He had started out in the art department and had won immediate praise and eventual promotion for the beauty of the female forms he drew, especially the breasts. He drew small firm breasts, pert little sexy breasts, and full round breasts. But above all, he was a master with large voluptuous breasts that seemed to be still swelling and growing, on the brink of bursting out of the narrow confines of bra, blouse or dress, the huge breasts of nightclubs and show posters.
The other aspiring ad-men he by-passed on his rapid rise to the executive ranks vented their envy by nicknaming him "Bob the Boob." He countered by making a joke of the breast business, expounding mock breast-philosophies. He referred to the mammary protuberance as the "fountain of youth. He claimed that it was the true symbol of the American nation -- Mae West and the spirit of the Wild West, Marilyn Monroe and the American Dream. A huge burgeoning breast was the natural symbol of the forward-looking, striving vitality of the nation: its hopes, its aspirations.
Bob was in love with Sandra. She was a charming girl. Everyone agreed that she was perfectly wonderful. There was only one drawback: her breasts were small.
Of course, Bob was gratified that everyone thought she was so wonderful. Of course, Bob loved her. But her breasts were small.
He could call them "small firm breasts," even "pert little sexy breasts." He could aesthetically appreciate their shape, and the way they went so well with her shape. But they were not the voluminous, unaesthetic, bold fleshy swellings that had so captured his imagination.
He tried to be reasonable -- there was no mistaking Sandra's beauty of person and form. But he craved that abundance, that super-abundance, that fleshly counterpart of the expansive vitality of America itself.
Bob was convinced that with larger breasts Sandra's whole personality would be improved. She would be more aggressive, more self-reliant, more vigorous -- so much more the perfect wife for a young advertising executive with a bright future ahead of him.
Being a true American, he did not simply resign himself to the situation. Rather, he did everything in his power to change it.
After long months of study of the physio-bio-chemistry of the female breast, he developed a chemical that he was sure would reactivate the growth cells of the breast and enable breasts that had been stunted to fill out to their proper abundant dimensions.
Rather than insert foreign matter and artificially prop up the living tissue, this method released the natural vitality of the breast and allowed it to literally "grow." When the experiments he performed with chimpanzees and baboons were uniformly success ful, he told Sandra about it.
She was somewhat taken aback. She was, of course, aware that her breasts were below average in size. But since high school days, she had learned to get along with her disability, had learned to choose the clothes that would accentuate her more positive features, and had eventually ceased to think about the size of her breasts. But from Bob's enthusiasm, Sandra could easily guess how much their size meant to him.
For herself, she was perfectly content to remain as she was. In fact, she was somewhat suspicious of wonder-working drugs and chemicals. As he explained his method more fully, she couldn't help thinking of huge hybrid tomatoes and pumpkins that grow to nearly the size of houses. She wanted to laugh, but she didn't want to hurt his feelings. And she hoped that even if the experiment didn't succeed (and she was sure it wouldn't), the effort would cure him of his obsession, and they would be able to live happily ever after.
That very night she let him give her the first injection.
After a week, nothing noticeable had happened.
After two weeks, Bob grew impatient and gave her another, much larger injection.
A week more with no apparent results, and he injected her again. She felt sure that when it didn't work this time, he would stop; and all would be well.
For another week, nothing happened. But instead of simply accepting defeat, Bob became morose and buried himself almost completely in his basement laboratory, determined to perfect the treatment.
Sandra was somewhat dismayed to learn that it had not been "perfected" before he tried it on her. She was still more dismayed at how little attention he paid her now, and how surly he was when he did see her.
She wanted to hate him, but she wound up hating herself, hating her small breasts. She took to lying in bed whole days at a time and just staring at the ceiling or in the mirror across the room at the two pitifully small lumps that lay so lifeless and blah on top of her ribs.
A week later, a tape measure confirmed that her bust was a full inch larger.
She didn't tell Bob.
