I Had My Breasts Enlarged to Fulfill My Husband’s Fantasy

My name is Marina. I’m twenty-nine years old, I have reddish-brown hair I inherited from my mother, and a body that, until two years ago, I considered perfectly ordinary. I’m five foot six, and I always had that shape with wide hips and a defined waist that Andrés loved from the very first night. We’ve been together six years, four of them married, and I still haven’t found a better way to start the day than feeling his breath on the back of my neck and his hard cock wedged between my ass cheeks.

I was a normal woman. I still am, really, except for one detail that now conditions a good part of my life. But to understand how I got here, I have to go back to a silly conversation, one of those you have in bed after fucking, when the bodies are still stuck together, the semen still warm between your thighs, and your guard is down.

That night we were talking nonsense. About which part of the other’s body we liked best, about quirks, about things we would never say with the lights on. And then, almost offhandedly, Andrés let slip a phrase that stuck in me like a splinter.

—I would’ve loved it if you’d had bigger tits —he said, and laughed, as if it were a throwaway comment.

I propped myself up slightly on the pillow. My breasts weren’t small. They were medium, leaning large, a thirty-eight-inch bust, a cup size I’d never had reason to complain about. I brushed it off then, but that phrase followed me all week.

A few days later we were watching a porn movie, one of those we sometimes put on to get turned on together. On screen, an actress with enormous breasts was riding a thick cock, her tits bouncing against her chin, and Andrés murmured:

—Look at those tits on that slut. Unbelievable.

Again. I felt something strange in my stomach, a mix of jealousy and curiosity. I adore this man. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and what gives me the most pleasure is seeing him happy, with a hard cock and that dopey smile. So the question started turning over in my head insistently: did he really wish I had bigger tits?

I started testing him. I would bring up the subject sideways, at different times, measuring his reactions. At first he played dumb. “It was just a comment, Marina, don’t overthink it.” But I know him too well. In six years together I had never noticed that preference of his, and suddenly it revealed itself in full: he loved big tits. Not a little. A lot. It was his fetish, and he had kept it quiet all that time.

From then on, every time we watched something with a generously endowed woman, I felt an absurd pang of rivalry with the actress, knowing he was hypnotized, imagining his face buried between those two tits, sucking those huge nipples. And one day, tired of guessing, I decided to ask him straight out.

—Would you like me to make my tits a little bigger? —I asked him, holding my breath.

He looked at me. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t tell me yes, but he didn’t tell me no either, and in his silence I understood the answer with a clarity that left me trembling. That “no” that never came was, deep down, a huge “yes.”

***

I started looking up information online about breast augmentation surgery. I still wasn’t decided; I told myself I was just gathering information. I read forums, looked at before-and-after photos, compared clinics until dawn while Andrés slept next to me, oblivious to the storm building inside me.

One night, looking at him sleep, I made up my mind. I was going to do it. Not for me, but for him. For that boyish expression he gets when something dazzles him.

With the little I had found out, I booked a consultation at a specialized clinic. The surgeon who saw me was an older man with well-kept hands and a calm voice, one of those people who are no longer surprised by anything. When he asked me how large I wanted to go, I couldn’t explain it in words. I took out my phone and showed him the photo I had saved: a woman with a spectacular pair of tits, almost unreal.

—Is that possible? —I asked, feeling my cheeks burn.

—It’s perfectly possible —he answered, not moving a single muscle in his face.

He explained the options patiently. The big dilemma was this: silicone implants or transfer of my own fat? The fat grafting, he told me, was more cumbersome, because it required operating in parallel: they had to take fat from somewhere on the body to inject into the breasts. But it had one decisive advantage.

—When they’re filled with your own fat, the breasts are identical to natural ones —he explained—. They move the same, they feel the same to the touch, there’s no risk of rejection. Silicone, on the other hand, always feels different. And over the years it can shift and force more surgeries.

