The Milk of Bounteous Fortune

There are a lot of things on your mind as you slip from the wonderland that is somehow your room now. How much of your life has been rearranged by whatever happened when your mom drank that milk? Where is your mom, and is she okay? What if this winds up being like freaking every single story about magic and all of this comes at some sort of terrible price?

Right now, though, it's all taking a backseat to how wild it is having big boobs.

First off, they take up so much damn space. Your attempt to cautiously squeeze through the cracked door is immediately stymied when you fail to properly account for your oversized rack. You pause stuck in the threshold, staring blankly down at the acres of tit pressed up against the jamb. You crack open the door a few more inches, and a bit more boob squishes through. A few more still aren't enough for your prodigious breasts to clear the frame entirely. After another moment taking stock of your newly blossomed immensity you just push the door fully open and walk out, chest swaying in what strikes you as smug satisfaction. It seems unlikely that you're going to be squeezing through anything less spacious than a hallway for the time being.

Second, you're constantly aware of their presence. The utterly new yet weirdly familiar house you make your way through should provide all the diversion you need. It certainly blows Jennifer Park's car out of the water for the "Most Expensive Thing You've Ever Been In" title, that's for sure. Yet even then you're constantly noticing the weight and size of your breasts, of the way you have to hold yourself to account for your wildly shifted center of gravity. Of the way they give a ponderous little wobble with every step, even within the embrace of your supremely well-fitted and surprisingly comfortable bra. Who could have ever guessed that tiddy jiggles were so distracting?

And finally, there's the fact that you sort of think you love them. The hallway led to a staircase, but before heading down you find yourself lingering at a wall mirror and giving yourself a once over. Jesus, if there isn't already a heavily trafficked subreddit dedicated to you and your tits in this reality, you would be very much surprised. The thought doesn't bother you as much as it certainly should. You twist your shoulders to fully bare your chest to your reflection, a smug smirk coming unbidden to your face when you note that your breasts manage to outstrip the mirror's width. You can only watch as the girl in the reflection reverently lays a small hand atop her fat rack, impishly sticking out her little pink tongue as she makes a show of slipping her middle finger into the deep crevice of her mouth-watering line of cleavage.

Blinking, you look down to see your finger vanishing into your otherworldly decolletage. You push in a little further, biting your lip as your entire hand is swallowed up in soft, all-consuming Boob. Fuck. Just hurry up and find your mother before your amazing tits fully trap you in their siren song.

You start down the stairs two at a time, trying unsuccessfully to ignore how much you apparently relish the heavy quaking of your chest. Goddamn this house is nice. Your aunt and uncle's place was certainly high priced, but it always struck you as bland and tacky. The sort of place that someone with money but without taste or personality would buy in an attempt to seem like they have even more money. But this place? In the Venn Diagram of "Tasteful", "Interesting", "Comfortable" and "Costs All the Money", your current surroundings exist squarely in the tiny middle intersection of all four that reads "THIS HOUSE FUCKING ROCKS". And it doesn't escape you that, while you're more than a fan of what you're seeing, it isn't as tailor-made to your tastes as your room was. It's close though, the dream house of someone with very similar but probably somewhat more mature tastes than yours. Actually, you know who would really love this place?

The answer dawns on you just as you step into a gorgeous breakfast nook to find your mother sitting at the table, humming to herself in utter contentment as she idly stirs her cup of coffee. Or at least, it's an approximation of your mother. You certainly have no room to point fingers when it comes to people going through surprise metamorphoses, but the woman who's just noted your silent entrance with a radiant smile is very changed from the one you remember.

Your mother was never a bad looking woman, especially in younger pictures from before life began to take its inexorable toll. But now she's an absolute goddamn knockout. Her long black hair shines like something out of a very optimistic shampoo commercial, still wet from the shower and done up in a messy bun. Your mother had been going a dull gray, but now only the smallest flecks of silver catching the light are left to hint that age has laid a glove on her. That isn't quite right, actually. While her flawless skin is as creamy and unblemished as a maiden's, and even the freshest teen would have been thrilled to have a single one of her exquisite features, they all add up to a picture of a decidedly full-grown woman who has reached her prime and has zero intention of ever leaving it. Devastatingly full lips, proudly raised cheekbones, stunning gray eyes that shine as if they've been recently polished...man. You are a hot girl, though you still aren't fully certain about the Why. As to the 'How', though, the answer is abundantly clear: it's because you have a Hot Mom.

And on the topic of things being both abundant and clear, the mystery of your sudden breast explosion can be safely marked down as 'solved'. The black silk robe your mother wears strains around a chest that is, even to your recently shifted sense of scale, utterly huge. The amount of breast that spills out from between the edges of her woefully overtaxed garment alone is significantly more than she'd ever had before. She's actually bigger than you are; does that mean you still have room to grow? The thought sends a little thrill buzzing through you.

A sudden jangle knocks you out of your reverie, soon revealed to be caused by the collar of the beautiful dark brindle greyhound that rose from its massive dog bed at your arrival, dipping into a languid stretch before trotting over with a happily wagging tail. Perhaps it's the mundanity of suddenly having a dog compared to everything else that makes it easier to process, but for whatever reason the dog currently sitting expectantly before you becomes your sole focus. You can't have a dog, can you? You know for a fact your mother is intensely allergic to them. You stare searchingly at the greyhound, who clearly wants to cover you in kisses but is too well trained to jump up to do so. Didn't your mother mention once that after years of begging her parents got her a puppy for her birthday, only to wake up covered in hives the next day? They'd had to give it away then and there, and though she tried to play it off you could tell your mother still thought of that dog with regret. Actually, it might have even been a greyhound.

With that, you've finally pieced it together. There's a dog here because your mother has always wanted one. You're in this house because this is your mother's fantasy home. You are perfectly healthy and well kept because that's always been one of your mother's burning needs. And you are now a busty hottie because your mother always wished she could be one, and apparently magic is compatible with genetics.

When you add it all up, there's only one possible answer: Your tits made all of your mom's dreams come true.