Bob was a young advertising executive who had a bright
future ahead of him in the sales of women's undergarments,
especially brassieres.
He had started out in the art department and had won praise and
promotion for the beauty of the female forms he drew, especially
the breasts. He drew small firm breasts, pert sexy breasts, and
full round breasts. But above all, he was a master of large
voluptuous breasts that seemed on the brink of bursting out of the
narrow confines of bra, blouse or dress, the huge breasts of show
girls and strippers.
The other aspiring ad-men he by-passed on his rapid rise to
the executive ranks vented their envy by nicknaming him 'Bob the
Boob.' He countered by making breast jokes and expounding breast
philosophies. He referred to the mammary protuberance as the
'fountain of youth.' He claimed that it was the true symbol of the
American nation -- Mae West and the spirit of the Wild West,
Marilyn Monroe and the American Dream. A huge burgeoning breast
was the natural symbol of the forward-looking, striving vitality
of the nation: its hopes, its aspirations.
Bob was engaged to Sandra, a charming girl in all ways but
one -- her breasts were small.
He could call them 'small firm breasts,' even 'pert sexy
breasts.' He could aesthetically appreciate their shape, and the
way they went so well with her shape. But they were not the
voluminous, unaesthetic, bold fleshy swellings that had captured
his imagination.
He tried to be reasonable -- there was no mistaking
Sandra's beauty of person and form. But he craved that abundance,
that super-abundance, that fleshly counterpart of the expansive
vitality of America itself.
Bob was convinced that with larger breasts Sandra would be
more aggressive, more self-reliant, more vigorous -- so much more
the perfect wife for a young advertising executive with a bright
future ahead of him.
Being a true American, he did not simply resign himself to
the situation. Rather, he did everything in his power to change
it.
After long months of study of the physio-bio-chemistry of
the female breast, he developed a chemical that he believed could
reactivate the growth cells of the breast and enable breasts that
had been stunted to fill out to their natural abundant dimensions.
Rather than insert foreign matter and artificially prop up
the living tissue, this method allowed the breast to literally
grow. When the experiments he performed with chimpanzees were
uniformly successful, he told Sandra about it.
She was taken aback. She was, of course, aware that her
breasts were below average in size. But since high school days,
she had learned to get along with her disability, had learned to
choose the clothes that would accentuate her more positive
features, and had eventually ceased to think about the size of her
breasts. But from Bob's enthusiasm, Sandra could easily guess how
much their size meant to him.
For herself, she was content to remain as she was. She was
suspicious of wonder-working drugs and chemicals. And, as he
explained his method, she couldn't help but think of hybrid
tomatoes and pumpkins growing to the size of houses. She wanted to
laugh, but she didn't want to hurt his feelings. And she hoped
that even if the experiment didn't succeed (and she was sure it
wouldn't), the effort would cure him of his obsession, and they
would be able to live together happily ever after.
She let him give her the first injection.
After a week, nothing noticeable had happened.
After two weeks, Bob grew impatient and gave her another,
much larger injection.
A week more with no results, and he injected her again. She
felt sure that when it didn't work this time, he would stop; and
all would be well.
For another week, nothing happened. But instead of simply
accepting defeat, Bob became morose and buried himself in his
basement laboratory, determined to perfect the treatment.
Sandra was dismayed to learn that it had not been perfected
before he tried it on her. She was still more dismayed at how
little attention he paid her now, and how surly he was when he did
see her.
She wanted to hate him, but she wound up hating herself,
hating her small breasts. She took to lying in bed whole days at a
time and just staring at the ceiling or in the mirror across the
room at the two pitifully small lumps that lay so lifeless and
blah on top of her ribs.
Two months after the first injection, she thought she
noticed a change. It scared her to think that she had become so
obsessed that her eyes were playing tricks on her. She tried to
pull herself together and go back to her normal pattern of life.
A week later, a tape measure confirmed that her bust was a
full inch larger.
