Start at the Bottom, and Work Your Way Up. (Patreon)

Can you feel it? I can feel it. Kinda? Maybe not really? Maybe it’s just psychosomatic.

I’ve alluded to this before, but I’m beginning to be impressed by the fact that Ol’ Nat and Olga are… what’s the right word. Evolving?

I’m pushing 39 (I just resentfully smashed those two numbers on my keyboard, fullness of gravity impressing upon me). But speaking of fullness and gravity… I get it. Time is a fickle mistress; there are too many days where I avoid wearing a bra as much as possible; skin is an amazing organ, but it’s not exactly a super-durable wonder material; the pull of gravity on Earth’s surface is 9.807 m/s squared…

I guess all the busty chicks go through this. It’s just that most of them have become acclimated over a substantial period of time! Eight years ain’t nothing, sure. But shit, put yourself into my shoes. Halloween, 2014. The inadvertent start of puberty v2.0. I was 30, for goodness sake, kinda settled into a life with (what were at that point) perfectly normal, only-slightly asymmetrical C cups.

Then, they exploded. Just like, three years of it. Once I was out of the woods, it was like I had some rockin’ pornstar bewbs: full; frequently sore; constantly drenched in whatever elasticizing lotion I could get my hands on; downright spherical in their own football-ish way; the kinds of tits that only a certain class of entertainer would volunteer to have installed. Specialty knockers.

That was a pain in the ass time. You know the worst part of it? They were massive, but still just too fucking perky. I spend a lot of time at my desk, and at some point adopted my trusty lap pillow for them to rest on. You can’t imagine how happy I was when the first inklings of “settling” began to manifest; with a bit of slouching, I was able to just kinda rest them on my thighs. One less thing to think about.

And then, time goes on. I’m not mad about it or anything. At this point, the supportive lap contact takes place even when I adopt a good sitting posture. They just stay there, asleep, while mama gets some shit done, tappety-tappety-tap-tap.

Thing is, I don’t think that they’re bigger. Like, actually bigger. I’ve written about growth spurts before, the ones I used to have every six months or so for a solid three years… Those were not fun. They KNOCKED ME OUT. That was a while ago.

And still… the bras are overflowing these days. I tried to ignore it for a while there, but if I wear a certain top, or whatever, there’s that dough rising effect… you’d think a 40R would be enough, but… I really don’t want to have to up-and-purchase a whole new family of bras that accord with a farther letter of the alphabet.

Tell you what. Those are commentaries for near-future essays. I’ll see if I can get any better comparisons to other pics from a few years ago. Try to match the angle so you can see (apologies for this one, use your imaginations, it's not like I have the easiest time seeing the camera from this vantage point!). I’ve got some ideas floating around.

Maybe they’re not actually bigger. Maybe it is just a result of time, gravity, skin stretching. And, yes — the reluctant acknowledgement that I may have put on more than a few Covid pounds... They’re below my belly button now, solidly. A brief review of some past pics… not the case. Belly button bellwether. Heh.

As for the pic above? The top one was from late 2018; the bottom one is from today. So, about 4 years. Not quite as full? They do hang lower, but they do seem to project as much... It's all just curious, my lovelies. 

Can you see it? I can see it. Kinda? Maybe not really? Maybe it’s just psychosomatic.