Breast Inflation

We sat on my ugly gold-fabriced couch (some day I was going to get rid of it but since it was one of the only pieces of furniture in my apartment living room I figured it would have to stay) and looked through one of my photo albums. We sat close, peering into the large stiff pages of an album that held pictures of me from late grade school, junior high and high school right up through 12th grade graduation. You munched from a shallow bowl of potato chips, the bowl resting on the top of my huge boobs, the bowl setting on my torpedoing tits as if on a large two-humped shelf.

Tabitha timidly closed the door behind her. It slid into place with a shuddering metal ‘clunk,’ which echoed throughout the small, brightly lit room. Three of its walls were blank, but the fourth had a large mirror, which Tabitha would bet her life was actually a one-way window. In the center stood a dais, about waist high, upon which rested a patch of fabric.

“So, I just, take off my shirt and put this on, right?” she asked, desperately trying to hide her nervousness. She suspected she failed.