Cindairella

Ooookay. Basically, this is naughty. It's a fairy tale, yes, but some rather unorthodox things will no doubt happen to our plucky heroine before this document is through, not the least of which will be some explicit descriptions of female mammary glands blowing up like balloons. If the thought of that makes you shudder, turn back now. If you're sick like me and think that's awesome, read at your own risk.

Once upon a time there was a man who liked breasts. But unlike you, this man was a lonely widower who fell desperately in bed with the proudest, haughtiest and bustiest woman in all the town. Naturally, the first two stemmed from the last one. They were wed and she, in turn, brought with her two daughters from her previous marriage who were exactly like her in all things, right down to the D-cups.

The husband was, for his part, not without baggage. By his earlier marriage, he fathered a daughter, a girl who possessed all the golden qualities of her late mother, who was, despite what the bathroom wall said, a woman of unparalleled beauty, goodness and sweetness of temper--the best creature in the world. But, alas, the man foolishly married his first wife for love and not for her body; his daughter, therefore, was sweet, kind, beautiful and flat as Kansas.

Almost immediately after the ink dried on the pre-nup, the new wife began to show her darker side. For although the stepmother had a rack you could dry dishes on, she was incredibly jealous of the young pretty girl, who embodied all the qualities that she herself lacked. She also realized that, by contrast, this polite maiden was making her own girls look like the crass hussies they truly were. So, naturally, she did what any fairy-tale stepmother would do: She sentenced the girl to hard labor, forcing her to clean the dishes, tend to the animals, hand-squeeze fresh orange juice every day at the crack of dawn and fill out complicated insurance forms--not to mention waiting on her new family members hand and foot. Furthermore, the poor girl was banished to a straw bed in the attic while her stepsisters enjoyed lush bedrooms with down comforters, stocked wardrobes, full-length looking-glasses, exciting undergarments and their own private phones. She dared not tell her father of the mistreatments, as he was a slave to his bosomy fetish, and therefore henpecked and powerless against his new wife anyway.

When the girl's chores were done, she would spend her scant free time warming herself by the fire, poking at the cinders and idly playing with the fireplace bellows. For this, the stepsisters cruelly (but cleverly) dubbed her Cindairella.

Now, it happened that the King's son gave a ball, and invited all persons of quality to it. Our young ladies were also invited, for they had these great dresses that let them show off their best assets. They spent forever choosing their gowns, petticoats, corsets and, especially, their bustiers. This caused no end of trouble to Cindairella, because they made her iron the linen and pleat the ruffles and sew the WonderBras. Even though the stepsisters went on and on and made Cindairella's life a living hell, she gave them honest advice and tried her best to help, because, as we've said, she was sweet and good and, when all was said and done, a kindhearted pushover. "Cindy, would you like to go to the ball?" the eldest asked as the poor girl tended to her hair. "Oh, of course, but I wouldn't think there's any chance in the world for me to go." "You're right--there isn't," the stepsister responded. "But we'd all have a good laugh trying to see you fill out one of our dresses." With that, she heaved her bosom so that it jiggled and wiggled magnificently, only amplified by the tight corset. If Cindairella had any sense at all, she would have lodged a hairpin into her stepsister's cerebral cortex, but this isn't that kind of story. Instead, she made her stepsisters exterior beauty equal their inner ugliness and hoped that a passing carriage might trample them into bloody pulps on their way to the ball.

Two days of starving themselves and preening about the looking glass had paid off; the time to leave for the ball had come, and the stepsisters looked spectacular. As they went to court, Cindairella followed them with her eyes as long as she could, and when she had lost sight of them, she fell a crying.

Her godmother--oh, did we mention she's got a godmother?--her godmother, who saw her all in tears, asked her what was the matter. "I wish I could...I wish I could..." was all she managed to stammer before she fell a crying again. Her godmother--oh, did we mention her godmother was a fairy, too?--her godmother, who was a fairy, said to her, "You wish you could go to the ball? Spit it out, dearie." "Y-yes," said Cindairella, with a great sob that almost made her fall a crying again, but it turned out that it was less a fall and more of a stumble. "Well," said her godmother--oh, did we mention that her godmother has enormous breasts? I mean, we're talking massive mammaries, the size of varying sports equipment--"Well," she said, "be a good girl and stop being a victim, and we'll see what we can arrange. Beer?" The fairy godmother thrust a glass-encased malt beverage in Cindairella's direction, which the girl politely declined. "More for me," the older woman laughed, opening the bottle with her teeth.

