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Carrie and I had been dating for about five months when she decided to get her first set of breast implants. Though she had a nice, slim, curvy figure to begin with, she was always someone who absolutely craved the feeling of all eyes in the room turning to her when she walked in. She had always liked how men would watch her as she served tables at the sports bar at which she worked, walking about in her tight, khaki shorts that she used as a uniform. She knew she was pretty, that she had nice, athletic legs, a trim waist, shapely hips. A touch taller than average, but by no means gawky. Her long, straight blond hair attracted looks. And she had always been known for her fantastic rear back in high school. But she knew that the real way to draw men’s’ attention was with a big chest. She thought a bigger rack would look nice on her; as she was thin, it wouldn’t have to be too big to really stand out on her slim frame.
 
She began to rationalize it to herself and me as an investment: a larger chest would mean larger tips at work. Though I feigned playing the voice of reason, the devil’s advocate, I was secretly ecstatic that she seemed to have already made up her mind. I have always had a hidden breast fetish, and couldn’t have hoped for anything better. Whatever her reasoning for the surgery, after a few months of saving, she went in for the D-cups she had always wanted. I do have to admit she looked great. Her new bust complemented her curvy hips perfectly. Her old clothes were now tight in all the right places, and the new pieces she added to her wardrobe all accentuated her now hourglass figure.
 
I can still remember the first day I saw her, after her week or so of recuperation at her parents’ place in the country, in a clingy, white turtleneck sweater and tight, gray wool pants. Her eyes glittered with shy pride as I looked her up and down, stunned at her new look. And, when finally we were in bed together again, when I finally saw her new breasts for myself, I was nearly speechless. She was right; on her thin frame, they looked enormous. Almost double-D's, she told me, bigger than she had originally planned. Did I like them? She asked, watching my rapt attention study her new curves as I lay on the bed, she sitting next to me. Are they too much? She wondered, a mischievous glint in her eye. Too much, I remember saying, joking with her, is never enough. I think it was somewhere around this point where she started to get a hint of my secret obsession for large breasts; I don’t think I hid my awe too well at all. But, she seemed tickled pink at my reaction. They were just so perfect, so big and firm, so round.
 
Proud of her new body, she was excited to return to work. She walked with new confidence, loving all the attention and stares she received. You see, living in the small Midwestern city as we did, plastic surgery was not commonplace, and her new figure was not one that often came by naturally. So, she turned a lot of heads and she loved it. She loved being the prettiest girl in the room, the girl at the bar that all the guys would steal glances of, trying to go unnoticed by their wives or girlfriends. She also loved the unabashed admiration in the way I looked at her - as she changed clothes, as we lay bed – and she loved to just let me look. Though it gave her a rush, she was pretty level-headed about the whole thing, her new effect on men, and seemed actually amused by it all.
 
Besides my own barely contained glee, I was happy for her; she seemed so happy herself, had been wanting to do this for a long time. She smiled more, had more energy, just seemed like all in all a happier person. And, to my relief, she still liked hanging around with me. In fact, rather than having all this attention blow up her ego, make her wonder if she could find a cooler guy, she seemed more committed to our relationship than ever. I think her new confidence in her appearance settled her as a person, and she took her most honest pleasures in just seeing me happy.
 
And so, when I had the offer through work to move to Miami – setting up and managing a small IT department at the new office – I asked her to come with me. She jumped at the chance, thrilled as I was to get out of our cold city to a more tropical climate. It would be an adventure for the both of us. My new position allowed us the opportunity to buy a little apartment a couple of blocks from the water in Miami Beach. Not big, but heavenly to us, accustomed as we were to the dull Grey monotony of the north. Living together was new to us also, but we adapted to that surprisingly easily as well.
 
My job started well, allowing me a good amount of free time to spend with Carrie exploring our new city.  She was, for her part, surprised at how easily she found a position with a small catering business; she had about a half-dozen offers from which to choose. Looks count for a lot in this town, and every place wants the hottest waitresses to work for them, I guess.
 
Carrie took to her new job, our new life, with vigor. She was intent on throwing herself into South Beach culture head on, seeming almost to remake herself day-to-day. Not that I was complaining: her new wardrobe, her rigorous regimen of diet, exercise and tanning were all intent on sculpting a newer, hotter Carrie. But, despite all her efforts, despite all her astounding results (you should see the rear view of this chick now, after so much time in the gym…talk about being able to stop a truck), I started to get the feeling that she thought something was…missing. She never seemed quite satisfied, and I could sense the tension and frustration slowly building in her.
 
Up north, you see, she could generally count on always being the hottest thing around, the girl with the best figure in the place - certainly since her surgery. But, down here in Miami Beach, trim, young, busty waitresses were basically commonplace. Sure, Carrie was more attractive, even by Miami standards, than most, but she didn’t stick out the way she used to back home. Everyone here, it seemed, was some sort of model. Everyone had a great body.
 
And so, soon after receiving a great promotion at work, she decided to have her breasts done again. She’d been secretly saving for it, albeit slowly, for a while, and now her paycheck was going to be nearly double what is was before. The decision seemed to fill her with new life, relieve her growing frustration, gave her something to really look forward to. Her eyes would twinkle, her speech would become almost giddy, as she discussed the particulars with me. She wanted to be big, she said. Really, really big. Like “wow, who’s that?” big. As in, which she described with a giggle, “heart attack big.”
 
Looking in my eyes, she saw what I was thinking, imagining. “You’re looking forward to it, too,” she chirped, in a knowing, little-girl voice, “aren’t you, honey?”  
 
Though I was, of course, excited (though trying to remain discreet) that she was looking to augment her figure further, marveling at my own good luck, part of me held a little apprehension, and I shared my concerns with her. Was she doing this for the right reasons? Was this safe? Might she regret it later? I have to hand it to her, though. Carrie did her research well, talking to others around town, finding out about local surgeons, different options. And so it was with confidence, then, that she approached the coming procedure, booking it for a time when I’d be away for two weeks, back at the home office up north.
 
You can imagine my excitement, my anticipation, as I deboarded my plane in Miami after my trip, looking for her. It seemed to take a lifetime for me to get into the terminal behind all these tourists. And then…there she was. For a moment she didn’t see me but, man, did I see her. My throat caught dryly as I gaped – was that really Carrie? Her figure was…breathtaking. Her breasts looked to be huge under the tight, white, cotton shirt whose buttons struggled to contain them.
 
She smiled widely, waving excitedly when she finally spotted me. She watched my eyes goggle, alongside those of all the tourists also coming off my plane, at the motions this set off in her new chest. She put her hand up to her mouth, in sudden modesty, to suppress a giggle.
 