She didn't tell Bob.
Another week passed, and she put on two more inches. She
wasn't sure if the overall effect was becoming, but they were now
statistically at least average; and, considered separately from
the rest of her, they were definitely attractive.
At least Bob would be pleased; she was sure of that.
She didn't mention what was happening the few times that
Bob called.
He was so busy with his advertising work and his
experiments that a month passed without him seeing her.
More time would have passed, but she got scared. For her
breasts had continued to grow, slowly, but steadily and were now
36".
The problem wasn't their size, but their shape. They had
grown irregularly, grown in length without growing commensurately
in width. They hung limply and painfully -- for she wasn't used to
supporting such weight. It was awkward for her to do anything but
lie in bed, as she had done before, when her breasts had been so
hatefully and yet comfortably small.
So Sandra called Bob and, as calmly as she could, explained
that his experiment had worked, but not as planned.
He was ecstatic. Even when he saw her, he was ecstatic.
With complete confidence, he gave her new injections near
the base of her breasts.
At first, his confidence seemed justified, as the breasts
did, in fact, fill out and become full and round, and in
succeeding weeks they grew still more to the huge voluptuous
breasts of a show girl or stripper.
Bob was in paradise -- proud of his achievement. His dream
was being fulfilled -- the American Dream. He called Sandra his
'butterfly' and lavished her with praise and love.
She didn't know what to think. She was proud that he was so
proud, pleased that he was so pleased. But she was uncomfortably
uncertain that it was over, that her breasts had, in fact, stopped
growing.
And they hadn't.
Bob remained proud and enthusiastic as they rose to 41",
42", 43".
When the tape indicated 44", he made a joke about the
Guiness Book of Records.
At 45", he joked about Ripley's Believe It or Not.
At 46", he announced, more positively than before, that the
growth had reached its peak.
At 48" he was clearly uneasy. He kept coming up with
excuses for why they shouldn't go out together in public.
But the breasts continued to grow.
At 52", he began to call in specialists: doctors,
biologists, sexologists, endocrinologists, bio-chemists, and
physio-bio-chemists. He, at first, told them that this growth had
just happened. But the forelorn look in Sandra's eyes made him
break down and confess that he was guilty: it was his experiment.
He explained in full what he had done.
The doctors and scientists were amazed and congratulated
him on his success and speculated on the scientific and market
value of the discovery. They could offer no antidote, but rather
stared in awe and even reverence at those huge breasts, bursting
with vitality.
At 53", newsmen and photographers started besieging their
apartment. Sandra was offered movie contracts by three major
studios.
By 54", he was determined to stop this growth before it
became hideous or even fatal. He called in world-famous plastic
surgeons. But they stared in awe. When they said they could do
nothing, Bob wasn't sure whether this was a limitation of science
or if they couldn't bring themselvs to touch with a knife what
must have been the most voluptuous breasts the world has ever
seen.
They continued to grow. Sandra could no longer lie on her
back because the weight on her chest was painful and made
breathing difficult.
They continued to grow. And all of New York City followed
their growth on the front page of the Daily News and then even of
the New York Times.
At 60", a sketch of Sandra's breasts made the cover of Time
Magazine. At 65", her breasts overshadowed the Grand Tetons on the
cover of The New Yorker.
Bob and Sandra became the most famous couple in America.
Sales of bras doubled, then tripled, and Bob's advertising company
prospered in equal proportion. The whole nation had focused its
attention on Sandra's bust.
But the breasts continued to grow.
A special platform had to be built to support them. A Las
Vegas nightclub owner offered Sandra a million-dollar contract
just to lie supine on his stage.
Bob turned down that offer and all the movie contracts. He
turned down an offer of a vice presidency and quit his job. He
spent all his days sitting by Sandra, tending to her needs; and,
with her, staring in awe at the ever growing, ever swelling
breasts.
After a couple months, the newspapers lost interest.