Another week passed, and she put on two more inches. She wasn't sure if the overall effect of the change was becoming, but they were now statistically at least average; and, considered separately from the rest of her, they were definitely attractive.
At least Bob would be pleased; she was sure of that.
But she waited, and didn't mention what was happening the few times that Bob called.
He was so busy with his advertising work and his physio-bio-chemical experiments that a month passed without him ever seeing her.
More time would have passed, but she got scared. For her breasts had continued to grow, slowly, but steadily and were now approximately 36".
The problem wasn't so much their size as shape. They had grown irregularly, grown in length without growing commensurately in width, and hung limply, somewhat painfully -- for she was unused to supporting such weight. It felt awkward for her to do anything but lie in bed, as she had done before, when her breasts had been so hatefully and yet comfortably small.
So Sandra called Bob and, as calmly as she could, explained that his experiment had indeed worked, but not as planned.
Bob was ecstatic. Even when he saw her, he was ecstatic.
With complete confidence, he gave her new injections near the base of her breasts.
At first, his confidence seemed justified, as the breasts did, in fact, fill out and become full and round, and in succeeding weeks they grew still more to the huge voluptuous breasts of a show girl or stripper.
Bob was in paradise -- proud of his achievement. Here was a dream fulfilling itself before his very eyes -- the American Dream. He called her his "butterfly" and lavished her with praise and love.
Sandra didn't know what to think. She was proud that he was so proud, pleased that he was so pleased. But she was uncomfortably uncertain that it was over, that her breasts had, in fact, stopped growing.
And they hadn't.
Bob remained proud and enthusiastic as they rose to 41", 42", 43".
When the tape indicated 44", he made a joke about the Guiness Book of Records.
At 45", he joked about Ripley's Believe It or Not.
At 46", he announced, more positively than ever before, that the growth had reached his peak.
At 48" he was clearly uneasy. He kept coming up with excuses for why they shouldn't go out together in public.
But the breasts continued to grow.
At 52", he began to call in specialists: doctors, biologists, sexologists, endocrinologists, bio-chemists, and physio-bio-chemists. He, at first, told them that this growth had "just happened." But the forelorn look in Sandra's eyes made him break down and confess that he was guilty: it was his experiment. He explained in full what he had done.
The doctors and scientists were amazed and congratulated him on his success and speculated on the scientific and market value of the discovery. They could offer no antidote, but rather stared in awe and even reverence at those huge breasts, bursting with vitality.
At 53", newsmen and photographers started besieging their apartment. Sandra was offered movie contracts by three major studios.
By 54", he was determined to stop this frighteningly persistent growth before it became hideous or even fatal. He called in world-famous plastic surgeons. But they stared in reverential awe. When they said they could do nothing, Bob wasn't sure whether this was a limitation of science or they, in fact, couldn't bring themselvs to touch with a knife what must have been the most voluptuous breasts the world has ever seen.
They continued to grow. Sandra could no longer lie on her back because the weight on her chest was painful and made breathing difficult.
They continued to grow. And all of New York City followed their growth on the front page of the Daily News and then even of the New York Times.
At 60", a sketch of Sandra's breasts made the cover of Time Magazine. At 65", her breasts overshadowed the Grand Tetons on the cover of The New Yorker.
In the midst of their desperate fears and anxieties, Bob and Sandra became the most famous couple in America. Sales of bras doubled, then tripled, and Bob's advertising company prospered in equal proportion. The whole nation had focused its attention on Sandra's bust.
But the breasts continued to grow. A special platform had to be built to support them. A Las Vegas nightclub owner offered Sandra a million-dollar contract just to lie supine on his stage.
Bob turned down that offer and all the movie contracts. He quit his promsing executive position despite an offer of a vice presidency. He spent all his days sitting by Sandra, tending to her needs and comfort; and, with her, staring in awe at the ever growing, ever swelling breasts.
