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Cynthia wasn’t really much of a masturbator. Sure, she’d done some self-exploration growing up, but it had never really done much to get her motor going, her own fingers just sort of lazily drifting. The dirty-blonde young woman didn’t think too highly of her body, either, describing herself in conversation with her girlfriends at college as “potato-like”, even when they insisted she be more positive.

It was the outgrowth of one of those frank rap sessions that lead the gaggle of women to the “toy store” near campus. Cynthia stood around awkwardly until she caught sight of a little dildo off to the side. Intrigued for reasons she couldn’t really articulate, she bought the six-incher, blushing as the cashier rung it up and wished her, completely unironically, to “have a good time!”

It stayed in the bottom drawer of her dresser until the following weekend, when Cynthia felt a little flicker of arousal creep into her body. Rather than ignore it, as she had many times before, she instead dug out the dildo and carefully began teasing herself with it.

"Shiiiiit, that feels good," she found herself moaning involuntarily. The little spark burst into a hearty blaze as she flung herself back onto her bed, hammering away at her suddenly-sopping vagina. Her pudgy form quivered as she reached her first orgasm, and her eyes widened as her voracious sexual appetite, heretofore unknown, began pushing her toward another climax, followed by another, and another…

Morning rose upon a bow-legged and aching Cynthia getting dressed for class and deciding, upon reflection, that leaving the top two buttons on her blouse unbuttoned might be a kind of a fun thing to try out. Maybe her friends were right; she needed to be more positive about her body.

I really do need to start dressing a little nicer, she thought during her English lecture. She caught sight of Bryan, a cute nerd she’d only spoken with a couple of times. I wonder how big Bryan’s dick is? Is it bigger than that dildo? She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

That evening, Cynthia ignored her phone, which had a number of texts piling up from friends wondering if she wanted to go out, and pulled out her dildo. This time, she suctioned it to a chair and decided to try out being on top, which she quickly found she enjoyed even more — the pressure of her body weight against the thick base of the dildo probably fired off two or three orgasms on its own. “Mmm, yeah, Bryan, do it like that…” she moaned, caught up in a fantasy of Bryan lying beneath her, blindfolded, his cock a tool for her pleasure.

And so the week continued in much the same fashion. Cynthia would go to class, come home, rush through her school work, and then spend the rest of the evening masturbating excessively, feverishly exploring her body with her toy. One night, she tried anal; another, she did nothing but deepthroat the dildo (after thoroughly cleaning it, of course).

On Saturday, she borrowed her roommate’s clothes to go out shopping. Her own didn’t seem to fit so well anymore, a sudden slimming that she chalked up to all the ‘aerobic exercise’ she was suddenly getting. She hadn’t lost any real weight, though, with most of the mass of the rest of her body ending up in her tits.

She didn’t even really properly appreciate how much she’d grown, thinking instead that most of the change in her bra size was because of her thinning band-measurement. The rest she figured was from her resurgent appetite. She was eating like a teenager getting her growth spurt, wolfing down plates of pasta in the dining hall and then rushing back to her dorm room to drill herself again.

Clothes shopping used to mean the indignities of the fitting room mirror, the “no, I’m sorry, we don’t make this in a larger size.” Now, though Cynthia breezed from specialty store to specialty store, blowing a chunk of her savings on tight tops and short skirts, two deep bras and a bunch of adorable panties. (Plus a couple of outfits she could wear to class and not have a teacher’s eyes pop out of their skull.) “I mean, my body really isn’t all that bad. I just need to dress up a bit more and I can walk around with pride.”

Cynthia didn’t even really worry about the money, either. Yesterday, when she’d come out of her room to get something to drink, her roommate had wrinkled her nose.

"What are you doing in there, running a porn site? You reek of sex."

Cynthia thought that wasn’t all that bad of an idea at all, and so Cyndi the Collegiate Camgirl was born. After all, if she was going to masturbate this much anyway, why not make a little money doing it?

At this point, Cynthia’s collection of dildos had expanded dramatically. Her original six-incher was always close at hand, of course, but it had been joined by vibrators and magic wands, as well as considerably bigger, thicker rubberized phalluses, the biggest of which was the size of her arm and she could only take half of.

And through it all, her figure was still improving, two enormous breasts complimenting her bodacious ass, separated by a skinny waist. After counting the take after a long night of private shows on her website, she ran a finger along her abdominals and groaned. “Tomorrow,” she resolved. “Tomorrow I’ll finally ask Bryan out.”

You guys sure like boobs, huh?
So do I.

You guys sure like boobs, huh?

So do I.

Anonymous asked: Please right more BE like your most recent post - that was gold! <3

Thank you for the feedback.

a story of your amazing growing breasts, 1500 words on the nose. 

You were not small, by any stretch of the imagination. 5’6”, pleasant hips, a waist kept toned with crunches when you remembered to do them, and a nice pair of breasts. You told yourself they were perky, shapely, and filled out your shirts just so. Plenty of boys wanted you; you had their crude messages filling up your inbox on any number of social networking sites, the occasional erect penis popping up in Snapchat. And that was enough, for a while. But the more you browsed the internet, the more you realized that there was a truer self hidden beneath the surface.

You loved breasts.

To be a little more specific about it: you loved growing breasts. Breasts swelling out of their reinforced bras. Overrunning any feeble attempts at containment. Bloating larger and heavier until the woman attached to them was little more than an afterthought to her enormous, heaving, mountainous bosom.

You made friends with the big-titted girls in your town, listened sympathetically as they occasionally complained about what a burden having big breasts was on them. You even attended the sleepover of one Millicent Bloom Anderson, who was dreadfully dull and smelled faintly of mothballs, because she happened to wear — and you knew this for a fact — a 34G bra, and you were dying to see what she looked like with no shirt on.

All of which serves to explain, if not fully excuse, your behavior when, after coming home from work one day, you began to wonder why your bra was pinching in weird new places when you laid down.

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