Our eyes locked, I made it through the crowd to her. “Hi, honey,” she purred, rising up on tiptoes for a kiss, “miss me?” She planted her lips on mine, squashing her soft new assets purposefully between us. I could feel the burning stares of everyone around, felt a bit embarrassed. Yes, everybody, this is me kissing this beautiful, impossibly buxom woman.
 
I can’t believe that this is all her, I thought, as she lingered in our embrace, rubbed against me, demonstrating her new size.
 
“Come on,” she said, as she backed off to arm’s length though still holding my hands, allowing me to admire her figure, “let me take you home.”
 
Holy crap, I thought, what am I in for?
 
What followed, dear reader, was perhaps one of the most transcendent experiences of my thirty years on earth. Carrie, the woman I loved, led me back home to our apartment, our couch, where – straddling my lap, my head against the back cushions – she showed me her new breasts. Breasts that, even through the layers of her clothing, looked to be absolutely huge.
 
Slowly, she undid the buttons of her over matched top, revealing a deep, tanned cleavage, a cleavage the likes of which I had seen before only in the pages of hidden magazines, of surreptitiously viewed websites. The firm swells of two enormous breasts were slowly revealed, each held taut in a white, satin bra against her thin body. Peeling her shirt away, she smiled as I groaned, watching her back arch, getting my first real grasp as to their scale.
 
“Thirty-two double-E,” she said matter-of-factly, proudly, as she adjusted the cup over her right breast, snapping it into place. She knew, I think, my fetish for her “statistics”, and repeated her size, “Thirty-two…double-E,” this time more slowly, with more emphasis, as she turned at the waist, showing me her profile. “So, honey,” she asked, turning back to face me, brows arched in mock concern as she reached behind her back, unclasping her bra, “are you ready?”
 
I remember nodding wordlessly, unable to tear my eyes from her chest for even a moment to meet her gaze, afraid I might miss a small part of this spectacle. She lowered the straps of her bra off her delicate shoulders slowly, with excruciating care, intent on the task and obviously delighting in seeing how she could torture me with anticipation.
 
“Oh my god,” was all I could manage when, finally, she peeled the bra away from her breasts and let them drop gravidly in front of me. I did not even try to mask my wonder, my awe, in coming face-to-face with her huge new endowments. Obviously pleased with my reaction, she giggled once and posed for me, drawing back her shoulders to emphasize her breasts. On her thin frame, they looked gigantic, but perfectly suited to her body, so natural. I really had no idea she’d look like this; I guess I didn’t know what to expect. Was this really her? My girlfriend? Her surgeon, I thought, is a freakin’ genius. “My lord, Carrie,” I blurted out, unable to help myself, “you’re huge…”
 
“Yeah, baby…” she replied, taking my face in her hands, “You like?”
 
I nodded again, still dumbfounded, as I stared at her voluptuous new curves. Carrie just sat there, on top of me, and let me look at her, caressing my face. She didn’t seem uncomfortable at all as I stared at her, hypnotized, lost in her ripe swells and valleys, intent on studying every curve, every shadow of her incredible new bosom. Rather she swelled with pride as she watched her man admire her, struck speechless by her fabulous body. She was truly in her glory, bathing in my rapt attention. She saw how even the slightest move – hunching her shoulders, gathering herself between her arms, embellishing her display with a deep breath – brought me more and more under her influence, under the spell of her giant new breasts. She knew she had me aroused, for my breath came in shallow, rattling gasps.
 
And so, as I watched her raise up a bit, standing, she wiggled her hips out of her tight Capri pants and unzipped my fly. With a glint in her eye, she tugged at my pants, lowering them to my ankles. Sitting herself once more on top of me, taking my face in her hand again, she redirected my gaze back to her round, heavy breasts, let me settle my attention back into her deep cleavage, and slowly slipped me inside her. I felt the tight, wet grip of her warmth take me in.
 
Harder, more aroused than I could ever remember, I groaned, fighting the urge to come that very instant. I realized I was in immediate danger of losing control, of coming, right then and there, and tensed my loins in defense. The view of her bosom was too much for me. Sensing my struggle, she quieted me. “Shhhh…shhh…” she hushed, unmoving, easing us through the moment. My eyes clamped shut, I tried to think of anything, anything but her breasts. Anything but the pleasure she must be feeling, watching me struggle like a hormonal teen against premature ejaculation, realizing the power her new body now possessed over me. She hushed me until she felt me begin to relax, my breath return, my control back again. And then, slowly, wordlessly, she began to rock her hips, ever so tenderly, into mine.
 
Gently, up and down, she slid over me, with utmost care. My chin still in her hand, I opened my eyes, staring once again at her chest, watching it begin to bob and jiggle with our gradual, building rhythm. “You really like my new boobs, hmm?” she whispered, her voice husky, “I never realized you were such a breast man…”  Confident, now, that I had regained some control of myself, that I would not blow unbidden, she sat back on her hips, to strengthen her thrusts. Releasing my chin, she cooed playfully, raising her hands to tousle her straight blond hair, displaying her new size. My eyes roamed up and down, over her womanly hips and thighs, her wasp waist, until my gaze settled again on her breasts. “That’s good, honey, that’s good” she murmured, bemused, “I’m glad you like big boobs so much, I’m glad you like them big…”
 
As she continued to rock herself into me, I felt my climax approaching once again. This time, I needed release, I would let it come. Feeling the change in my breathing, feeling me beginning to tense again, she lowered her hands from her hair, and crossed her arms behind her back. “I’m glad you’re a breast man…I’m glad you’re one of them…one of those guys that worships breasts,” she whispered, teasingly, mischievously, “ ‘cuz I’m going to need someone to worship me.” And then, with an exaggerated, sensual, moan, she thrust her huge chest out towards my face, giggling.
 
Wide eyed, jaw agape, I stared at her round, heavy weight and felt myself slip into climax. Did she really have any idea what she was doing to me? “Oh, god, Carrie…” I moaned, as I was overcome, “you’re…so…beautiful…”
 
And then I burst, explosively, inside her. I felt the warmth of her wide smile beaming down on me, watching me watch her as I came like a torrent, that smile knowing that it was the vision of her that brought me, so handily, to orgasm. I felt embarrassed, sheepish, a bit, being so easily overcome, so easily enthralled by the mere sight of her new – albeit huge – chest. It was so trite, so typical: girl with big tits, guy can’t control himself. But it was so true, and for the moment I forgot my pride and relished in the moment, feeling my climax electrify every part of me. She didn’t seem to mind. As it worked its way through me, I felt another truth grab hold of me, make my already spine-tingling orgasm all the more sweet: I felt just how strongly I cared for this woman, and how much she cared for me. I felt my deep, deep love for her stronger then than ever before and, right there, in the warm heat of passion, just as my pulses began to slow, I made a decision.
 
