Hello? 

I'm Mary Radford.

I hope no-one minds me writing this, but there's no-one else I can talk 
to, and they say a trouble shared is a trouble halved. And I've got more 
than my fair share of troubles. I'm not really expecting any help or 
advice, but just getting things off my chest helps. If only I could get 
these hulking great things off my chest. You have no idea what a 
handicap it is to have a really big bust, but I'm getting ahead of 
myself. 

Where should I start? Begin at the beginning, Alice said, so I will. I 
was born in 1970, went to school, left, got a job, got married and had a 
baby. No, that doesn't really say much. 

I went to an all-girls school, which meant I didn't have much contact 
with boys. I was a very plain, skinny girl, spotty skin, mousy hair - 
the usual ordinary sort of girl. I played a bit of hockey, but didn't 
really like it much. Hated maths, loved Latin, hated science, loved 
English Literature. I read a lot, had a few friends, went to the movies 
sometimes. 

I didn't do very well in exams, because I'm not very bright, and left 
school when I was 17. I got a job in a London office, filing, typing. If 
this sounds boring, it's because it is. I'm not a very interesting 
person. It was at the office that I first encountered the opposite sex. 
And one of the boys there, Ron, started taking me out, I can't imagine 
why. I wasn't anything to look at, I couldn't discuss sports or 
politics, and I couldn't afford nice clothes. 

Ron took me out a couple of times, and then asked me to go to bed with 
him; that's pretty much how he worded it. I'd heard the other girls 
talking about this at school, but couldn't imagine anyone would want to 
do it with me. I was surprised when Ron offered, and immediately said 
yes, because I thought maybe that would make him like me more. 

It wasn't a very nice experience. I mean, it wasn't horrid or anything, 
and I think he did his best, but I'm just not what you would call very 
sexy. The whole thing didn't take very long, and it hurt me a little 
bit. He wasn't what you'd call sexy either, I don't think, anyway the 
earthquakes and coloured lights that you read about didn't happen, not 
for me, and not for him either, I think. I thought that would be the end 
of it; still, I thought, at least I've done it once in my life. 

I was very surprised when he asked me to do it again, but managed not to 
hesitate too much when I said yes. The second time around, at least it 
didn't hurt me, and even felt kind of nice, but not like you read about. 
I suppose reality never is like what you read. 

We got into the habit of spending Saturday night together. I'd go round 
to his flat and cook for him (chicken, usually, I can do that quite 
well), and then we'd watch television together, and then we go to bed 
and do it. I felt like I was doing something useful, for once. Ron used 
to thank me, sometimes. The rest of the week, I'd spend in my little 
bedsit, usually reading; I got my love of books from the English Lit at 
school. 

One evening, when there was nothing at all on the television, Ron turned 
to me and said "I suppose we might as well get married, then". That was 
all I got in the way of a proposal. I thought of how it was in the books 
I'd read; Jane Austin and Louisa May Alcott, and I suppose real life 
just is more mundane. Still, it would have been nice if he'd said he 
loved me, or something like that. But I thought I was lucky enough to be 
asked at all, never mind about the trimmings. 

Mum was pleased, but Dad asked if maybe 19 wasn't a bit young to get 
hitched. I told him I wasn't about to pass up my possibly only chance 
and he told me that a pretty girl like me would get lots of offers, but 
he's always said things like that to me, I expect fathers always think 
their daughters are pretty. 

So Ron and I got wed, and I moved my bits and books into his flat. Life 
wasn't very different; we went to bed together every night, but we only 
did it occasionally. None of my books had said much about what was 
supposed to happen after you got married, it was all about courtship and 
engagement. And that hadn't been like real life, so I suppose they 
wouldn't have been much good on marriage either. 

Because we each had a job, we were all right for money. In the evenings, 
I read books that I got from the library, Ron had a computer that he did 
things with, I didn't pay too much attention, because computers aren't 
very interesting. 

After a couple of years marriage, I missed a period, and after a test I 
found I was pregnant. I told Ron, and he said he was pleased, but he 
didn't sound pleased and he didn't look pleased. I was really looking 
forward to becoming a mother. It mean I could give up my boring job, 
maybe spend more time in books. 

The pregnancy was routine, although it was all new for me. I put on 
quite a lot of weight, more than the doctor said I should, although I 
was too thin to start with. My hips filled out, and my thighs, my waist 
thickened, and of course my belly grew the way all pregnant women do. I 
could see Ron looking at me less and less, because I was getting so 
gross. And, of course, we stopped doing it altogether, which I think was 
a relief to both of us. 