I didn’t need to think about it too much. If I’d been doing it only for myself, to look different in the mirror, I would’ve chosen silicone without hesitation. But my reason was different. I wanted Andrés to touch, suck, bite, and come all over tits that felt real. Then it would be with my own fat. And luckily, I’d always had a generous ass, so there was no shortage of material.

When I left the clinic three hours later, everything was set. Test date, surgery date, half the fee paid. I stopped on the sidewalk, breathed in the cold air deeply, and thought: that’s it, there’s no turning back.

***

I’m not going to bore you with the details of the pre-op and the surgery, because they were the usual ones. Andrés took me that morning, held my hand until they put me under, and stayed in the waiting room the whole time. When I woke up, the four incisions hurt: one in each breast, one in each ass cheek. I felt them carefully over the post-op bra and they seemed enormous, foreign, as if they had been lent to me.

I was discharged forty-eight hours later. For two months I had to wear a compression bra, an ugly, functional garment, the opposite of sexy. But it did the job. And that’s how, without much ceremony, my new life began: that of a woman with a pair of enormous tits.

When I finally got to take off the compression bra, it was time to buy lingerie in my new size. I went out shopping with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment, because having to ask out loud for such a huge size is not exactly comfortable. The experience was, frankly, frustrating.

The first store had nothing. “No, ma’am, we don’t carry that size.” In the second, the same thing. “If you want, we can order it for you…” It was like walking into a shoe store and asking for a women’s size twelve: it existed, but almost nobody had it in stock. Only at the biggest lingerie shop in the neighborhood did I find anything, and just three models.

Strangely enough, that was where, seeing those enormous bras on the counter, I truly realized the size of my tits. Each cup looked like a parachute. Two of the three models were hideous, designed only to hold the weight, with not the slightest pretension of seduction. The third, thankfully, was pretty. I bought all three, because I wasn’t in a position to choose.

At home I looked at them carefully. The cups were so large that, when I held them up against my face, they covered my whole face and there was still fabric left over. I tried on the prettiest one, put a tight sweater over it, and looked at myself in the full-length mirror. Yes. Now I had an outrageously large pair of tits. There was no way to hide them anymore.

***

Over time I discovered everything nobody tells you about having huge tits. That it’s expensive, for starters: every bra costs a fortune and there’s very little variety, almost all of it in the “granny” style. That buying a matching set is impossible, because if the top fits me, the panties are swimming on me, and vice versa. That exercising is torture: the first time I went running, my tits were bouncing in every direction, up, down, sideways, until I had to buy an expensive sports bra to rein them in. And that sleeping on my stomach, my favorite position my whole life, simply became uncomfortable.

I also learned what it means to walk down the street as a spectacle. The first time was from a truck full of laborers.

—Hey, gorgeous, what a pair of tits! —one of them shouted, and the others laughed and cheered.

I froze. No one had ever said such a crude thing to me. And I understood, with resignation, that from then on it was going to be part of my life.

And it was. I pass a group of guys drinking beer in a hallway and one of them mutters, loud enough for me to hear: “Jesus Christ, what a pair of melons.” I walk past a building under construction and a mason shouts from the scaffolding: “That titty girl is hot, I’d fuck her so hard.” I even found out that the neighbors in my building like calling me that. Before I was the lady on the fourth floor. Now I’m “the titty girl” on the fourth.

All of this embarrassed me for a while. I started walking a little hunched over so the tits wouldn’t stick out so much, even though I knew that posture was going to give me back problems. I had to buy shoulder pads for the straps, because they dug into my shoulders and hurt from the weight. And when summer came, I discovered sweating between the tits and underneath them, the irritation, the creams, the care I had never needed before.

My only comfort, the one that makes up for all the others, is that Andrés is happy. And one Friday, I decided to remind him exactly why I had done all this.