“Carrie?” I asked, pulling my eyes finally from her breasts, meeting her gentle gaze, “will you marry me?”
 
A pause. A pause in the moment as a wave of comprehension washed over her face. "Oh my god!" she squealed, taking my face in her hands once again, "Oh my god! Honey! Yes! Yes! Of course!"
 
Expecting her to lean in, to kiss me, she instead grabbed my head and pulled me firmly to her chest, squashing my cheek against her breast. "Mmmphh-" came my exclamation of surprise, my eyes widening.
 
"Oh baby," she trilled, hugging me harder still, "you've made me so happy!"
 
Now, mind you, this was the first actual contact I'd had with her newly improved bosom, and I'd become suddenly a little lost in the moment. The sensation of her warm flesh - and so much of it! - against my face was intoxicating. But still, somehow, I found speech. I explained to her, as I lay nestled at her bosom, that I'd planned on asking her for quite a while, that I had a ring for her hidden in my dresser. She, for one, seemed overcome with joy and excitement. I, on the other hand, felt a little shell shocked. But, the mass of her big breasts pressed against my cheek comforted me. As I nuzzled into her abundance I came to a private realization: that I could soon be married to this.
 
"I can't wait, honey," she said, pulling me from my reverie, "to be your wife. To love you, to take care of you, forever." I moaned in assent, luxuriating in her softness as I listened to her continue. "Oh, baby, I'm going to make you so happy. I can't wait, now, to get even bigger for you."
 
"What?" I asked, my voice muffled, brow furrowing in confusion. I pulled away a bit, to look up into her eyes. "What? Carrie, you don't need to-"
 
"Oh honey," she interrupted, continuing tenderly, "didn't you know? I got expandables, expandable implants." She watched my eyes with amusement as I began to comprehend what she was saying. "Oh, you poor thing….I didn’t tell you, did I? Oh, yeah. This is just the beginning, baby," she purred, easing me back towards her bosom, "I'm going to get even bigger from here."
 
"But...but...w-wuh...how...?"
 
"Oh, it's real easy...every couple of months or so I can go back in, have them add in a little more," she explained, shifting my face in her hands, "just a little bit at a time, hard to say how much exactly."  Having turned my head now, to face her, she drew a long breath. As I watched her swell before me, she pulled me slowly to her, slipping my face into her cleavage, between her big implants. I'd never felt anything like this before, her warm, firm breasts on either side of my face, squashing my cheeks. "But won't that be nice, honey? To have me even bigger than I am now?"  She tucked me in tighter still to her. "Feel what this is like now, baby? Feel how nice it is? But just imagine me, imagine your wife, being able to slide your head completely between her breasts."
 
Eyes closed, breathing in her perfumed, womanly scent, I pictured her breasts growing bigger, bigger still, until they enveloped my head with their weight. Despite my recent climax inside her, I somehow began to become aroused again. We both felt it, my spent member miraculously - if slowly - stiffening back to life, still inside her as she sat on my lap.
 
"You’re thinking about it, aren't you?” she whispered, "you're thinking about me getting even bigger, hmm? Bigger and bigger and bigger...until your whole head fits between them."  I grew harder still, inside her, and she began to shift atop me, testing. "Oooo, You'd like that, huh?" she asked, her hands cupping the back of my head, holding my face in her cleavage, "My little ‘breast man’ would like that, wouldn’t he? Oh, honey, I can tell." Gently she began to gyrate her hips, urging me harder and harder.
 
Lost in her surrounding flesh, I drew deep breaths from her warm cleavage as she began to squash my cheeks, my mouth, my nose with her firm swells, falling into the same slow rhythm as her hips. Thinking about it, I didn’t know just exactly how much I liked being called a ‘breast man’…it was sort of humiliating. But she seemed to sense my trepidation, wanted to reassure me. "Oh god, honey, I want it too," she continued breathily, "I want you between my breasts. Between my big, huge, new breasts." Her heartbeat was strong in my ears. "Your face, your head," she sighed, "all of you...tucked in, just like a bug in a rug."
 
Back now, almost, to full arousal, I began to moan softly into her cleavage, rolling my hips once more up into hers.
 
 "I want to be that big, baby, that big for you." Sensation returned to my loins, I knew I could come again as I listened to her. "To tuck you in, baby, that's what I want. I want to tuck you in, tuck you into my cleavage, keep you warm, keep you safe," her words were hypnotizing, seductive, "between my implants, baby. Between my big, huge implants."
 
I felt the crest of my climax approaching once more as my hands, circling her thin waist, drifted up her back, pulled her in closer to me.
 
"Oh yes, baby, yes, that's where you want to be, hmm? That's where my little husband will want to be. Between the breasts of his big, huge wife. Where it's so soft and warm, where she can keep him safe and sound."
 
Oh god, what was she saying? She was obviously on a high, boldly fantasizing about being even bigger, boldly probing me, beginning to realize my unspoken fantasies. So close, now, to coming again, I started panting, my breath rapid. "Oh...Carrie..." I moaned, "Carrie..."
 
"Just imagine, honey,” she continued, relentless, “imagine being nestled in between my breasts. Nestled in like a little bird.” I could feel her hands on the back of my head, holding me. “Oh, baby, it would be so nice," she said, as my loins clenched, finally, quivering, "just the two of us. So close. Together. Forever."
 
And then I burst, with a low grunt, coming once again inside her. She cooed sweetly to me, smoothing my hair as I ejaculated, more weakly this time, between her smooth thighs. Waiting for my pulses to fade, she stroked me lovingly, like a treasured pet. And when I, spent and exhausted from my second orgasm, again a bit sheepish, tilted my head up to meet her gaze, I saw tears of joy welling in her eyes. “Oh baby,” she said, her voice quavering, “I’m going to make you so very happy.” With that she slid me from her cleavage, allowing me more air, and dragged her enormous left breast across my face, as if to remind me of its size. We held each other like that, my face sunk once again into her pillowy flesh, for many long minutes until we reclined onto the couch, falling asleep into one another’s arms.
 
The coming months were heavenly, the two of us so happy together, discussing plans for a wedding in the future. Neither of us was in a rush to wed, though I could tell the little girl in Carrie was excited, couldn’t wait to be the princess for a day. She had definite ideas about her dress, the flowers, a cake.
 
Otherwise, our sex life began to consume much of our free time. We spent fewer and fewer evenings in the clubs, out to dinner, choosing rather to stay in. We had taken to more and more breast play, to the point where it actually became almost worshipful on my part. Her breasts had taken on a life of their own in our relationship, in our intimacy. I spent hours anointing her curves with little kisses of fealty, lapping at them like a submissive dog. Or, my head in her lap, I would stare up at them, studying their heavy, gravid mass above me as she would gently bring me to climax with her hand. And often she would pretend to crush me, to smother me with her bosoms, squashing my head, pressing my nose and mouth into her surrounding flesh.
 