My labour was the worst pain I'd ever experienced, even with the gas-
and-air, and the breathing exercises. And it went on and on, until I was 
crying for it to be over. The nurse kept telling me how at the end of it 
I'd have a lovely baby, but all I could think of was how much it hurt. 
And then Karen arrived, crying. I couldn't believe that something so 
small could make such a loud and penetrating noise, but I soon learned 
that she'd barely gotten started. 

Karen and I returned home a few days later. My milk had come in, and my 
little nubbins had developed into noticeable bumps - I had to buy a new 
bra, 32B. Karen was quiet when she was feeding, but at no other time. 
Morning, noon and night she cried. They don't tell you about this part. 
I got very little sleep, and neither did Ron. Karen cried almost as soon 
as I put her down, and no amount of rocking or soothing would calm her. 
Only a nipple in the mouth could do that, and then she would busily suck 
and slurp, and blessed peace would descend once more. 

After a few weeks of nearly continuous breast-feeding (I couldn't stand 
the noise she made when I put her down, like she was in real distress) I 
found that my new bra didn't fit. My nipples were large and puffy from 
all the sucking, and very sensitive, and my breasts had gone up to a 
32C. 

I fell into a routine. Up at six, feed Karen, put Karen down, make 
breakfast for Ron, feed Karen, eat breakfast with Ron, feed Karen, clear 
up breakfast, feed Karen, cup of coffee, feed Karen, go out shopping, 
feed Karen while out, put shopping away, feed Karen ... I expect you get 
the idea. I felt like a baby-feeding machine, my main purpose in life 
was to feed Karen. 

Have you ever heard a baby cry? Of course you have, so you know what a 
compelling sound it is. But have you ever heard your own baby cry? Until 
you have, you cannot imagine how it feels to know that you have what 
this little baby needs, and how impossible it is to withhold it. I fed 
Karen about once per hour, more sometimes. And this continued right 
through the night. I'd take her to bed with me, and I'd fall asleep with 
her mouth at my nipple, and she'd wake me up if it slipped out, so I'd 
turn us over and put the other nipple in, and then we'd get a little 
more sleep. But not much. 

After a couple of months of this, I was at my wits end. Sleep 
deprivation is a torture technique practised by uncivilised countries, 
and babies. I visited the doctor, to see if there was anything that 
could be done. Apparently not. If you have that sort of baby, then tough 
luck. He suggested that I try ignoring her, and letting her cry herself 
out, but it was easy for him to say, impossible for me to do. Karen 
loved me, needed me, like no-one else ever would, and I couldn't leave 
her hungry and unhappy. 

I also asked him about my breasts. Is it normal for them to swell up 
like mine were? I was up to 34D now, and they felt noticeably heavy on 
my chest, although Karen made sure they didn't get full of milk. The 
doctor reassured me that it was perfectly normal for lactating breasts 
to get bigger, and said that they might even keep some of their new size 
afterwards. Well, I suppose it was no bad thing to have more than a pair 
of walnuts in front. 

Meanwhile, I did the best I could to hide my oversized bust from the 
world. I wore thick sweaters and anoraks, and when I got undressed at 
night, I tried to make sure that Ron didn't see me naked. 

Not long after I turned 23, I had a big life-crisis. It started when I 
needed a new bra, and none of my local clothes shops could help. I'd 
just grown out of my 34E, and therefore was looking for an F-cup. But 
there isn't the demand for it, I was told. Go down to the city and go to 
one of the big department stores. 

So Karen and I made the expedition to the West End. We travelled on the 
tube train, and I fed her along the way. I simply ignored the stares and 
glances from the other passengers; feeding a baby is a perfectly natural 
activity. 

We visited the lingerie department. They had F-cup bras, they even had 
G-cup, which meant that I knew where to come in future. I bought two, 
one to wear and one to wash; I didn't want to buy any more, because I 
had a feeling that I wouldn't stay an F-cup, either I'd go on expanding, 
or else I'd return at least partway to normal. 

While I was there, I had a look around the rest of the department. They 
had some lovely things, and among the night-dresses, I found a simply 
gorgeous, and very naughty, black silk number, semi-transparent, long 
skirt, and full enough in the bust for me to wear. It was much too 
expensive, but I held it up against myself, and thought maybe I could 
get Ron excited, maybe bring some romance into our lives. I thought of 
Heathcliffe, and I thought of Ron, and I spent far more than we could 
afford. 

The next evening, before Ron came home, I made sure Karen was well fed. 
I gave Ron his supper, took the plates out to the kitchen, and told him 
to wait a few minutes for dessert. In the bedroom, I changed into my 
sexy new night-dress, dabbed perfume onto my neck and cleavage, put a 
ribbon in my hair, and sashayed out into the living room, trying to look 
seductive. 