It was always the same story -- the breasts were always
growing; and they were always the largest breasts the world had
ever seen.
But half a year later those same breasts once again forced
themselves on the consciousness of New Yorkers and Americans.
They burst through the walls of the apartment...
Then the walls of the building...
Then the walls of the neighboring building...
They were growing now at an alarming rate. You could see
them swell like balloons, all the while maintaining their perfect
voluptuous shape.
Bob was first interviewed, then apprehended by police. He
laughed hysterically, but refused to say a word.
The newspapers concluded that he had gone mad and given the
breasts a new and even more powerful set of injections.
He was detained at Bellevue for observation.
Sandra, the person, seemed to have disappeared. No one
could see anything but these twin mounds of perfectly proportioned
flesh.
But while the newspapers speculated, the breasts kept
growing -- a foot an hour... a yard an hour... a yard in half an
hour... ten minutes... a single minute.
Soon all of Madison Avenue was in ruins. But no one dared
raise a hand against the breasts.
A millionaire went so far as to have his skyscraper
levelled by wrecking machines before the breasts reached it, for
fear that they might be bruised in the effort by themselves. But
he need not have worried -- nothing could stop them.
Soon all of New York was in ruins.
Philosophers in Paris speculated on the meaning of the
event: the dynamic relationship between quantity and quality, the
transformation of object to subject, passive to active, the pour
soi to en soi.
Artists in Chicago greeted the breasts as living pop art.
Southern Baptists claimed the end of the world was at hand.
The women's rights groups hailed the beginning of the end
of the exploitation of women. Thousands gathered in the Boston
Common carrying "Breast Power" signs.
Students at Berkeley went on strike to express their
solidarity with the breasts.
Students from Columbia marched in the wake of the breasts,
singing 'We shall overcome.'
Harlem residents chanted, 'Grow, baby, grow,' as their
homes were levelled.
A House subcommmittee was formed to investigate the matter.
And still the breasts continued to grow.
Northern New Jersey was levelled. The normally conservative
citizenry stared in dumbstruck awe at the power and magnificence
of those mountains of voluptuous flesh.
Blacks and Puerto Ricans, the poor and the young sang and
danced and chanted and bared their breasts in solidarity with this
natural force that was rising up in their midst and levelling the
nation.
Church-going, little old ladies were seen bowing down and
praying to the breasts.
Foreign tourists and pilgrims began arriving in droves.
The sale of brassieres reached critically low levels as
bras were burned in bonfires across the nation.
Finally, a group of businessmen decided that the situation
was getting out of control. Congress was too slow to act, and the
Department of Defense dared not use force against the symbol of
motherhood, apple pie, Hollywood, Madison Avenue, and the American
Way. They flew to India seeking a solution.
Within weeks, just as the breasts were levelling both New
Haven and Philadelphia and brassiere sales had dropped to zero, an
Indian Brahman designed and built a huge brassiere. Several
hundred B-52's airlifted the bra from India and dropped it on the
mighty breasts.
Silence fell upon the crowd, upon the millions of refugees,
upon the millions of demonstrators. The steady advance had lasted
for nearly two months. Many were cold and hungry. Many were hoarse
with cheering and chanting. No one moved. No one spoke. All
watched anxiously as the breasts strove to burst out of the bra,
watched -- in the words of a French philospher who had come to
America to experience the advance of this extraordinary
revolutionary movement -- "the battle of form and matter."
When, after three days, the bra was still intact, people
began to accept the fact that the breasts had been contained, that
they would grow no more. The revolution came to a sudden stand-still. It had lost
its impetus, its vital driving force.
Millions were homeless. The industrial and commercial
capital of the world was buried beneath these extraordinary
mammary mountains. The slow work of relocating and rebuilding
began.
Eventually, the nation returned to normalcy. The "Peaks of
Progress" became part of the landscape -- an American monument and
tourist attraction.