I might have actually – rightly, no doubt - been concerned about myself, might have worried that I was becoming obsessed, fixated on her breasts. But, dear reader, it was more often than not Carrie, with unspoken encouragement, who would initiate such play. And so, I was content to blissfully just let things slide. We happily went about our life. I was always pleasantly surprised with her creativity, to maybe find her gently dropping a breast on my face to rouse me in the morning, or forcefully shoving a bra in my mouth like a gag, taunting me with its size, during our rough play at night. With each enlargement, however, I felt it became less and less just play. I felt, more and more, that in the heat of passion part of her actually wanted to do it, to crush my head, to smother me at her breast.
 
I remember one evening in particular, an evening where we were back at our apartment, just returned after a few margaritas by the pool. Both of us a little drunk, she was rummaging around the kitchen in her bikini, a thin towel about her hips, searching the cabinets for something while I sat on the couch, thinking she was fixing me another cocktail. When she returned, giddy, perching herself beside me, she did not have another drink for me. Rather, she was intent on a little project, a mischievous glint in her eye. She was drawing, it seemed, a simple little face onto a marshmallow with a Sharpie marker. I watched her, curious; neither of us said a word.
 
Finally, her new little mock-head in her hand, she gathered her knees beneath her on the couch and tossed her straight, blond hair over one shoulder. And then, with flourish, a bit of fussing, she proceeded to place the marshmallow between her breasts, holding it in place with her cleavage, leaning in towards me to insure I had a good view. What was she doing? What did she have in mind? I remember smiling, playing along with her joke, being face-to-face with that little marshmallow peering out from the valley of her cleavage, its mouth a tiny “O” of fear. I remember her smiling also, looking down at me, assured she had my full attention. She paused, waiting, as if for dramatic effect. And then…she squashed it, squeezing her breasts together slowly, drawing the marshmallow deeper into her cleavage and flattening the poor thing with a low moan of amused pleasure. She giggled, laughing at her little joke, as she let the marshmallow spring partially back to shape. And then…she did it again. “Oh, Yes!” she exclaimed, her tipsy giggles escalating, this time crushing the thing even more. I could not tear my eyes away from the little white blob, mercilessly sandwiched between her breasts, helpless against her mass. As she looked down at me, reading my face, I realized she knew - drunk as she was – exactly what I was imagining…what if that was my head in there? What if my head was that small?
 
My eyes on her chest, I watched her breath deepening, quickening, her flesh heaving. This was getting to be less and less of a joke. Tension of arousal began to build in the air between us, strengthened as she moaned again, mashing the little marshmallow further as she moved in towards me. Indeed, I realized I was fully hard as she took hold of my stiff member through my swim trunks, surprising me, causing me to groan. Beginning to tug on me, she leaned in closer, planting her chest against my face, pushing the marshmallow to my lips. Becoming quickly even more aroused under the attention of her hand, I took her little creation into my mouth, and began to chew.
 
With that she leaned back, my hardness still in her hand, looking down on me with a pout as I swallowed. “Ohhh…you ate my little marshmallow,” she cooed in a baby-doll voice of mock disappointment, “Where am I going to find another one?” Her smile returned, naughty with tipsy confidence now, as she stood from the couch to drag my trunks down to my ankles and kneel on the ground before me.
 
My shaft, eager for attention, stood stiff from my lap. She urged my hips forward a bit, and gathered her breasts, still held taut in her bikini-top, heavily around me. “That’s right,” she purred, talking down to my erection, now nestled in her flesh, “come here, my little marshmallow-man.” With her arms she squeezed her big breasts together, causing my tip to emerge, to show itself atop her cleavage. The feeling was incredible, of course, my manhood enfolded, surrounded by her warm flesh.
 
Ever since her first surgery Carrie had become a gifted student in the art of the tit-fuck, and I was always an agreeable subject, more than willing to allow her to practice her skills. But tonight was…different. Tonight, as I looked down at myself, alternatingly disappearing and emerging from her cleavage as she began to slowly knead her breasts into me, I noticed just how similar in size the head of my erection was to that marshmallow. The head, sliding in and out, in and out. My shaft like its body, a body at the mercy of her huge, surrounding tits. The thought fueled my arousal, imagining a little man, myself, squashed between her breasts, helpless.
 
“Oooo…baby, that’s right, that’s my little marshmallow,” she spoke, teasingly, still tipsy, as she continued to work her breasts around me, “my little marshmallow likes that, doesn’t he?” She looked up at me, and I at her, our gazes meeting for a moment. Her smile widened, sensing my excitement, guessing my thoughts. My eyes dropped.
 
“Oh, yes….yes he does,” she purred, eagerly pressing herself with renewed vigor about me, “my little marshmallow likes how that feels, doesn’t he? He likes to be between my big, big breasts, doesn’t he?”
My orgasm was building already, as I stared unabashedly at my hardness sliding in and out of her cleavage, her breasts enveloping, dwarfing my shaft. I could feel her heavy tits pressing themselves up against me, mashing my turgid sac. Oh, god, I thought, I’m going to come between her tits.
 
“It’s so warm in there, isn’t it? And so soft?” Her voice was mesmerizing, drew me deeper and deeper into my fantasy. As I watched, I envisioned myself, my own body, being so small, being absolutely overcome by her magnificent, over sized bosom. “Yes it is….so warm and soft. So warm and soft between my big, big breasts.”
 
“He likes that, he does,” she continued, her pace slowly building with enthusiasm, “my little marshmallow likes the feel of my big boobs all around him, holding him, squeezing him, squashing him. It makes him feel so little, so tiny, doesn’t it? It makes him just want to come…”
 
“oh…g-g-god…y-yes..” I sputtered, clamping my eyes shut as her smiling eyes flashed.
 
“It makes him want to come, to come between my big boobs, doesn’t it?” She was whispering now, intimately, as she urged me towards climax. “Come on, baby, come on, my little marshmallow. Come between my breasts.”
 
With that I exploded, in a gasp, a cry, and pulsed hot fluid up onto my own belly. My eyes opening, I watched my engorged head throb, coughing up its milky tribute, vomiting it out violently. She continued to work my member with the swells of her firm flesh, squeezing from me every last drop. When our gazes did meet again she wore a wry smile to my dumbfounded gape. Winking at me knowingly, she rose from her knees and turned, walking away with an embellished sway in her womanly hips.
 
Despite the somewhat disturbing imagery of this episode, I knew Carrie would never, of course, actually hurt me.  Rather, our relationship was becoming ever the more intimate, more tender, as our feelings for one another strengthened day by day. With a year gone by since our engagement – and five, if I remember correctly, further enlargements – there was nothing either one of us liked better than time spent together with my head nestled, now nearly fully, between her breasts.
 
