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The Sounds of Change
🕑 Added 2025-09-23 16:56:05 +0000 UTCCan y'all see the difference in size when I'm wearing just a thick top versus my minimizing layers? 🥺. I know they hang lower, but not as low as when they're nude. They hang embarrassingly low then . I still put on a jacket when I go out, even on top of the three layers already squeezing the girls down. Can get sweaty but it's the only way I can hide it all and even that doesn't work. The barista at my local cafe ALWAYS stares.
The recent move was supposed to reset me. New apartment, new café down the street, even a new bra I convinced myself might finally do the job. I told myself I’d start over here, keep my head down, dress in layers and just blend. The cardboard boxes are still stacked in the corner, but I went out anyway, cardigan pulled tight, thinking maybe the change of scenery would soften the edges.
The café was quieter than I expected, hushed in that way new places sometimes are. A few laptops open, the espresso machine humming, chairs scraping carefully against wood. I slipped into a corner table and tried to breathe like a normal person, like my chest wasn’t compressed under three layers: minimizer, compression, turtle neck. Sitting there, I let myself believe for a moment that I’d passed.
But then I leaned forward, just slightly, to reach my bag. The sound came low and sharp — fabric whining, straps straining under the pull 😣. Not a snap, not a break, just the long drawn-out groan of material being stretched past holding its designed weight limit. It was the sound of boob being carried, of stitching working overtime. A sound that should belong to me alone, but in the silence of that café, it felt like the whole room heard it. Heads turned. My face went hot. I froze, praying the fabric wouldn’t cry out again under my bosomy load.
That’s the part people don’t know about. It isn’t just the weight or the stares. It’s the soundtrack. The bra creaks when I bend, the shirt fibers complaining when I breathe too deep, the seams cry when I walk too fast. Even gliding across the floor, every step meant to minimize their movement. There’s still the faint creaking sound like a hammock being pulled tight under a very plump woman's weight. By evening, the noises blend into a kind of cruel boob background music only I can hear.
The new bra isn’t better. It’s bigger, yes, but still just a percentage too small. Not a fraction, not close — a whole percentage off, and that margin is enough to leave me bulging over the edges, straps digging trenches, wires whining like they’re begging for mercy. I thought a new place, a new bra, a new café would make me new too. But no matter where I go, the same sounds follow. No new me, just more boob.
At night, taking it off is its own humiliation. The release is noisy. There’s the sigh of elastic trying to return to its original shape. The heavy slap of fat gland against my stomach — two sumo bellies slapping into me. I wince every time. The silence afterward isn’t peace; it’s an echo. I lie there listening to the warm bassy thuds replay in my head, like the obscene Instagram girls who clap their enormous ass cheeks together loudly for thousands of likes... but I make these sounds with my breasts... accidentally, and the shame floods back in.
That night, after the café, I turned to bread. Stress makes me restless, and kneading dough has become a nice distraction. I dusted the counter, tipped the sticky mass out, and pressed down. It yielded under my palms, soft and stretchy, bloating back bigger each time I pushed it down. Watching it swell was like watching my own reflection in fast-forward. A blob that never stops taking up more space.
And then the worst thought: all the calories. The flour, the yeast, the butter, the sugar. I imagined them marching straight into me, feeding the soft bulges I’ve been trying to hide. The dough bulging on the counter, my breasts bulging against the bra — one cycle feeding the other.
After I baked it I ate anyway😅. One slice, then another. Warm, thick, butter melting into the crumb. Comfort sliding down my throat. I told myself I’d earned it, that the day had been hard enough. But the regret was already there, baked into every bite. Because I knew the loop: stress drives me to carbs, carbs drive the growth, growth drives the stress. The bread rises in the bowl, in the oven, and in my chest. The dough doesn’t care. It just swells.
Later, standing in the bathroom with the bra off, I pressed my hands into myself and felt the weight shift. Soft, swollen, spreading under pressure. I thought of the café, of the groan of fabric, of the way my cardigan couldn’t quite hide me. I thought of the dough slapping against the counter and how the sound matched the noises my breasts make when they fall heavily out of my newest, biggest, and still not big enough bra.
There’s no neat ending to this. I wish I could say I learned something profound in the quiet of my new apartment, that the bread became a metaphor I could control instead of a mirror I hated looking at. The truth is smaller and heavier. I am caught in a cycle of my own making and not-making: breasts that cause stress, stress that craves bread, bread that fuels growth, growth that creaks and groans and slaps against me when I try to rest and forget them.
Tomorrow I’ll go back to the café. I’ll layer up again. I’ll sit in the corner and pray for enough background noise to drown out the fabric’s whine. Maybe I’ll buy another bra, one size higher, chasing the hope that a percentage difference might buy me silence or at least less tidd spillage. Maybe I’ll bake again. Maybe I’ll promise myself I won’t eat too much of it...
But tonight I just sit here in the dim apartment, hearing the faint mental echo of breast noise, the echo of the sumo slaps still heavy on my stomach. I am dough, I am helpless to the wants of a mammary obsessed metabolism. I am the sounds of breasts too big to be contained. And I am tired of listening, even though I know I’ll wake up tomorrow and hear it all again.
(Sorry about being a bummer, I'm just feeling and looking so freaking huge. Maybe I'll write a post from my boob's perspective next if y'all would want that)
Also, I'm open to new content ideas if y'all wanna send a message. I have a ton of stuff I haven't posted yet cuz it's not done, but I'll try to move in the direction of the ideas I hear the most often over time.
-Plushy 🍈🍈
Comments
Mr.Habuu23
The day she does pasties the day I go live on TikTok
Iliana
Total honesty, I envy you, genuinely. I dream of my own beginning to grow like yours, it would be truly heavenly for me, and as such it pains me to know that you *dont* enjoy it all the time. Genuinely, I can only imagine it being a confidence booster. An extremely heavy one, yes, but god damn, you, in the most literal sense, have more than most people ever dream of and are still getting more, something that very few can claim. My only reccomendation is to try to embrace and enjoy it, enjoy the literal *more* you have and how amazing it feels to move it.
Vyara Alarie
It's astounding just how fast you're growing... even among people with your condition it's fast
