At the supper table, her mom and stepdad couldn't seem to look her in the eye. "Mom, hey mom! Hey! Daddy -- I'm up here!" she squealed. Trying to talk normally just made her pitch ever higher, more spit-sluicy, coming across as nothing more than a ditzy hick with tits for brains.
Maybe they were looking between her boobs for those brains, for the old Wanda, star student and all of that. The girl who always lent a hand around the house, the young lady who built all the family's computers basically from scratch. But that girl was fading, the fraction of her remaining all but checked out.
"Guys!" She had the constitution of a cartoon mouse. Then a whimper came out, finishing in a toddler's brand of giggle. It was creepy, so very creepy. But it also made her nipples very stiff. She drooled into her decolletage. "Sshtop look-at m'boobiesh, uhn'kay? Big fuckin' deal -- your daughter shot up, like, four cup sizes in two days or sump'n! It's like a medical mira-coo an' shit. Psshht!"
"You're the one that brought it up again!" Her mom looked over her daughter with bug eyes as she watched Wanda rub her own saliva right onto the meat of her eye-popping cleavage. "So, should we take it that the spit gave you those tits?"
"You're-so-silly-mom!" Wanda tittered, with the voice of a baby chipmunk sped up. "Like, oh em gee, mom! Get real!" This was the polar opposite of how she'd intended to speak to her mother. What did any of what she blurted out have to do with filing for divorce, and/or seeing about talking to a sex addiction counselor?
The transformation was feeding off of her fear. There was a whole bunch of sinewy, snarling fear, shoved her way by her bored and meddling mom. "I mean, I still cannot be-lieve that you didn't get them done! I've never heard of a girl's breasts getting so awesome in their late 20s! Wow. What size bra do you wear now?"
Wanda counted something off on her fingers, finally closing her mouth for a change. "Well, shit, I'un fuggin' know, actually! I'm just, like, oh god, like, such a freakin' space cadet sometimes! I swear! I can't rightly 'member. Now lessee. Whatever's the one after that there D, ummmm... I'm, like... so I'm the one after-after that."
Darrell's restless leg syndrome forced his knee upward, hard. His wife smacked him on the shoulder. Wanda smirked, satisfied at the strong likelihood that she was giving her stepdad a hardon. Cute. Her mom squeezed one of her daughter's new tits, quite shamelessly, as if to say, "I know what you're thinking, so stop thinking it."
"You mean to tell your _mother_ that you were a B cup less than two weeks ago, and now you're a... triple D? Are you _serious?!" She pulled both of Wanda's titties out of her shirt now. Wanda heard all those words but forgot what they meant somehow. All she understood was "triple D."
"That is cor-rect, mama." She wanted to say that word right. All words looked and sounded really fucking weird the past couple of days. She congratulated herself a few hours earlier, when she was flipping through the pages of a lingerie catalog and could actually read the word "sale" and staple it around something meaningful, somewhere in her pink marshmallowed vocab.
Her mom leaned back in the chair, stretching over to Wanda. "I have something I need to tell you." Then she dropped a no. 2 pencil right above her daughter's new knockers, where it sunk in deep, like nuked butter. She and her husband guffawed. "Maaaaahhhhhmmmmm-muhhh! That is, like, so not fuckin' funny! They're my boobies!"
Darrell started wiping the table down with a washcloth, taking everyone's plates. He obviously didn't want to get roped into any further conversations about his step-daughter's big new naturals, or how they got there so fast, and so fat, or anything else, really.
Wanda wished that Ben could clear a table, at least once! She envied the look of pride that her mom showed her husband, who now grabbed onto her daughter's hand. "Now I've got to go and have a little visit with Margene. I don't think I'll be out any longer than three hours or so. You kids sit tight!"
She picked up her purse. "Maybe you can show Darrell some of what you're been working on. You know -- for your blog?" Wanda sheepishly brushed a mess of crumbs off her lap. How to tell her... How to admit she really wasn't as strong as she had thought...
How much she needed Ben, every white hot inch of him... gooing and oozing, salty-sweet spermies gunning for her uterus -- so of course she did what he wanted, like, all of the time... "I, uh... I actually, kinda got rid of my MacBook, mom. It, y'know, like... distracts me from bein' a wife or whatever." Her mom checked her watch, huffing.
"Okay, well, we definitely need to have a serious talk about that, maybe later tonight. You're not off the hook, I paid twelve hundred dollars for that thing!" Wanda twirled her hair and gave her mom the silent treatment as she went out the door, fiddling and twisting and un-twisting the burning bra straps that were digging into her shoulders.
Wanda tried with al lher might to stuff her big new bosoms back into her top. Had they grown since supper? Impossible! She jiggled to the other end of the room and looked out the dining room window onto the street below, making sure that her mother had driven off.
The coast was clear. "Heyyyyy, Daddy," she purred, sidling up to the kitchen sink. She flicked some suds onto his chin. "Ya think you might could, like, help your daughter outta this thang?" She scooped a great big bunch of suds up and smeared it all over her tits.
She managed to get one strap down off of her shoulders, but the bra was a real tried and tested trooper. The crazy quick migration of fat to her boobs had given them the appearance of being worn by the bra, of eating the bra, like the Blob.
It was a sexy problem, sure, but it was still a real problem! "This is really a man's job. Now, normal-like, I'd have my husband do it, but it's like I hafta keep tellin' myself: he's a very bad, bad little man. He robbed me of my life an' all my dignit-stuff. He the one what's turnin' me into a ding-dong bimbo!"
Darrell yanked open his step-daughter's bra hooks, and was all at once completely distracted from her crackpot bimboizing theory. Those suckers looked more than twice as big, once they were freed. "Holy mother of God, Wanda. You might be suffering from serious medical issue.
"Yer so smart, uncle daddy! An' that'sh why I like you." She gulped down half another glass of wine. "And I mean, like, really like-you like you, y'know? But basically, I'm just gittin' real nice-n-fertile. Fertile for fuckin'. For guys to shoot babies into my pussy!" She took off his glasses and tried them on. "You know, Daddy, I've always thought you were..." What was the word? She made sure to sound it out, do it slow. "...uh-trackin.'"
It was probably best to save some stuff for just a little while longer, though. She very desperately wanted to tell her stepdad how earth-shatteringly horny she was, having only gotten to bone her hubby a measly three times before leaving him... Two seconds was a little while, right?
"I'm all hot an' shit," Wanda groaned, moaning low and loud as she tweaked her puffy eraser-nub nips. "I'm all sweaty an' hot and so very quite sweaty and I, like, totally know I'm fuggin' turnin' you the fuck on right about now! So don't even try to hide that dick!"
Darrell's face turned to stone. "I don't know what you're talking about. And neither do you!" Wanda reached around in front of her stepdad. Her hand met his crotch and she tugged. He was hard as a rock. Her pussy was starving. "Can we at least, like, shower together... maybe?"
"Look, Wanda. If we fuck -- and we really shouldn't -- it would just royally screw up any sense of family we still --" His stepdaughter bounced up and down like there were springs fastened to her feet. "Okay, Daddy! I'll go git us some towels right quick!"
Darrell flipped open his phone, dialing half of his wife's number. Wanda flicked the bathroom fan on, peeking out. "If you so much as think 'bout squealin' to mama, I'm-a tell her how you been puttin' the moves on me! You perv!"