So big she was now that my head almost disappeared completely into her cleavage, and I spent many long hours enveloped like that, her warmth on all sides of me as she murmured sweet words of love and rocked me in her arms. It was during these times that we would confide in each other our most secret thoughts, our most intimate desires. I recall late one evening, embraced like this. “When I hold you, honey, I want to really hold you. Not just in my arms, in a hug, or…like this,” she said, shifting my face a bit in her soft cleavage for emphasis, “I want to hold you…all of you. Surround you, be all around you.” My mind thought back to that poor marshmallow, months ago. “Do you know what I mean, baby?” she continued, prodding me, looking for a response, “Do you know what I’m talking about?” I remember being silent, not daring to speak, preferring to let the moment fade, my thoughts unspoken. What kind of man is it that wants to be swallowed by his girlfriend’s tits?
 
Her breasts, despite their huge size, still looked so right on her. Even with the new expansions, she never achieved that exceedingly fake, “stretched” look. Her flesh and skin seemed to grow around her implants perfectly, allowing her to remain soft. As she became increasingly top-heavy, she resisted the temptation to flaunt her assets to others more at work or out on the streets. Her style of dress was never truly flashy, certainly not by Miami Beach standards, and she saw no point in purposefully drawing the leers she so obviously could with a minimum of effort. Now a mid-level manager at her catering business, she felt she needed to maintain a certain level of decorum.
 
But, of course, her figure was not easily ignored, and even the most conservative of her outfits hugged her curves. Her clothes generally tended to be tight rather than revealing, though she was never above a well-placed flash of cleavage, an arched back here and there to score a particularly good client, maybe get us a better table on a special night out. She knew the power her body gave her, but showed the good taste to use it rather sparingly in public.
 
With me, however, when we were alone, it was a different story entirely. She loved nothing more than to hear my fawning praise, watch my awestruck marvel, each time she disrobed before me. She looked forward to each enlargement with anticipation, awaiting the chance to return home to my worshipful, dumbfounded stares, my added disbelief, to flaunt her ever-burgeoning curves.
 
Yet still, even at her largest, when her implants could take no more, she somehow seemed frustrated. Did she actually yearn to be bigger? With her frame it was nearly impossible, her surgeon told her, to go any larger without additional risk to her health, further surgery, certainly a less ‘natural’ look, the possibility of poor results. Though to me she claimed to be satisfied, happier than she’s ever been with her body, I began to worry a little about her state of mind.
 
I remember on one occasion bringing this up to her, my concerns that she may be becoming a bit obsessed, that maybe she should think about seeing someone, a ther****t, to talk this out. I had my whole speech planned – I had to, because part of me wanted rather to fuel her obsession. Realistically, I knew it was unhealthy, but I was also excited by it, by her need for more and more.
 
Despite my well-planned speech, despite my serious demeanor as we sat on the couch before dinner, the dialogue did not go as I had planned. All the while nodding, with pursed lips and murmured “mmmhmms” of false agreement, she soon seemed focused not on my points of discussion but rather on slowly unbuttoning the jacket of her casual suit which she had worn to work that day.
 
I was finding myself becoming distracted, as her cleavage began to show itself more and more. This, of course, was her ploy to get us out of this conversation, one she obviously thought we didn’t need to have, and I steeled myself best I could against her wiles.
 
But soon, just as I was getting to the part where I tell her that not everyone is always one hundred percent healthy, that it’s okay to admit that maybe one is a bit unhealthy, she had her jacket completely undone and seemed intent on removing it. Oh god, I thought, starting to stumble over my words, what is she wearing under there?
 
“I don’t know, honey,” she cooed, adopting a girlish, baby-doll voice as she slid the jacket from her shoulders, “do you think I look unhealthy?”
 
She sat there, now, in the tightest of white tube tops which exaggerated her curves to the point of being cartoonish. That sight, along with the seductive pout she wore on her pink, glossy lips, caused me to trip on my words, to lose my train of thought.
 
“Because I think I look very healthy,” she continued petulantly, arching her back in a jaw-dropping display of her profile as she stood to rise from the couch, “don’t you?” Suddenly speechless, I had no argument for her, and only watched as she straightened, pushed back her shoulders, and looked down at me over the swells of her impressive chest. With arched brows she waited patiently for my reply.
 
“I, uh…No, that’s not, that’s not it…I m-mean…” I stammered, finding myself unable to put my thoughts together into words, get us back on track. Damn!
 
Satisfied she would get no coherent response from me, she turned, making a point to show me her fabulous rear as she began to slowly walk away. Growing up as she did, a girl with legs like hers, she was naturally well practiced with this move. I had always told her that I had great respect for her walk, for the authority it commanded as she would strut down the street, or across a crowded room. And now she was mercilessly using this gift, this god-given talent, to its fullest extent.
 
I marveled at her hips rocking back and forth fluidly in her long, black skirt of tight Lycra as her hourglass figure eased its way from me. I could not help but think how there is nothing quite like the sight of a well-built girl walking across a room. She was leisurely in her strut, careful to embellish her natural sway just a bit, until she stood in front of a display table, which was against a wall and under a mirror.
 
Obviously aware of me leering at her from behind, she turned her attention casually to her skirt, which she unzipped with practiced ease.
 
“Don’t you think I keep myself in good shape, Mike?” she asked, not facing me, as the skirt dropped to the ground and she stepped out of it with her four-inch pumps, hauling my eyes mercilessly to her long, muscular legs, her round, heart-shaped rear. Her satin panties were a light baby blue against her smooth, golden tan skin, cut like a mini pair of hot-pants to accentuate her athletic physique. “What with all the stair master, the aerobics, the weights…it’s a lot for a little girl like me.” My eyes roaming over her well-developed hips, her strong thighs, my only thought was There is absolutely nothing little about this girl. “But I think I have a pretty nice figure, wouldn’t you say?” It was then that I noticed, our gazes meeting quickly in the mirror in front of her, that she was looking at me, had caught me ogling her assets. I averted my eyes as I tried to stutter a response, trying futilely to salvage a possibility of getting back to our discussion.
                                                  
“Hmm? Did you say something, Mike?” she asked, looking down over her shoulder at me, “I didn’t hear you.”
 
It was then, gentle reader, when she dealt her killing blow. Once again with the nonchalant, expert confidence of a girl blessed with a body like hers from all too young an age, she leaned over languidly, placing her palms on the table in front of her, presenting her rear to me.
 
