My Type

I sat there at the bar, eyeballing some of the girls out on the dance floor. Suddenly my gaze was broken by some woman stepping between me and the floor.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” I shouted. She just looked at me and said, “How about treating me to a dance?”
Who does she think she is? “No, sorry, but you’re not my type.”
“Oh, I’m not ‘your type’? And what is that, exactly?” I wanted her to go away, but figured I’d indulge her question. What harm could it do?
“Red hair, big, fertile hips, and an ass to match. And breasts so big, they’d practically need a bra made out of buckets to hold them up. That’s my type.”
“Is that so? That’s a bit…specific, but I guess I can make it work…” she muttered.
“What, what are you talking about-?” I stopped speaking as I felt my shirt tighten, and before long I felt my pants do the same.
“I’m giving you ‘your type’. Enjoy!” She disappeared, but the pressure continued. I quickly ran to the bathroom: an act that got harder with each step. By the time I got inside I saw what that woman had done to me.
Looking back in the mirror, was exactly what I had described. Long red hair, and these hips were clearly fertile: I had to have at least three kids in my huge belly. And above that I had tits that, if they could think, no sane bra would go near. They had torn my shirt to shreds. I tried to wrap it around my tits, and thankfully I managed to cover my nipples, though for how long I couldn’t say.
I waddled out to the street, and hailed a cab. It didn’t take long for one to pick me up.
So now I sit at home on the edge of my bed, my legs apart so my belly could hang down, my enormous tits flopping heavily over it. My biggest fear for the moment was where I was going to go tomorrow to buy myself some clothes that actually fit!


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