“Girls like her are everywhere now. You can tell them by their…”, she gestures, stretching her hands far out in front of her chest, rounding her fingers to grope invisible spheres, and only then whispering the word. “By her hooters. But it’s not just the size. It’s the bouncing. And the playing. And the sweet words she says. And all of the things she does to make you think she’s a nice girl to…”

Another stumble. Again the strain of old-world prudishness overrides his mother’s tongue.

“…to go to bed with. But never forget she wants something from you. And if you give it to her, you’ll never get it back.”

His mom had once warned him about a certain kind of girl, but that had been a long time ago, back in the days before his mom had grown into that kind of girl.

“I can’t believe this.” She scoffed. “You can’t seriously be afraid of spending your entire life between my tits. That’s what you’re for, dummy. It’s the only thing that gives your life purpose.”

“But I’m just saying, what if you really enjoy it?

“Because sure, there’s a chance it might turn into some kind of ‘eternal dick torture’ where you spend the rest of your life begging me to let you out of my boobs. But there’s also a chance you might really enjoy it.”

roastieswiththeboys:

Mountains of mammary meat

With pillowgirls there’s a thin line between bouncing and masturbation. For the first hop or two she was trying to get a better look. Everything after that is just her jugging herself off.

“A guy wandering around all alone? No girlfriend in sight? Not even a boobysitter to look after you? I’d almost think you want to get boobed.”

“Look, I’m not trying to shame you. I’m just saying it’s not normal. Like, I don’t even really understand where you’re coming from with this. Is it like a dominance thing? Like a power thing, maybe? Kind of a role reversal, I guess. Like ‘oh, I’m the big strong guy. I’m gonna’ jam my dick into this girl and spray my cum all inside her’? Maybe impregnate her?

“What do you even call it? Pussy fucking? A vagina fetish? A coital kink? And if you’re down there doing whatever, where do the boobs come in? Do you squeeze them as you’re kind of thrusting? Like just rub the nipples? I don’t really get it.

“Look, it’s going to be a hard no. And I don’t think I’m being unreasonable there. I really don’t think you’re going to find many girls who are into that. Yeah, yeah, I know people used to. But don’t you think we’ve moved past that, as a society? We were flatter. We didn’t have as many choices back then. I seriously doubt anybody ever actually wanted to be pussy fucked. It’s kind of gross, honestly.

“What? ’A loving, mutual experience of shared affection and bonding’?  Yeah, you’re kind of not selling it to me there. That really doesn’t sound like my cup of tea, sorry. Maybe I’m just too vanilla. But, hey, if you’re into this whole ‘bonding’ crap, I think a month or three between my boobs would really help straighten you out. You don’t mind a little ball pain, do you?”

A smile played across the blessed girl’s lips as she rose from the swimming pool, her breasts skipping up-and-down with every sauntering step. “How come you look so scared? Surely you can at least handle a tiny pair like mine?”  

Watching those supposedly ‘tiny’ breasts jiggle upwards and closer, her target stumbled backwards, falling to clatter against the pool tiles.

Uncaring—even finding some amusement in his fear—the girl leaned forwards, her back arched, her glistening tits nestled between her arms, rivulets of water trickling their way down from chest to nipple. Slowly, she teased her shoulders from side-to-side, shaking free the droplets, some even flying far enough to sprinkle her victim’s face.

“How weak would you have to be if even these little bee-stings could completely enslave you?”

Have you ever seen the homunculus man?

Maybe you’ve glimpsed him on the shelf of an old-world museum. The cortical homunculus, that gawking sense map of the human mind with his distended lips and tongue, those bulging eyes, his gigantic hands grasping out as if to touch the world beyond his glass cage.

If an enterprising researcher were to create a homunculus pillow girl, what do you imagine she might look like? She’d still have tongue to taste, and eyes to see, and hands to feel. But what of her breasts? What of those parts of her not just swollen in size, but threaded with new nerves and sensation? Our homunculus girl who gasps and blushes with even the slightest brush of fingers across her titanic chest; who, just by sliding hard nipples across the fabric of a bra, can taste the pheromones of previous wearers; whose world is racked daily by boob-juddering orgasms; and who is satisfied by nothing more than the gasping thud of cock through cleavage.