Then she took Cindy into her chamber and said to her, "Go into the garden and bring me a pompion." Cindairella ran to the garden but realized she had no fucking idea what a pompion was, so she headed to the fireplace instead and brought back the bellows--it was, after all, the only thing that brought her pleasure, and the only item in the house she was allowed to touch without prior permission anyway. When she returned, her godmother--who, with breasts so huge, could more appropriately be called a dairy godmother--saw the bellows and realized that Cindairella didn't know what a pompion was either. "I said a pompion, not a pump--but whatever, we'll improvise," she muttered. Taking a few gulps from her beer for courage, she struck the bellows with her wand.

A golden, magical sparkle--or was it a sparkly, golden magic?--encircled the object, and the bellows were overcome with gilt. The godmother grabbed the handles of the bellows and started pumping forcefully. Within moments an object began to emerge from the tip; as she continued to pump, the object swelled larger and larger, slowly taking the shape of a beautiful rounded carriage. It sparkled like a white pearlized party balloon--which, of course, it was. "These inflated spheroid transports are much easier to create than the vegetable variety I used to use," she mused, as Cindairella looked on in awe.

Realizing that there were no horses to draw the carriage, the fairy quickly pumped out a few long, sausage-style balloons and, a few twists and squeaks later, had created six horses to draw the carriage. "Balloon animals, of course!" beamed the godmother, and with a whiff from the bellows, brought them all to animated life. "This carriage will do the job," she announced, "but I would ditch the stiletto heels if I were you."

Upon mentioning this, the now-airy godmother realized that Cindy wore no footwear at all and looked a shambles (not to be confused with a crying). With a wave of her wand, the godmother transformed Cindairella's tattered rags to a glistening gown, bedeck'd with rubies and sapphires. On her feet were sensible flats. "I tried the 'glass slippers' bit once," her godmother explained, "but believe me--one jitterbug and you'd be picking shards outta your feet for days,"

The secular fairy, opening a Foster's, then said to Cindairella, "Well, you've got the dress, the transport, safe shoes...you're equipped. Are we cool?" "Oh yes," said she, "but for one exceedingly small equipage problem..." Her voice trailed off as she glanced downward, for as her stepsisters had predicted, her breasts could not possibly fill the bust of the gown created for her. "Fear not," the godmother smiled. "You'll like this."

The godmother waved her wand and Cindairella's petticoats lifted as if by a strong and very determined breeze. The bellows then sprang to life, flying as if a bird, swooping beneath the layers and burrowing between Cindy's legs. As Cindy's face reflected her shock, the bellows began to work themselves back and forth, as they had so many times before. The feeling Cindairella was not accustomed to, however, was the sense of movement within her body, the feeling that she was herself a changing shape. As she glanced down, her breasts began to grow, pumping larger and larger with the air from the bellows, causing Cindairella to gasp just slightly and shudder quite noticeably. A tingle filled her body as the air filled her bosom. Larger she grew, surprised to see her own body inflating like a balloon, her chest growing larger with each moment. After some minutes, the bellows stopped their magic and Cindairella had been transformed into a busty hussy in waiting. The dress fit perfectly, and her breasts were perfectly enormous. She looked damned good.

Being thus dress'd out she got into her coach. But her godmother, above all things, commanded her not to stay beyond twelve o'clock at night, telling her at the same time, that if she stay'd at the ball one moment longer, her coach would deflate and her horses would revert to the hastily-created balloon animals they truly were. Furthermore, her godmother said--slowly, pointedly, and with the melodramatic flair usually reserved for old gypsy ladies in B movies and BE stories--"Your dress will no longer fit. Trust me on this one." Cindairella looked at the godmother sideways, not getting the comment's meaning, then shrugged it off. She promised her godmother she would not fail of leaving the ball before midnight, and then departed not a little joyful at her good fortune(s).

