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Okay, who would giver her honest answers to questions about this stupid growth? Doctors were out. Networks would tell her everything from "it's natural" to "it's cancer" to "it's a leftist plot to destroy society". She might spend ages sorting truth from fiction if she tried that route, and she'd rather get this under control quickly. If Doc B were still around, she could go to him, a doctor who wouldn't report her. Doc B had been taken out and replaced by Michael. So there was the answer, go to Michael. He was the closest thing she knew of to a doctor she could trust. He wasn't, like, actually a doctor, but maybe he could scan her and figure out something from her code. Worth a shot. She shot him a text:

"Hey Michael. Got some weird medical shit going on, hoping you might take a look. Let me know when you got time."

Well, with luck she'd hear from him in the morning. She couldn't take much more of this, so it had better be soon.

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Dammit, Michael, where were you? Sharie had been trying to get in touch with the code mouse for days now, but he'd put his head down and disappeared. She didn't blame him, it was part of the biz, sometimes you had to lay low. That said, she was going to fucking kill him if he didn't shake whatever was tailing him soon, because this was fucking ridiculous. Her tits were just unreal, like not beyond the bounds of believability or anything, but nothing she'd ever expected to experience. She'd found some free custom fitting holoscan app or whatever, and she was apparently an H cup now. Fuck, she hadn't known that was a thing! She still hadn't put on too much weight anywhere else, so on her tiny body they looked enormous.

Her favorite sweatshirt was getting too small now; these monstrous mamms were stretching it so tight it had gone from helping her avoid attention to looking more lewd than something that fit properly, and she could swear she was about to rip a seam if she took too deep a breath. Plus, they were still getting more sensitive, and taking up more space in her head as well as on her chest whenever she wasn't shifted. She had to remain conscious of what her hands were doing in idle moments, or they'd just jump to her nipples of their own accord. Yesterday, she'd let it happen and just played with her soft, massive orbs, squeezing and rubbing and tweaking and licking, and she'd actually gotten off just from that! If this weren't so weird, boobgasms might be worth it.

Now, to make matters worse, they felt...off, like full and tight somehow, but still really good, like they were begging to be sucked. Oh fine, just to get her head clear. She took one large, heavy boob in her hands, damn it felt good just to touch them, and brought the nipple up towards her mouth. Her tongue touched the hard, straining nub, and she gasped with how right it felt; tongues on her nipples and fingers pressing into soft titflesh was exactly how they wanted to be.

There was no going back now, so she pulled the nipple between her lips and had to moan right into her tit, it felt so fucking good. She got a little suction going, kept up the playing with her tongue, even bit it a little, and she felt an orgasm building. Fuck, why had she ever not wanted this! It was insane, it made no sense, but right now it was great. As the wave of pleasure from her tits traveled downward, crested, and broke, tensing her muscles and catching her breath, she tasted small, creamy droplets on her tongue. Was that milk? How was that possible, and why was that simultaneously really freaky and really fucking hot? These tits were getting into her head way too much.

She was feeling more clear-headed after that, but needed something more, so she started going through porn holos. She'd stumbled across a wacky little community the other day who thought stories about tits getting bigger were sexy; hell, maybe she should sell her story to these pervs one day. With huge milky hooters on the brain, she drifted over to that corner of the network to see what they'd come up with.

Whoah. Hold up a sec.

She found somebody had made a holo where you took the role of a woman getting an unlicensed mod to make her boobs bigger, and it glitched and you started growing out of control. It was total fiction, some smut peddler with a tit obsession had made it up, but what if...what if...could her mod be doing this? Could something be wrong with what Michael had done to her? Damn, she hoped not, because that was her livelihood, and if she had to put up with giant gazongas to be a spy, she'd just fucking make do. But she was definitely going to kill him.