How could her breasts not dominate her? Our homunculus girl with boobs so big there’s no longer room for anything else. Her turgid nipples scraping against museum glass as she suffocates in a maze of her own overgrown tits.

To our minds, pillow girls seem obsessed. We wonder how loving wives and proud mothers could become the type of person who would demolish husband and son under the pounding of their breasts. But to understand them, we must understand boobs as more than just pseudo-sex organs. They are senseorgans. She is a blind woman now “blessed” with sight. And her titfucking as necessary as blinking for the homunculus girl trapped inside.

“Growing trouble?” she said, “We’ve all had times where we felt like we were swelling so fast we couldn’t keep up. Threads start to stretch, shirts start to shred and before you know it, you’ve got nothing left to wear.

Sound familiar?” she nodded towards the camera, still smiling, but her eyes were filled with sympathy for her swollen, leaky audience. “But you don’t need to throw away that old hoodie just yet. A pair of fabric scissors and a little time and I’ll show you how to boob up your wardrobe. It’s time to make those old clothes titfuck friendly!”

It might seem a bad idea to cram 15 lbs of sweating tit into a skintight latex dress. But fashion is a harsh Mistress and plastic is more popular than ever. Though, naturally, changes had to be made.

First the release valves—consider all the cream and lubricants, pheromone-laden sweat, and other more exotic fluids churned out endlessly by her boobs in their endeavour to create just the right environment to hold and torment a cock. And then on top of that you have whichever lotions, massage oils, and perfumes she decided to drizzle 4over her breasts that morning. The excess slowly dripping down deeper into her cleavage with each rub of tit against tit as she bounces and jiggles about her day until finally these fluids join her natural ones, pooling in the warm darkness beneath her boobs.

Without a literal release valve, her breasts would be left to swim and swelter in their own sexual fluids. With a valve, these spurts and secretions become someone else’s problem—as they should be, as far as she’s concerned.

And then there’s the zippers, their use obvious enough. For when a girl gets a little too hot under the collar and just needs that emergency escape. Positioned haphazardly anywhere she might want to release some boob, because she grew too hot and excited and wants to feel some cool air on her tits, or perhaps because she because she grew too hot and excited and wants to play with her nipples, or maybe for no other reason except she feels like getting her boobs out.

And finally, not pictured, is the customary warning label, carefully affixed to the chest of each rubber dress and then just as carelessly ripped away after purchase, barely ever read:

“Before airing breasts, please ensure the vicinity is clear of men and other weak-willed people”.

Once, enslaving her boyfriend would have been unthinkable.

She used to have all of these little scruples: morals, restrictions, a sense of fairness. Scruples grounded in old-world thinking—small-boob thinking as they sometimes called it. Fairness just wasn’t the kind of thought you entertained when you had your own heavy pair of superiortits jostling over the neckline of your top. Each boob swollen with billions of intermingled neurons sparking need, and, lust, and pleasure across their soft expanse; endless hidden glands pumping their thick hormone syrup throughout her body and reminding her of what was important; other tiny chemical factories working overtime to fill the air with black-cherry booby pheromones. Her new tits incessant in their desire to stamp their imprint on the world, on her boyfriend, and on her own mind.

Even a single boob was bigger than her own head and one alone would have been more than capable of overwhelming whatever protests still echoed from her forebrain. Two made it hard to remember she’d ever been anything other than this: this big-boobed bitch who’s nipples throbbed so delightfully when she thought of how it’d be to have her boyfriend at her mercy, squirming and writhing between her tits.  She knew, deep in her bosom, that it was entirely the right thing to do. Men deserved to suffer for their lust. They were silly, pathetic, horny things and it was right to take advantage of them, to show them how small and weak they really were.

She couldn’t even think of her lovely breasts as an invasive thing. Her blessing had been sudden, the new weight that had surged out from her body had defied everything she thought she’d known about the world. But she couldn’t think of them as something abnormal. They had simply taken their place as the most necessary part of her. Twinned queens taking up their rightful throne. Her chest proudly crowned by these jiggling mounds of pure lust telling her for the first time who she really was.

Once, enslaving her boyfriend would have been unthinkable. Now, when they were together, she thought of almost nothing else.