The King's son, who was informed that a great Princess, whom they did not know, was come, ran out to receive her. His dark, wavy hair and rugged good looks made him the object of all female desire, but it was clear when Cindairella came to the carriage door that his own desires had suddenly been fulfilled. He gave her his shaky hand as she alighted out of the lightened coach, and led her into the hall where the company was. There was a great silence; they left off dancing, and the violins ceased to play, so attentive was every body to contemplate the, er, extraordinary beauties of this unknown person: there was heard nothing but a confused noise of "Ha! How buxom she is," "Ha! How bouncy she is" and, said one small voice in the back, "Ha! What a freak of nature." The King himself, as old as he was, could not help droo...uh, looking at her, and telling the Queen in a low voice, that it was a long time since that he had seen so beautiful and lovely a creature. The Queen didn't take shit from nobody, and promptly smack'd him with great force. All the ladies were busied in considering Cindairella's clothes--mainly, in how they could possibly fit over those colossal breasts--that they might have some made the next day after the same pattern, supposing they might get such fine materials, and as able hands to make them. Oh, and money to get them a few thousand CC's of saline implanted in themselves, too. But, hey, it was a nice thought and they enjoyed it.

The King's son, now sporting a haughty grin a mile wide, showed her to the most honourable place--in the ballroom, pervert, in the ballroom--and afterwards took her out to dance with him. She danced with so much gracefulness, bosom quivering and heaving with every swoop, dip and turn of the Macarena, that those in attendance all the more and more admired her. A fine collation was served up, of which the young Prince ate nothing, so much was he taken up in looking upon her. She went and set herself down by her sisters, and, having pretty much already had her revenge without a single word, showed them a thousand civilities. She gave them some of the oranges and lemons that the Prince had presented her with, thinking that they were hardly without the share of acid on their tongues already. Cindairella's generosity very much surprised them, for they did not know her in her inflated state. While she stood and gloated, basking in her moment of secret, fulfilling, overfilling triumph, Cindairella heard the clock strike twelve. Her eyes opened wide when she remembered her godmother's warning--she was on the verge of lateness, and had to escape before her ride deflated and...her dress no longer fit? "If I get home, I won't have to worry," she thought, then immediately made a courtesy to the company and took off like a bat outta hell.

But the dashing young Prince was not about to let such a good thing dash away, and he grabbed Cindairella's arm as she tried to flee. It was then that all in the room turned their eyes to the couple, and the sight they saw would be the talk of the realm the day following. Cindairella winced, and not because the Prince's hold was too firm. He saw her clutch to her chest and heard from within her a faint noise. Was it...a hissing? As he watched, now transfixed and unaware of his vice-like grip, Cindairella began to expand, her chest filling with magical air, pulling her dress tighter. As she felt herself inflating, Cindairella struggled, causing her bosom to quiver more and strain against the fabric. Stitches began to creak under the pressure, and Cindairella started to panic, for she truly did not know the outcome. Finally she broke free of the Prince's grasp and tore out of the hall like a bad cliché, leaving a room full of partygoers gasping in awe, and one Prince gasping with a severe case of blue balls.

As soon as she came home, Cindairella went to find her godmother to find out what had happened to her. "I told you not to be late," scoffed the well-endowed fairy. "You're lucky you got out of there when you did, or else..." "Or else what?" asked Cindairella quite tenaciously. "Or else," said the godmother, eyeing the young girl's ample bustline, "well, let's just say that stitches weren't the only things that could have popped." With a wave of her wand, the fairy godmother chang'd Cindairella's gown back to her standard-issue rags, and watched the girl's dismay as her bosom hastily deflat'd.

At that moment her two sisters knock'd at the door; Cindairella went and opened it. "You have stay'd a long while at the ball," said she, rubbing her eyes and stretching herself as if she'd just been awaken'd. "If thou hadst been at the ball," said one of her sisters, "thou would'st not have been tired with it. There came thither the most beautiful princess, the most beautiful that ever was seen--and wow, what a set of maracas! She showed us a thousand civilities, and gave us oranges and lemons. But you shoulda seen her melons." "She left swiftly," added the other, "and as she literally ran out of the Prince's arms, I swore I saw her chest...grow?" Cindairella seem'd indifferent; she asked them the name of the princess, but they told her they did not know it, and that the King's son was very uneasy on her account, and would give all the world to know who and where she was. At this Cindairella smiled, and said, "She must then be very beautiful indeed. Lord how happy have you been, could not I see her?" The sisters looked at each other quizzically, and Cindairella joined them, suddenly having no idea what her sentence was supposed to mean.