***

I waited for him as always, but not quite. When he got home from work I made him sit on the sofa, loosened his tie, took off his shoes, and brought him a very cold beer and something to snack on. Up to there, the routine of any Friday. Then I told him to wait, switched off the ceiling light, and turned on a low lamp that left the room in a golden half-light.

A little while later, I appeared.

I started dancing slowly in front of him, unbuttoning my blouse button by button. The garment fell to the floor and a black lace bra came into view, the only pretty one I had found, barely containing my tits. I unzipped my skirt and let it slide to my ankles. Andrés didn’t even blink. I widened my eyes, put a finger to my lips, and made a stupid face, like a little girl who doesn’t understand anything, and I knew from his expression, and from the bulge beginning to grow in his pants, that the game was working.

I sat on a stool, stretched out one leg, and began rolling down the fishnet stocking with deliberate slowness, from thigh to toe. I yanked it free and let it hang from my big toe. I took it by both ends, ran it several times through my crotch, front and back, rubbing the fabric against my cunt until it was soaked, and then I gently dropped it over Andrés’s head, where he watched me without missing a single gesture, breathing through his mouth. I repeated everything with the other stocking.

Then I hooked my thumbs into the sides of my thong. I turned my back and lowered it with cruel slowness, sticking my ass out as I bent over, letting him see the wet shine between the lips of my already swollen cunt. I spun around sharply and covered my pussy with both hands, pressing my legs together, with a look of fake indignation. I heard him swallow.

And then came the moment he had been waiting for. The bra. Again I turned my back to him, clasped my hands behind me, and unclipped the fastener. I turned back toward him and let one strap fall, then the other, holding the cups in place with my palms. I built the suspense, stretched it to the limit, and finally let the bra fall, but I covered my tits with my arms for one more instant, just to drive him crazy. When I finally moved my hands away, my tits were on full display, enormous, free, the nipples standing up like two dark buttons, everything he had wanted.

I kept dancing while I stroked them, kneaded them with both hands, tugged the nipples between two fingers until I myself moaned, made them sway from side to side, in circles, hypnotizing him. I licked the tip of one finger and ran it slowly over one nipple, then the other, shining with saliva. I bent over enough for him to see me put an entire tit in my mouth, suck my nipple hard, then release it with a wet sound. Andrés’s jaw was tight, his hands gripping the sofa, his breathing ragged. The fabric of his pants was straining obscenely.

—Don’t move —I whispered—. Not yet.

I came closer slowly and knelt between his legs. I unbuckled his belt with my teeth, pulling on the leather until it loosened. I opened the button of his pants with both hands, lowered the zipper slowly, listening tooth by tooth. I grabbed the edges of his pants and his underwear and yanked them down to his ankles. His cock sprang free, rock hard, thick, with a purple head and a fat drop of pre-cum trembling on the tip. It was so swollen the veins stood out along its entire length.

I took his cock in my right hand, squeezed it at the base, shook it a couple of times slowly to watch him shudder. I brought the tip to my lips and gave it just the faintest lick, collecting that warm, salty drop, tasting it. Then I blew on the wet skin and heard him moan.

—Marina, I can’t take it…

—Take it —I murmured, smiling with my mouth open a centimeter from his glans.

I ran my flat tongue from base to tip, very slowly, like it was an ice cream. I repeated it on the other side. I licked his balls one by one, took them into my mouth carefully, sucked them while my hand kept shaking his cock. Andrés threw his head back, the veins in his neck standing out, his fingers dug into the upholstery.

I went back to the glans. I wrapped my lips around the head, just barely, and circled my tongue around it once, twice, three times. Then I opened wide and took it all in with one push, until I felt the tip hit the back of my throat. I stayed there, breathing through my nose, feeling him throb in my mouth. I started moving up and down slowly, tightening my lips, leaving a trail of saliva that dripped down to his balls.

