowing with the constant tingle. The cool air of her apartment was pleasuring her nipples more than even a lover's mouth used to.

The beep of the pump became a metronome for her pleasure. Was it time to stop? She felt every heartbeat reverberate through her bloated tits

Cotton gazed down at her stomach as it shrunk from view, her overripe melons starting to dominate more and more of the real estate. 

Water balloons full to bursting, were these even breasts anymore? HER breasts?

Cotton never saw the clinic again. They wouldn’t understand and she didn’t need them.

There was simply no space for medical diligence, pragmatism, and compromises. Cotton was a rolling stone who had time for none of it.

Her momentum required her to accelerate, she now possessed the means to do so, so she would accelerate.

She was aware of the irreconcilable gulf between a “boob job” and this corrupted mythologised version that had taken root in her, but that was no longer a notion that scared her.

Next page, Cotton looked at her 5,000cc breasts, still fresh from their DOUBLING in size the day before. Still so tight that a less informed person might not perceive the tremendous weight Cotton balanced in front of her as she made breakfast.

5000cc sure used to turn some heads she mused.

Though head turning didn’t seem to matter to Cotton anymore, it was no longer really the point. 

She would have loved to fill this album with 100s of photos, to flip through it and see her huge breasts slowly swell and take over her body, bit by bit. She’d been trying to pose in the exact same spot with this very goal in mind.

But it had all started happening so fast. 

Those might be the only two photos of me at 5000cc that exist she thought mournfully.

Despite herself, Cotton adjusted her grip and indulged her aborted attempt at a flipbook.

The photos of her past self whizzed past, all carefully framed with a tripod in her bedroom.

800, 1800, 2500, 5000….

“Not much of an animation” Cotton muttered, well aware it wasn't about to get any better.

5000, 8000, 9500… 13800.

The jumps in size were comical. Each time that her breasts seemed to dominate her figure, to reduce her to a huge spherical pair of swollen tits with a woman behind them, the next page would arrive and show her accelerate even further. 

The photos felt like a museum exhibit, she was not only an object but a specimen under glass, a testament to what insatiable greed can accomplish. To be whispered about, but not approached.

She hesitated at 13,800cc. Maybe It was a milestone, but so were they all. 

Cotton may very well have had the largest breasts in the world at this point, had she cared to compete.

But Cotton paused for she had reached the penultimate space of the album.

19,000cc…it’s an impossible weight, but that’s the point. Their concern would be useless now. 

Each breath is labored, each movement measured.

Noone would dare touch this. The clinic's and society's judgement would arrive too late.

They’d say “rupture”, “impossible”, she can see their faces in her mind – the pity, widened eyes, envy, disgust.

April 4th, the circled date didn't seem so distant now.

"30 goddamn litres.. it still terrifies me..." Cotton said out loud.

A silence followed.

"But I'm going to do it, no matter what" she said resolutely, looking up from her reverie to meet his gaze.

"Very good".

Under his neutral tone was the unmistakable firmness of an order given.