The next day the two sisters were at the ball, and so was Cindairella, but dressed more richly than she was at first. Her godmother had whipped her up an even more stellar gown and inflated her bosom to match its fit. The King's son was always by her, ogling at every opportunity and trying to confirm what he thought he'd seen the night before through double-edged comments. But Cindairella only apologized for leaving so abruptly and managed to dodge the question. As the evening wore on, Cindairella once again lost track of time, despite the godmother's warning a few hours earlier not to "fuck around with the deadline." The clock struck twelve once again, and Cindairella felt the oddly familiar sense of pressure begin to build in her chest. Scrambling like a caged animal suddenly set free, Cindairella broke for the door, only to be intercepted by the Prince. His strong hand thrust out to intercept her, snatching her by the arm once again. "Your highness, I must go!" she protested, trying to angle her body away from him so he would not see her breasts as they began to swell. "Why? Is there an emergency? Let me offer my assistance!" But Cindairella only struggled harder, finally wriggling free just as a line of stitches popped in very loud sequence. She darted down the front steps, only to find that her carriage, as she'd feared, had degenerated into a pile of balloons which were now being lifted by the cool evening breeze. The swirling air only reminded her of her own inflating plight; she felt the pressure increase and saw her breasts as they inflated ever larger, perfectly spherical, her nipples beginning to poke above the neckline of her rapidly degenerating dress. Seeing no other option, Cindairella fled clumsily across the field toward her cottage, bouncing and heaving.

The Prince, who had been delayed by the sisters eager for his attention, finally arrived at the top of the stairs and stopped short, watching her shadowy form scramble away in the darkness. He then looked at the hand he'd with which he'd caught the mysterious girl and pondered, as storybook Princes so often do. This time, he knew what he had seen--a girl whose breasts grew before his eyes when he grabbed her by the arm. "This hand," he mused, "this hand has always brought me pleasure, but now...now I think it to be magic!"

Cindairella once again found herself in a panic, dodging tree trunks and small animals, trying to keep to the forest's path using only moonlight and her own sense of direction. Most of her senses were a bit overwhelm'd at the moment anyway, as she could still feel her chest expanding--slower now, and more so as she got further from the palace.

"What, last night's warning shot wasn't enough?" said a voice, and Cindairella turned suddenly, almost tripping and falling atop her inflated assets. It was her fairy godmother, perched upon a nearby branch, swigging from a 40-ounce. "You do a girl a favor, and how does she thank you? By almost blowing your cover--not to mention her top!" As she hopped down from the tree limb and landed with an unsteady foot, Cindairella could tell her godmother had been imbibing spirits for a good portion of the eve. "Don't you see? I give you what you want, then everybody finds out who helped you, and I'll have a bunch of freeloaders lined up at my door." As the fairy mother circled the girl as if she was a prospective meal, Cindairella suddenly became acutely aware that her inflation had not ceased altogether, and her breasts had now exceeded the previous night's dimensions. She had never felt such pressure! "Please, you must help me," she cried, fearing that she had little time left. "It was an honest accident, I simply forgot...but I have not stopped this growing since I fled!"

"Yeah, yeah, help this, help that," snapped the surly godmother. "Who's looking out for Edna, huh?" The bosomy matron pounded her chest violently and took a swig from her malt liquor, just as Cindairella's dress tore with an audible ripping noise. "Oh, that's just great...ruin everything." With a wave of the fairy woman's hand, Cindairella's growth finally ceased, leaving her with barely enough clothing over her chest for it to be called clothing at all. "What'd you do with the carriage?" barked the godmother. Cindairella did not answer, not knowing exactly how to deal with a drunken fairy. "Oh, hell with it," snarled the woman, leading the overinflated Cindairella away by the wrist. "It's time we both got home."

Cindairella just barely returned to the cottage with enough time to return to normal size, get properly disheveled and feign sleepiness when her sisters barged through the door. Cindairella asked them how the evening went, and cautiously asked if the beautiful princess had return'd. "Yeah, she return'd all right, but she repeat'd the same stunt twice in a row, right down to the growth trick," said one sister, a sour look covering her face. "Quite unexpectedly, bitch bolts out the door, and the Prince did charge after her like the sex-starved scalawag he is." "Once, perhaps," chimed in the other, her demeanor no less irritable, "but abandoning your date twice like that--and when that date is royalty!--well, princess or not, she is clearly just rude." Cindairella held her tongue from responding, giving a nervous glance down to her once-ample bosom. "After she fled," added the first sister, "the Prince spent most of the night grabbing people by the arm, as if a special reaction he expect'd. When there were no unusual results, he just sat there, looking at his hand--which is probably what he's using as we speak." The sisters tittered, then threw some lemons and oranges out the window as a symbolic gesture.