Alright, Michael was still out of sight, so only one way to figure out if she was right. She had to stop shifting, and see what it did. Maybe she'd stop growing, or even shrink. Good news, she had some space to do it. Hardeen didn't need her at the moment, and she had a little cash saved up so she didn't have to try to make ends meet, not if it were only for a few days anyway. Criminals didn't get sick days, but she could say she wasn't feeling well and not get called to a job; heck, put some truth in it, say she was having some trouble with her shifting. Nobody else could do it, so what would they know? Sounded like a plan. Sharie was going to get to be herself for a little while, and nobody else.

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Well, shit.

Sharie hadn't shifted in three days. Good news, the test worked, and not shifting did have an effect. Bad news, that meant her mod had corrupted her code somehow, and Michael wasn't around to fix it, if it could be fixed. Good news, shifting was causing her growth, and not shifting meant not causing more growth. Bad news, the growth caused by all her previous shifting wasn't going anywhere. Her tits weren't shrinking. They also weren't not growing. They were just growing at a constant rate, not an accelerating one.

She'd made the mistake of falling asleep in her sweatshirt last night, partly enjoying the familiar feel and smell lulling her into relaxing, partly enjoying how it was so fucking tight across her boobs it felt like they were being pressed all over by soft hands. When she woke up, the seams down both sides had completely ripped out, destroyed by her gradually expanding boobage. The only unadulterated good news, she wasn't quite as horny and obsessed with her own round, delicious, lactating bosom. She was going to have to make some investments soon, though. Her breasts were approaching the size of her head; she'd stopped using the measuring app when the letter K came into the picture, it was just too off the wall and she'd never be able to afford custom bras in that size anyway.

For now, she could get her nipples to her mouth and suck the warm, tasty, creamy goodness out of them. (Damn it, calm down, Sharie.) She was also learning to hand milk her fat, leaking nipples, which was actually pretty relaxing if she wasn't too horny, but she was getting more productive, her swelling tits were getting harder to get to her mouth, and if this kept up too long (fuck, this was a completely insane thought, it shouldn't even be possible to get that big) milking by hand would become tricky. So she was researching auto-milkers. Again, crazy, but she had to be prepared.

A message pinged on her datapad. Please be Michael, please be Michael.

Fuck.

It was her handler. Hardeen had a job for her, and it was a good one, corporate espionage, real top-end spy stuff. Apparently she'd proven herself more than adequate for the job. That should be good news, but it meant her little boobcation was over, and she'd have to shift again. Which meant even more growing, and probably a return to extreme horniness. Shit. She could try to keep it to a minimum. Stay in each shift as long as possible, work on extending that. Give herself long breaks in between shifts whenever she could. Just, you know, be someone else as few times as possible, and hope that it was the number of shifts and not the amount of time spent shifted that was the trigger. Fucking Michael, he had better get out of trouble soon, before she had to go through doors one boob at a time. Not that she could get that big, that was just in those expansion weirdos' holoporns, right?

Right?

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This was nuts. Completely fucking bonkers. Sharie had two warm, soft, milky basketballs on her chest, and she couldn't stop touching them. Like, they kept touching everything anyway; why had she ever thought guys had it easier? She'd just never gotten this insanely huge before. There were women who lived with this all the time, the weight and heft of enormous tits, knocking stuff over and blocking countertops and brushing against door frames? They were just feeling so damn good all the time? She couldn't take a shower without coming now, which was why she was in the shower at the moment, feeling every hot drop splattering on her expanse of flesh, nipples and pussy alike dripping, fingers gripping her boobs like she had to hold herself above water on a flotation device or drown.

She could stop it, of course. All she had to do was shift, become someone else with smaller tits, even become herself with smaller tits. The sensations would stop, the milk would stop, she could get around easily, her head wouldn't be filled with thoughts of being touched and rubbed and groped and sucked and milked. She could have a couple hours of peace; her endurance was getting better, and her recovery time was only seconds now. Problem was, she'd pay for it, because every time she changed into not having titanic knockers, she grew faster. It wasn't, like, visibly fast or anything. You'd have to stare at them for hours to see them get bigger, and half of that was them getting swollen with milk, not permanent size. Didn't really matter, though; it was getting faster with every shift, she could tell. She'd stop if she could, but shifting was her fucking job!

