She was a slip of a thing, a 32A, all tight nerves and tight t-shirt. A dead-end bar, a loud music, a lonely Tuesday. She ordered a lager, mostly to hold something colder than her own bleak thoughts. The first gulp fizzed down her throat, and a bizarre, tingling warmth bloomed flat against her ribs.

She shrugged it off. Halfway through, her bra felt… snug. She slipped a finger under the band, and the lace bit into a swell that wasn't there an hour ago. The next swig, and the tingling sharpened into an aching pulse of growth. Her nipples, usually hidden, rubbed roughly against the cotton. She looked down. Her shirt was no longer slack. The silhouettes of her tits were round and prominent, pressing out hard. A 34C at least. A hum filled her head. *Fuck it,* she thought, and drained the glass.

It was like a floodgate opening. As the final inch of amber liquid vanished, her chest surged outwards with a audible, wet *shlumpp*. Her cups strained, seams groaning as each tit bulged another size bigger in her bra. She moaned, a wet, hungry noise, and pressed her fingers to her rock-hard nipples. Her tits hung heavy in the cups, not just bigger, but fuller.

She dove to the bar. "Again." The bartender, a rough old lecher, emptied his kegs into pint glasses for the giggling, gasping woman. Each beer was a fresh tidal wave of flesh. A 36D. Then a 38DD. The l