It was always the same story -- the breasts were always growing; they were always the largest breasts the world had ever seen.
But half a year later those same breasts once again forced themselves on the consciousness of New Yorkers and Americans.
They burst through the walls of the apartment...
Then the walls of the building...
Then the walls of the neighboring building...
They were growing now at an alarming rate. You could see them swell like balloons, all the while maintaining their perfect voluptuous shape.
Bob was first interviewed, then apprehended by police. He laughed hysterically, but refused to say a word.
The newspapers generally concluded that he had gone mad and given the breasts a new and even more powerful set of injections.
He was detained at Bellevue for observation.
Sandra, the person, seemed to have disappeared. No one could see anthing but these twin mounds of perfectly proportioned flesh.
But while the newspapers speculated, the breasts kept growing -- a foot an hour... a yard an hour... a yard in half an hour... ten minutes... a single minute.
Soon all of Madison Avenue was in ruins. But no one dared raise a hand against the breasts.
A millionaire went so far as to have his skyscraper levelled by wrecking machines before the breasts reached it, for fear that they might be bruised in the effort by themselves. But he need not have worried -- nothing could stop them.
Soon all of New York was in ruins.
Philosophers in Paris speculated on the meaning of the event: the dynamic relationship between quantity and quality, the transformation of object to subject, passive to active, the pour soi to en soi.
Artists in Chicago greeted the breasts as living pop art.
Southern Baptists claimed the end of the world was at hand.
The women's liberation movement hailed the beginning of the end of the exploitation of women. Thousands gathered in the Boston Common carrying "Breast Power" signs.
Students at Berkeley went on strike to express their solidarity with the breasts.
Students from Columbia marched in the wake of the breasts, singing "We shall overcome."
Harlem residents chanted, "Grow, baby, grow," as their homes were levelled.
A House subcommmittee was formed to investigate the matter.
The Deparment of Defense considered estimates of the cost of transporting the breasts to Viet Nam.
And still the breasts continued to grow.
Northern New Jersey was levelled.
The normally conservative citizenry stared in dumbstruck awe at the power and magnificence of those mountains of voluptuous flesh.
Blacks and Puerto Ricans, the poor and the young sang and danced and chanted and bared their breasts in solidarity with this natural force that was rising up in their midst and levelling the nation.
Church-going, little old ladies were seen bowing down and praying to the breasts.
Foreign tourists and pilgrims began arriving in droves.
The sale of brassieres reached critically low levels as bras were burned in bonfires across the nation.
Finally, a group of businessmen decided that the situation was getting out of hand. Congress was too slow to act, and the Department of Defense dared not use force against the acknowledged symbol of motherhood, apple pie, Hollywood, Madison Avenue, and the American Way of Life. In desperation, the businessmen flew to India.
Within weeks, just as the breasts were simultaneously levelling New Haven and Philadelphia and brassiere sales were approaching zero, a famous Indian Brahman designed and built a huge brassiere. Several hundred B-52's airlifted the bra from India and dropped it on the mighty breasts.
Silence fell upon the crowd, upon the millions of refugees, upon the millions of demonstrators. The steady advance had lasted for nearly two months. Many were cold and hungry. Many were hoarse with cheering and chanting. No one moved. No one spoke.
All watched anxiously as the breasts strove to burst out of the bra, watched -- in the words of a French philospher who had come to America to experience the advance of this extraordinary revolutionary movement -- "the battle of form and matter."
When, after three days, the bra was still intact, people began to accept the fact that the breasts had been contained, that they would grow no more. The "revolution" came to a sudden stand-still. It had lost its impetus, its vital driving force.
Millions were homeless. The industrial and commercial capital of the world was buried beneath these extraordinary mammary mountains. The slow work of relocating and rebuilding began.
Eventually, the nation returned to normalcy. The "Peaks of
Progress" became part of the landscape -- an American monument and
tourist attraction, and a familiar image used in the advertising
of products of all kinds.
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