Two days passed, and the King's son caused it to be proclaim'd by sound of trumpet that he intended to marry the mystery princess as soon as he could locate her, and would be visiting each cottage in his quest to find the girl. He made no mention of his hand's special powers, but his plans were to firmly grasp each girl by the arm and watch what happened. For most of the court and kingdom, nothing did--although he'd caused a few bruises, and had earned a few odd looks for grabbing the arm of a prepubescent boy, who promptly kicked His Lordship in the royal jewels.

The Prince grew weary of the endless grabbing and releasing, grabbing and releasing--I could be doing this at home, with a magazine, he mused--but finally found himself at the small cottage where Cindairella lived. The evil sisters had seen the mysterious princess' swollen reaction both nights, and both had corseted themselves up for the Prince's arrival. Cindairella, meanwhile, was ordered to stay in the corner, out of immediate view. As the King's son grasped each of their arms in turn, they inhal'd greatly and thrust out their chests, but could not puff themselves up in a manner that satisfied the horny inheritor. "I fear it is hopeless," he said, turning to open the cottage door. Cindairella, realizing that this was her last chance for any interaction with the Prince at all, sprang from her chair to open the door for him, but was late in her attempt. The Prince's outstretched hand landed on her arm instead of the door's handle.

At that moment, the room was filled with a hissing sound, and Cindairella felt within her the sensation she'd felt each night at the ball. The room's gazes were drawn to her chest, as her tattered rags rustled with movement. She felt--and everyone saw--her breasts begin to inflate, steadily, solidly, forcing the fabric forward. Cindairella gasped, as did the Prince. "It's you! You're the one! You're the princess!" he exclaimed, as the evil sisters and stepmother (you remember her) looked at each other with alarm. "There isn't another maiden in the kingdom who can be thusly satisfied by my magic fingers!"

The Prince tightened his grasp on Cindairella's arm, causing her to yelp and swell. Larger her bosom grew, rapidly inflating and exceeding the confines of her shoddy attire. The haphazardly-sewn rags began to break their bonds, causing pink flesh to show behind the tatters. As the stitches burst, Cindairella continued swelling bigger and bigger, her hands clutching at the sides of her chest. The pressure within her mounted, and she began moaning, unable to articulate the feeling of being pumped with the magical air. One of the Prince's attendants wiped a small amount of drool away from the royal chin, and the sisters began looking for safe cover, fearing that Cindairella might soon pop! Truth to be known, Cindairella fear'd the same, as she felt her skin stop stretching but the pressure continue to mount.

Just then the fairy godmother appeared, looking disheveled and quite hung over, but sober at the very least. "What's all this then?" she demanded, taking stock of the situation. Hmm, she thought, evil sisters cowering, nobility drooling, the dim bulb looking like a 13-year-old's wet dream--this was my cue, all right. "Okay, looks like we're at the end of the story. Girls, you pay attention now--this is the happy-ass ending for everyone but you. You two get to feel like jerks for treating Cindy here like dirt when she's about to marry into money." The sisters poked their heads up from the chairs they'd sought shelter behind and gave the godmother that confused-dog look, cocking their heads to one side. "Princey, you take Cindairella back to the castle with you and marry her, okay?" "Ab..absolutely!" he replied, a lecherous grin spreading across his face. "Cindy, you go with him and live happily ever after. It's that simple."

"But I...I'm...going....to...BURST!" Cindairella stammered, her breasts taut, and her stomach just beginning to bulge. Her chest was now quivering with the pressure, having stretched as much as her body would allow, yet the sensations building within her would not stop! "Oh," replied the fairy, as this simply hadn't presented itself as a problem in her mind. "Here ya go." She gave a lopsided wave of her magic wand, and the hissing stopped. A few strategic stitches held Cindairella's tattered clothing together; her ballooned breasts had stretched them to the absolute limit. "But...how am I to go on like this?" whined Cindairella. "I can't even fit out the door!" "Not my problem," replied the fairy godmother, shaking her head. "I've already put too much time into your case as it is. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for a menage a trois with the Brothers Grimm." She vanished in a puff of pink smoke, which the sisters inhaled and promptly chok'd upon.

And they all lived hornily ever after. Except the sisters, who just died.