I was thunderstruck. “Oh…my....god,” I heard myself muttering aloud as I lost any thought of reigning Carrie back in to our talk. Yes, I was perhaps a ‘breast man’, but there was absolutely no enduring the temptation of this brazen display. Obviously powerless against her, I nearly jumped from the couch and, before I knew it, had stripped her panties from her, grabbed her by her narrow waist, and had taken her from behind.
 
“Oooo!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with glee as I rammed myself inside her, “I guess that’s my answer!” Our eyes met in the mirror, hers sparkling with victory as her smile flashed. My bearing was serious, almost violently aroused, as I plunged into her tightness again and again.
 
“Now, that’s more like it,” she cooed, taking me in, absorbing my thrusts with her muscular rear, “come on, baby, show mama what you’ve got.”
 
I forgot myself completely, pushing into her, in awe of her spectacular rear, how it tapered into her slender waist. “Oh, honey, you like that, huh?” she said huskily, all traces of the baby-doll voice gone, “you like looking at mama’s jelly, huh? Mm, yeah, look at mama’s body, baby, look.”
 
I raised my gaze from her back to meet her eyes in the mirror. Her smile was dazzling, her eyes alive. But still she seemed so casual, so confident, as if seducing me to this point was no great effort. Through the reflection I watched her pull her shoulders back, stick her chest out, exaggerating again the outrageous curves of her overly-developed torso. My eyes goggled anew as I continued to thrust.
 
“That’s it, baby, that’s it…look at mama’s boobs. Oooo…they’re so big, aren’t they?” Oh, Christ, what was she saying? “Oh, yes, yes they are,” she continued, inflating herself with a deep breath, “mommy’s boobs are so big…” The round flesh of her breasts bulged voluptuously, swelling up out of her tube top, creating a deep, tight cleavage.
 
I watched the considerable ripples which moved through her chest each time I pushed into her. “That’s right, baby, look at how they jiggle, look at how mommy’s boobies jiggle like that,” she was back, now, to cooing, as if to a small c***d. Part of me was aghast at myself, allowing her to talk to me like this. Even more humiliating was knowing that she saw I enjoyed it, how it excited me even more. Once again, I averted my eyes, dragging them from her chest. I put one hand, now, on her back, and felt the thick band of her strapless bra through her tube top.
 
“Yeah, baby, feel that? That’s mommy’s bra, that’s mommy’s bra under there,” she said. I ran my hand over the strap, through her top, feeling its substantial breadth. To support Carrie, her bra had to be a significant piece of equipment. Merely thinking about the function of this garment, its duty as a foundation for her sizable endowments, brought me further along, closer to blowing my load.
 
“And look, baby, look,” she implored, calling my attention back to her swollen chest, “mommy’s bra is too tight.” Indeed, I could see how, through her top, her breasts bulged around the seams of her bra, straining against its confines. Jesus Christ, this woman is so big.
 
Unable to help myself, I pulled down on the back edge of Carrie’s tube-top, exposing the band of her bra, also white. A classic, utilitarian piece, it was unadorned, without frilly ornamentation. “Yeah, honey,” I heard her say, through ears deafened by my approaching climax, “look at that, look at mommy’s bra. Look. Look how big it is.”
 
I ran my hand over it once, and again, my hand trembling in anticipation. “It’s got to be big, baby,” she continued, “it’s got to be big to keep mommy in there.” She was absolutely relentless. “Because mommy’s been getting so big., honey, hasn’t she? So, so big.”
 
I was close now, so close. There was just one more thing I wanted, that I needed to see. “And you don’t want mommy to stop growing, do you?” she cooed, smiling as she felt my hand slip underneath her bra strap, “No, no. My baby doesn’t want that, does he?”
 
I flipped the band of her bra, twisting it around on her back. “No, he wants mommy to keep getting bigger,” she continued, knowing what I was looking at, that I was near the edge, “He wants her to keep growing, doesn’t he?”
 
32-H. That’s what it said, the label of her bra. 32-fucking-H. My whole body tensed.
 
“Tell me, that, baby. Tell mommy that you want her to keep growing,” her voice was triumphant, “Tell me that you want me to keep growing bigger and bigger and bigger.”
 
Twisting, crumpling her thick bra strap in my hand as it clenched, I barked the first intelligible words I had uttered for some time as I came: “Yes! Yes! Oh, god, Yes!” My orgasm came explosively, surging into her as I rammed against her buttocks with abandon. She watched my face twist into a grimace in the mirror, my expression one of unrestrained yearning. She remained serene, and simply purred to me words of encouragement, waiting for my climax to pale.
 
Soon my heaves began to slow, the grip of my pleasure waning. My breath came in quick, heavy gasps as I pulled myself from her. She stood, watching my face and moving aside for me as I leaned onto the table for support. Exhausted, my mouth still gaping, I closed my eyes, lowered my head, trying to catch my breath. I was spent.
 
She allowed me a moment, some time for recovery, before gathering my attention again. I felt her finger, under my chin, raising my head to meet her gaze.
 
“So, honey,” she said nonchalantly, “I’m glad we had this talk.”
 
A roguish smile on her lips, she released my chin, turned, and walked away. I was left, still panting, to watch her bare rear sway mockingly, elegantly voluptuous, as she sauntered unhurriedly out of the room.
 
And so, after that episode, I more or less abandoned the idea of getting Carrie in for therapy. The thought nagged me, in fact, that maybe it was I that would actually benefit from having someone else to talk to, that maybe I had allowed myself to get too deep, too deep into her and our breast-play. Maybe I had allowed my fixation to entrench itself too strongly. But, I didn’t want therapy. I didn’t want to have to admit what I saw as my weaknesses to someone else. It bothered me enough that Carrie obviously knew them all-to-well already.
 
So, I decided just to let things slide. Carrie would hopefully, in time, come to realize the limits of modern medicine, come to accept her current, fabulous figure as it was. But still, in the meantime, when she held my head between her breasts, I could almost feel her try to envelop me even more if she could, to curl me into a little ball and surround me completely. No matter how many times I told her how beautiful she was, how excited I was to see her, finally, in her wedding dress on our big day (“These breasts,” she told me one day, “32-HH, a 22-inch waist, 34 inch hips, in a tight, white wedding dress…imagine that.”) I think she still wanted more…something else. I was not suspecting, by any means, that she was brewing plans to actually go out and get it…
 
About four months before our wedding, she had been assigned to work a catering job down in Key West – a several hour drive – and would end up spending the weekend there, leaving me by myself. I had asked if she wanted company, but she insisted I stay home, have some time to myself instead of putting up with her, as she called it, “in stress ball mode.”
 
The second night that she was gone, a Saturday, I had a series of very vivid, very bizarre dreams. Nothing I can really describe in words, mostly an amalgam of disturbing images, haunting emotions. Some involving Carrie, some not. Really strange. Sort of sexual, I guess.
 