I had barely managed to suck him off hard for twenty, thirty seconds when he got even harder, his cock swelled absurdly, and I heard him roar. I pulled away just in time, grabbed him with my hand, and pointed the tip at my face and my tits. A long, warm, thick stream exploded against my cheek, another crossed my lips, another landed between my two tits and kept sliding slowly down to my navel. Andrés kept coming, moaning deep and guttural, his cock throbbing in my hand, and I shook it slowly to squeeze out the last drop, smearing his semen all over my nipples. He was so turned on he hadn’t even needed to fuck me.

I stayed kneeling there, my face and tits soaked, gleaming under the lamp light. I brought one finger to my cheek, loaded it with semen, and put it in my mouth, sucking it while I looked into his eyes. Then I ran both hands over my tits, spreading his load all over my skin, massaging them for him so he could see exactly what he had bought with this surgery. Andrés was panting, his cock still hard and dripping onto his thigh, and he never took his eyes off me.

—We’re not done yet, my love —I told him.

And we weren’t done. I straddled him, squeezed his cock between my two slippery tits, still coated in his own semen, and started moving up and down, pressing them against my chest with both hands so the cock would have plenty to grip. He watched, speechless, as his cock disappeared and reappeared between that warm, soft flesh he had asked for. Every so often I bent down to take the head in my mouth when it peeked out at the top. He was rock hard again in a matter of minutes.

Then I lifted myself a little, lined it up at the entrance of my cunt, and lowered myself slowly, impaling myself all the way in one single sit. We both moaned at the same time. I started riding him, bracing my hands on his chest, while my tits shook heavily against his face. He opened his mouth and caught one nipple, sucking it like a desperate man, biting it just a little, pulling with his teeth until I howled. Then he switched to the other, never letting go, both hands gripping my ass, guiding my rhythm, driving it deep.

—Just like that, fuck me like that, titty girl, come on —he growled against my nipple, and that word they used to insult me in the street, in his mouth and at that moment, sent a lash of electricity through my lower belly.

I rode harder, faster, with my tits bouncing against his face, while he devoured me with licks. I felt the first orgasm rising from deep inside me, climbing like a wave, and when it burst I slammed myself down on him to the hilt and stayed still, trembling, moaning with my mouth open against his hair. Andrés took advantage and flipped me over on the sofa, laid me on my back, spread my legs wide, and shoved it into me again with a sharp thrust.

He started fucking me with strong, deep thrusts that made the sofa creak and shook my tits against my chin. He took one in each hand, squeezed them, kneaded them, took them to his mouth one after the other, sucking my reddened nipples while he kept driving into me. I scratched his back, wrapped my legs around his waist, pulled him closer to get him even deeper. The room had filled with a thick smell of sex, sweat, semen, and the sound of our bodies crashing together was obscene.

—Come on, let’s cum together —I whispered in his ear, my voice hoarse.

He sped up. The muscles in his arms tightened. I felt him swell inside me, felt him getting harder, and I was on the edge again too. I put one of my tits in my own mouth, sucking my nipple for him, and that image was what finally broke him. He buried himself to the hilt, let out an animal groan, and filled my cunt with a hot jet I felt splatter against my inner walls. His load sent me over the edge too, and I convulsed beneath him, clamping my pussy around his cock in spasms, leaking down onto his balls and the sofa.

He collapsed on top of me, his face buried between my soaked tits, panting like he’d run a marathon. I stroked his hair slowly, feeling how his cock was still throbbing soft inside me, how the semen was starting to leak out and run down my ass toward the sofa. I stayed like that, watching him catch his breath with his cheek resting on my left tit, and I felt that huge satisfaction of knowing that every scar, every uncomfortable night, every crude remark in the street, had been worth it.

Nights like that more than make up for all the problems I carry. For now I have no back or neck pain, though I know that sooner or later it may come; that’s part of the price. I’m prepared to face it when the time comes.

Otherwise, I’ve gotten used to being a titty redhead. Anything to see my husband happy —and with his cock hard all the time.