She was good at the job, too. Sharie was finally good at something. It wasn't a traditional career, but she could see herself doing it long-term. She was discreet, she was clever and creative, she was observant and could read people. She'd been spending some time working out, taking some martial arts classes (shifted into a less inflated self, she found that the fitness carried over to her real image), and she was starting to feel like a real badass spy, a master of intrigue and disguise and information gathering. She wanted to get a red fedora and trenchcoat, just really lean into it. Doing the job was changing her, though, and not the way that people were usually changed by doing crimes for a living. She was still years out from clearing her debts, and her tits had gone from barely there to the fat, fantastic natural milky knockers of some of the biggest holoporn bimbos in three damned weeks! Maybe she should consider a career change? She could do porn now, no shifting necessary, and she was certainly horny enough for it. Nah. Even if it sounded more fun than it used to, it didn't sound fulfilling, especially not when she'd just found something she actually wanted to do.

Sharie did have one glimmer of hope. She'd learned where Michael was hiding out, back in Arizona with his old team. What sent him that far had to be bad, especially if he had to lay low this long. Shit, if things were bad enough, who knew how long he'd be gone? At least she knew how to get in touch with him if this really got bad. It was bad, yeah, but even this whorish size wasn't unheard of. Across the billions of people out there, plenty of women were this big, or bigger. Lots of them chose it, and they lived with it every day, and couldn't just change their shapes to get away from it. She could live with these tits for a while.

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Okay, she couldn't live with these tits. They dominated her whole frame, and were almost down to her bellybutton. At least, when they were empty and could hang softly, their weight slightly overcoming the gravity-battling firmness she'd had since this nonsense started. When they were pumped full of milk, that was another story. If she went too long without releasing her creamy bounty, they got tight and swollen, good-sized beach balls just dragging at her body and mind. They dominated her thoughts the same way they did her body; when she wasn't shifted, she had to fight to think about anything but her size and touching them and sinking her fingers into their pliable mass and maybe calling some friends to milk her and...damn. Focus. She'd been shifting only as much as necessary, trying to at least keep the rate of increase of the rate of increase minimized. Who knew she'd need fucking differential calculus to deal with her own personal milk tanks?

Luckily, this espionage job wasn't like the pool hall job; she didn't need to be a bunch of people, just one, so she could spend a few hours in her other shape (administrative assistant to the tech executive she was listening in on, blonde woman, pretty but not attention-grabbing), duck into the restroom to relax into her normal shape when she had to, get what felt like a gallon of milk out and probably orgasm a couple times (she was practicing being silent, but fuck it was difficult), then finish out the day in a second shift, send any relevant data to her handler, and make it home in time to spend the evening huge and leaking and alternating between blissed out on boobs and angry at boobs.

The money from Hardeen was coming in steady, and he was paying well for this job; her apartment was still the same small, somewhat rundown place it had always been, but her furniture was newer and comfier, she actually had a holoscreen so she could enjoy video on something other than her datapad, and the heat was finally working right. That last one was important, because tops were just not an option any more. Oh, they made ones that fit her, she still didn't have boobs beyond the realm of normalcy, what with how easy living in the 'Dream made cosmetic changes, although you could only get them in specialty stores.

It was the damn milk that was the problem. Even though her shift actually changed her body, it wasn't just like some projection laid on top, her code must still be keeping track of what her stupid milky tits would have been doing if they'd kept existing, so when she was in a shift for a long time, she ended up like ridonculously engorged when the change faded. Two days ago, she'd put on a top that she thought looked pretty damn good stretched over the girls, but then she must have had something for lunch that stimulated her production, because when she got home and changed back, the top had about two seconds of ominous creaking sounds before it fucking shredded. Which, Sharie had to admit, had actually been really hot; fuck, the thought of her swelling bosom just wrecking any clothes that tried to contain it was getting her wet. Stupid sexy hooters, cranking her libido through the roof. Anyway, since the button-popping fantasies would blow through her money too quickly, she just went topless in her own form now. She kept one top in her bag at work, in case she got stuck unable to shift for some reason, though. Nothing she knew of could stop her from doing it, but it paid to be prepared.