I woke up that morning feeling as if something was different, as if something had changed. I went about a lazy day off as usual, waiting for Carrie to return, but never really shook my sense of unease. Finally, returning at about eleven that evening, she woke me from a fitful slumber in the easy chair in our living room. I had fallen asleep reading a magazine.
 
“Hi, honey,” she beamed, crouching in front of me, brushing the hair from my eyes, “I’m back.”
 
I smiled groggily, stretched a bit, and told her I missed her as she leaned in for a peck on the lips. Looking around for a clock, I groaned and moved to rise, intent only on getting to bed.
 
“No no no,” she cooed, a delicate hand on my chest to keep me seated, “I have something to show you.”
 
“What is it?” I mumbled with a little smile, blinking the sleep from my eyes, waking up a bit more, “a present?”
 
“Well, sort of…” she answered, looking down and pulling at the neckline of her tight, ribbed t-shirt, reaching two fingers into the deep cleavage exposed between the twin swells of her big, tan breasts. My eyes and smile widened at bit more as my gaze was quickly riveted to her bosom; maybe her surprise was one of her tantalizing strip-teases, or a new bra.
 
My brow furrowed when she released her shirt, having found what he had sought in her cleavage: a small burlap doll, now resting in the palm of her hand. Perhaps two inches tall, featureless save two black beans sewn in for eyes, it looked roughly made.
 
“Huh,” I intoned, looking from the doll to her face, which wore a wry smile, “What is it?”
 
“Why, it’s you, honey,” she replied, “watch.”
 
With that she picked up the doll between a thumb and two fingers and in one motion, held it to my forehead. Suddenly I felt my whole world collapse around me. Reality, at the same time pressing inwards at me and expanding exponentially around me, became a nauseating blur. I felt like my body was both shrinking away to nothing and emptying out into a vast, hollow shell. Colors, noises, everything became a howling whirlwind and then, abruptly – in an instant – the confusion stopped.
 
The world was quiet. But…I was somewhere else, in some huge space. I felt like I was behind a veil, not fully in touch with my senses. Lights, sounds, all sensations were dim, muted. And, in a moment of fear, I realized I was paralyzed. I couldn’t move, not a muscle…but something was moving me.
 
I was being held erect, support at my sides, and I was being drawn backwards over a vast, empty space. My vision clearing a bit, I began to make out my surroundings.
 
 Wait…what is that in front of me…falling back as I moved away from it. It’s huge…it’s a…face…a huge, huge head. Like a colossal stature…but…my god…it’s me!
 
I was looking down at my own huge, motionless body, slumped as if asleep in the easy chair in our living room. Totally u*********s. The room around me was enormous as well; it was as if I had shrunk to mere inches, and was held several feet above the ground in my own living room. But those several feet felt like a yawning abyss.
 
As I came to grips with this new reality, my shock becoming eclipsed by a crippling fear, I heard the comfort of Carrie’s voice behind me. But it was huge, a thundering whisper, and filled the air around me. “Oh, god, honey,” I heard her speak, “did it work?” 
 
And then, suddenly, I was spun, rotated in the air until I faced…her. She was huge. Absolutely enormous. She held me like a flaccid rag doll, looking up into her billboard-sized face, which was wide eyed with interest and anticipation, looking down, studying me. “Baby?” she asked, “Are you in there?”
 
Inwardly I was yelling, screaming in unholy terror for her help, but I was powerless to move or make a sound. It was then that I realized with sudden horror what had happened: I had become trapped in the form of that little burlap doll. Somehow, touching that thing to my forehead had caught my consciousness, moved it into its little, lifeless shape. Aware of my surroundings but unable to act in any way. What’s more, obvious by the look on her face, was that she had done this to me. On purpose. My sense of dread spread immediately.
 
Bringing me closer to her, she inspected me, staring intently into me, trying to uncover some hint of my essence in this shell. Though gripped with fear, I marveled at the sheer size of her: her hair, her lips, her eyes – eyes whose natural brightness seemed amplified a hundredfold through this change of scale. She brought me closer, closer still, under her nose, and drew several short, quick breaths. Sniffing me. And then, drawing me away once again, I saw her face light up with a huge, blinding smile.
 
“It is you!” she squealed, nearly deafening me, “It did work! Mike…Mike? Can you hear me?”
 
Bedazzled at the moment by the gleam of her giant, pearly teeth, I fought against my awe to listen to her words. “Yes, yes,” she continued, “she told me you’d be able to hear, to see. Oh, honey, are you okay? You must be so scared! Don’t worry, don’t worry, baby. It’ll all be better soon.” She held me in her palm, now, so I could look up at her, see her huge, beautiful face in full from below.
 
“Let me explain,” she said, “what I’m doing, honey, what I’m doing for us. I went into Bahama Village, baby, this weekend, in Key West, to meet a lady, a priestess. She said she could help us, so we could finally get what we always wanted. So I can finally be everything you need.”
 
My confusion still rampant, I struggled to understand.
 
“She made this doll, sweetie, the doll you’re inside of now. She cast some spells, did some magic, enchanted the doll.” She spoke down to me, as if to a small, frightened c***d. “But I need something still, honey, from you. I need some of your…juices…to bring you to life. I have to get it from your old body.”
 
What did she mean? Priestess? Some sort of voodoo? I’m in some sort of voodoo doll? And, what is she saying…bring me to life? With my “juices”? Does she mean my come? Does she need me to come? Need my old body to ejaculate? And what did she have planned after that?
 
As my mind swam with questions she stood from her crouch, rushing me through the air at a dizzying rate, and carried me over to an end table. There she placed me down gently, to face my old, immobile body, a distance away. I watched her walk back across the room, only then becoming truly aware of her scale as I was able to grasp her actual size, see her entire body. She was the largest living thing I had ever seen moving, a truly staggering sight. Hips, legs, calves of astounding girth.
 
I watched as she kneeled in front of the chair in which I – or, rather, my old body - was slumped and began unbuttoning my shirt, almost dutifully. Pulling it off my shoulders, she next unbuckled my pants, unzipped them efficiently and slid them from my legs. Soon she had my boxers down to my ankles and off, tossing them along with the rest of my clothes to lie crumpled in a corner.
 
My body now sat naked in the easy chair, motionless and inert before her. Her hands bracing her weight on my thighs, she leaned, putting her lips to my neck. A bit startled, I realized I could feel her kisses, dully aware of them even in this separate, doll form across the room. I could sense her lips as they ran down the chest of my old body, trying to arouse it. So she could draw what she wanted, I began to comprehend, from my loins.
 
But, my member remained unmoved, flaccid against my belly, despite her efforts. Lower and lower she drifted, kisses fluttering across my stomach until, finally, she dropped her head into my lap. From my distant perch I watched in profile Carrie, my thin, blond, curvy fiancee, take me between her lips and attempt to rouse me with her mouth. A sight I have watched with marvel countless times before - albeit from a different vantage.
 
