Inflatorade (Patreon)

HACK, COG, GUFF!

Her sputtering, sloppy coughs formed accidental words, the meaningless sentence punctuated by a half-full bottle hitting the ground. She immediately regretted chugging half the bottle as her throat burned. She drew deep breaths of cool midday air over her tongue in an attempt to cool the spice. In, out, in, out, but rather than abate the heat seemed to spread, dissolving throughout her chest.
Thack, tak tap.
Her fit was interrupted by the sound of a plastic button striking the brick wall of the alley, bouncing, and resting by her foot. That foot was barely visible over an unfamiliar valley of cleavage, straining against its plaid prison like bread dough breaking free of its pan. Her hands uselessly attempted to hold her shirt closed as she wobbled herself upright, wielding her new momentum with the elegance of a plastic rattleback. New breasts half-resting in her arms she pulled her back straight, leaning slightly backward in defiance, as if attempting to will the unfamiliar changes to reverse through sheer power of posture. She tried to ignore the heat rising to her face as her cheeks turned red, breathed in and out as she tried to ignore the sensation of her chest slowly slipping against her hands. In, out. In. Out.
Rip.
Her clenched hands suddenly touched as her shirt tore, an unfortunate casualty in her struggle against two moving mountains. Her knees bent and her posture succumbed as she tried to support her breasts, now the size of large watermelons.
Rip. Pop. Rip, rip! RIP! POP! Gasp!
Her stunned inhale was a barely-audible harmony in the concert of undershirt-ripping and button-clattering. Sweat dripped from her face and struck unfamiliar expanses of skin, each gentle droplet startling her like a silent cymbal. There was no longer any illusion that her shirt would cover anything, and her hands swiftly adapted its remains into handles to aid in her battle against gravity. In out in out, her breathing quickened. Her mind was trying to do a dozen calculations at once, "could she walk, are they still growing, how far is home, when will this wear off, can she read the label on the bottle, how good would it feel, will she be able to get back up if she just goes for it and grabs her nip-" but one thought poked through the orchestra of thoughts and feeling, if only for a moment. A memory of her roommate's voice sternly demanded,

Stop. Stealing. My sports drinks.