Sharie's datapad pinged with a message. Ugh, what now? Wait, Michael! He'd sent her mail! Halle-fucking-lujah. Sharie opened the message and read through what he had to say. He was very circumspect, lots of implications and misdirections and code words, but she got the gist of it. Something bad was brewing with Doc B; apparently, he was down but not out. Maybe he was trying to escape, maybe he was working with the Admins, but whatever it was, anyone connected with him needed to watch their backs. Michael couldn't be there until things settled down, because the Doc was a psycho who might not take well to someone stepping in on his specialty. So for the time being, the code mouse was taking refuge out west, and taking the opportunity to hone his skills with some real modding hotshots. Maybe he'd pick up some tricks that could help fix her. Of course, that meant his absence was indefinite, and contacting him for anything that wasn't an emergency was too dangerous.

Were her boobs an emergency? Well, they were certainly a big deal, and getting bigger every damn day, but she wasn't really threatened by them, she had a workaround (that made the problem worse when she used it, but still), and you couldn't really enjoy an emergency as much as she was enjoying being ridiculously busty. She had this under control, and her life was better than ever. She was dealing. So she would wait, and hope Michael could get home soon, and she'd send him a message if everything started to go sideways. She could live with this. She didn't have much other choice.

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Sharie stepped out of the shower and toweled off. It took a while now. At least she was drained and comfortable, and thinking clearly after three, maybe four boobgasms got her lust in check. She looked at herself in the mirror, just getting a good overview. Her chest was seriously just obscene at this point. No other way to put it, with her healthy, well-toned body sporting some attractive curves thanks to muscle development and sufficient calories, topping it off with gigantic, almost impossibly perky tits (they were new, existed rarely, and gravity was just a simulation anyway) whose lower slopes were roughly even with her pussy now just looked pornographic. She was glad she'd stopped tracking bra sizes a while back, because she was almost certainly beyond them now anyway.

Fuck, the new milker was great but she felt like it was making her already pretty fat nipples positively lewd. An image flashed through her mind, probably inspired by the expansion porn she'd gravitated to because it made her feel desirable and even a little normal, of two hot women riding her nips like they were cocks, getting their wombs stuffed full of her actual cream instead of some guy's euphemistic cream. Okay, maybe she wasn't thinking entirely clearly.

She sat down on her couch, intending to just relax for the evening. Damn, her tits were literally filling most of her lap. She stroked their smooth, soft roundness, and then wrapped her arms around them. Fuck, she could hug her breasts, and her arms almost didn't make it all the way around! Unless there were some people out there living the pervy dreams of the size enthusiasts, she probably had the world's fattest, juiciest jugs. Why did that make her smile? Was she getting used to this, or were her boobs just messing with her head some more, their overwhelming bulk and sometimes debilitating sensitivity convincing her that they were the best thing that had ever happened to her?

Like, her job for Hardeen was the best thing that had ever happened to her, if she was rational about it. She lived comfortably for the first time in her life, paying her bills was just a thing she did now instead of something she stressed over, her debts felt manageable, and spying was fun. She'd been assigned something a little risky, getting into the R&D at a data surgery research facility. Apparently, the 'Dream was so complex, evolving so much over time, that people living in it could still find new and better ways to manipulate it, so Michael wasn't the only one who could come up with mods that nobody had ever made before. This job was a challenge, she had to case the place for a while and figure out where everything was before she could even begin gathering information. Doc B would have known how to get everything; maybe he'd even had connections here and made good use of them. Doc B was gone, though, if still possibly dangerous, and if she could get the right information, maybe it could even help Michael when he got back. She looked again at her jiggling expanse. He was gonna need all the help he could get.