Even when she had me fully engulfed, however, mouthing and sucking on me in earnest, I did not respond. I was only dimly aware of the sensations, and too completely consumed by shock, fear and confusion to find any pleasure. She took to massaging me, kissing up and down my flaccid length, still without result.
 
Finally, after a valiant effort of several minutes, she became frustrated and sat back on her haunches, pouting. “Hmm…” she pondered, tapping a finger against her lips in thought as she looked my lifeless body up and down. She didn’t quite know, obviously, how to proceed, how to bring me to orgasm.
 
And then, a flash of inspiration coming over her face, she turned her head, to me, to where I lay across the room. Her eyes narrowed, a smile crept its way back onto her face, and she rose to stand.
 
“Well, sweetie,” she announced, walking back over to where I lay propped on the end table, “we’re going to have to try something different.” Again I marveled at the spectacle of her enormous body moving towards me across the room. I watched her approach, her thighs and hips filling more and more of my vision, until she was directly in front of me.
 
She dropped down, propped up on her knees, and re positioned me on the table. Now laying fully on my back, still powerless to move as I looked up at her smiling face peering down at me over the swell of her breasts, I suddenly realized what she had in mind for me.
 
“So, honey,” she asked, as she slowly leaned her chest over me, “how does this look?”
 
Even if I had eyes to goggle, a mouth to gape, she still would not be able to see my awe, as her massive bosom broke our gaze, hovering over me. Her round, full breasts, enormous in scale, consumed my view, held tautly in a tight, white shirt of soft, ribbed cotton which stretched over her figure like a thick second skin. I saw the outline of her bra beneath.
 
“Don’t I look really big, honey?” she asked as she lowered herself towards me, “Don’t I look absolutely huge?”
 
Oh, god. I was suddenly face-to-face with something I had always dreamed about – an implausibly huge, perfect pair of breasts. Carrie’s breasts, now mountainous in size, eclipsing my very world. And I was scared shitless. Scared but also, in my fear, in staring up at their vast, voluptuous, heaving mass, becoming very aroused.
 
“Look at these, baby” she cooed, teasingly, “look at how big I am.” She paused, allowing me to just gaze up at her monolithic swells, flaunting her overwhelming curves. “You always liked how big my breasts were, honey,” she continued, “am I big enough for you now?”
 
Above me, she turned her head, tossing her hair over one shoulder to crane her neck, looking back at my motionless body in the chair. I knew what she would see.
 
“Mm…” she purred with satisfaction, “there we go…now we’re getting somewhere.” I could feel myself slowly stiffening, yards away.
 
“You like that, hm?” she asked, “You like this view?” Encouraged, she lowered herself down, closer still. “You like looking at my big boobs, huh? My big…huge…boobs.” She now knew what she was doing, that this was working, making me harder and harder still. She was dwarfing me with her breasts.
 
“You always liked how I was built, huh? How I was built like a girl?” My eyes roamed the huge expanse of breast above me, struggling with its scale, its daunting immediacy, noticing the swelling hint of a nipple through her shirt and bra. “Well, am I enough girl for you now?” she continued, pressing on, pulling her shoulders back for the further emphasis of her shape, “Is this enough woman for you, baby?”
 
Looking over her shoulder again, she chuckled. “Oooooh…well, now, this seems to be working pretty well! Look, honey…” With that she shifted sideways on her knees and, with two fingers beneath me, propped me up a bit so I could see my old body. A stiff erection rose quivering from my inert form.
 
“See, honey, see what I did? See how hard I made you?” she asked, moving back to my line of vision, presenting her breasts to me again. “You like looking up at my breasts. You always did. It turns you on, doesn’t it? It gets you so hot, seeing how big they are. And now they’re so, so big, and you’re so, so small.”
 
She knew she had me, that she had struck a nerve. I was now aroused beyond belief, beyond any logical thought. I wanted her to make me come, in whatever way she must, whatever the consequences.
 
“But, before we get started again,” she said, lowering me back down prone again, “I have one more little treat for you. Just for good measure.” And then, slowly, her giant breast began to move in towards me, approaching me with its heavy mass, gradually blocking out the room around me. “Now watch out, honey,” she chirped, gathering her hair once more to toss over her shoulder, “here I come.”
 
With that she dropped herself finally on top of me, pressing me down into the tabletop. Suddenly I was enveloped, covered by her breast, its soft mass blotting out all light. “There we go,” I heard her say, the sound of her voice muffled by her surrounding flesh, “Now. How does that feel?”
 
Were I not already immobile I would say I was pinned, unable to move beneath her. Were I to need breath, I would be smothering, trapped under her heavy weight. Had I any bones, I would be in danger of having them crushed as she bore down more firmly on me. But rather, in my burlap doll shell, I could feel very little besides the soul-trembling fear of being so powerless, a plaything trapped beneath the breast of this bosomy girl. That, and the tremendous arousal which came hand-in-hand.
 
“So, honey,” she asked, pressing down a bit more, squashing me, “what’s it like to feel this much woman? This much woman on top of you? This much woman surrounding you? All over you?” She rested there, her weight atop me, for a moment, allowing me time to fathom my position. “I know that this is what you’ve always wanted, Mike,” she continued, her voice softer, more tender, “to be so tiny against me, to be absolutely dwarfed by my breasts, to be surrounded by them.”
 
She paused. “So, honey…are you enjoying it?” She took a moment to lift up a fraction, to rub her breast across me, gentle with its girth, looking over her shoulder once again. “Oh, it looks like you are. Oh yeah, it looks like you’re really enjoying it. Well, baby, it’s going to get even better, even better than this….so soon…”
 
At that she drew up, above me, raising her breast fully from me. Before my vision refocused, before I could read the expression on her face, she had scooped me up, in one hand, and was carrying me across the room. After several strides she dropped down, kneeling again, once more between the spread legs of my body, still slumped in the easy chair.
 
I watched as she reached out with her free hand and took hold of my erect shaft. An unexpected shock grabbed me – I could feel her hand upon me, much more strongly than I had anticipated. Now I could both see and sense her long, smooth fingers grasp my stiffness, run up its length, cause it to twitch. So taken aback was I that it took me a moment to realize what she was also doing with me, with my little doll body.
 
She had, it seemed, placed me down, seated on my own upper, inner thigh. I found myself suddenly face to face, only inches away, from my own erection, which was now more than twice my current size. I watched her giant fingers play up and down it, pulling it towards her, causing a fluttering deep inside me.
 
“Here you go,” she said perkily, using her free hand to throw her hair over her right shoulder as she leaned in to my loins, glancing ove