He looked at me in disgust, and said "Mary, you look like a huge fat 
tart", and then Karen started crying again, and Ron said "and I can't 
stand the way your baby never stops crying", and he stomped out of the 
flat. I picked Karen up and started feeding her; she stopped crying, but 
I started. Have you ever tried your very best to do something nice for 
someone, only to be met with total indifference or even insults? 

I never saw Ron again.  He just didn't come back. I didn't look for him 
very hard, I knew why he left, between a fat, unattractive wife and a 
screaming baby, Karen and I had driven him out. I cried a lot in the 
days that followed, partly because I was so lonely, and partly because I 
was scared. I had no income; I got a little bit of money from the state, 
but that didn't go very far, and what little Ron and I had saved 
wouldn't last for ever. I felt fat and ugly, although in fact it was 
only my breasts that were big, I still had a reasonable 26 inch waist. 
The only nice part of my life was Karen. 

I spent a lot of time with her, mostly feeding her. She still wanted the 
breast at all times of the day and night, and cried when I tried to put 
her down. But now she was a comfort to me, this small human who loved me 
unconditionally like no-one else ever would. 

I was a complete mess for several months. I ate, I slept, I fed Karen. I 
went shopping for food, to the Post Office for my child benefit Giro, to 
the Employment Office for my dole. I cried a lot; I missed Ron in spite 
of the fact that he'd been pretty much ignoring me anyway. I gave up 
wearing a bra when the 34F got too small, and there was no point in 
buying the G, because that wouldn't fit me either. I measured myself 
from time to time, but I even stopped doing that when I got too big for 
the tape measure, which only went up to 60 inches. 

A couple of months before Christmas, I tried to pull myself together a 
bit. I went to see Doctor Carter; he weighed me and measured me, and 
told me that I was in good health, but needed a bit more exercise. I was 
still five foot six, but I now weighed 155 pounds, compared with 135 
before Karen. My waist was still quite good, still 26 inches, but I was 
62 inches round the bust, and I told the doctor I was finding this a bit 
of a problem. "I can't get a bra that fits me", I said, "and they wobble 
so much." The doctor suggested that I either make my own, or get someone 
to do it for me, and he also gave me some diet suggestions. 

Sewing isn't that difficult, and time was something I had lots of. I 
bought a longer tape measure, one that went up to two meters (you can't 
get feet and inches any more), some needles, fabric, elastic, hooks and 
eyes, sewing cotton and a paper pattern for a bra.  The pattern I bought 
wasn't big enough, of course, but it showed me how the design worked, 
and I could scale it up. I don't know how you're supposed to measure 
these things, but I measured from the underneath of my breast to the tip 
of my nipple, then again from the top to the nipple, and took the 
average of the two, nine inches, which I called the "overhang". I made 
myself a bra, and it really wasn't very difficult, although I don't 
think I did a terribly good job at it. Karen's feeding and changing 
interruptions didn't help, of course. Fortunately, you can make quite a 
shambles of making a bra and it doesn't matter much, because no-one ever 
sees it. 

Mum and Dad invited me round for Christmas, and that was nice, although 
I think they got rather fed up with Karen's incessant crying. I had to 
duck out of the living room all the time to give Karen a suck, to keep 
her pacified. It was a rather harried Christmas, and it was the last 
time I saw my parents. Not long after this, Dad had a heart attack, and 
died, and Mum went to live with her sister in Australia. 

The diet didn't work. There's only just so far you can go with a diet, 
especially when you're feeding a little one. Karen had no time for 
bottles or dummies, the real thing was all she would accept. I cut down 
my calories to 1200 per day, and at that level I was so permanently 
hungry, that I couldn't really think about cutting my intake further. 
For exercise, I was walking with Karen to the shops each day, and 
sometimes, when the weather was fine, I'd take her to the park. But by 
Easter, I had to make myself a new bra, and I was appalled to find that 
my measurements had gone up to 173 centimetres circumference, 28 cm 
overhang. So I visited the doctor again. 

He said that I was getting unusually big, and thought that it was the 
excessive breast feeding that was doing it. I explained that I couldn't 
help it, Karen needed me so much. He suggested that maybe I was feeding 
her so often because I was lonely and needed her love, but I said that 
was silly, I fed her because she was hungry. The doctor suggested that I 
try to be more active, get a bit of a social life. He weighed me, and I 
was  73.5 kilos, up a bit from before. 

The trouble with that idea, is that I now felt extremely self-conscious 
about my looks. I wasn't exactly pretty to start with, my nose is too 
big and my chin is too sharp. And now I had these enormous things on my 
chest. People used to stare at me in the street, even though I wore a 
heavy coat. And when I opened up to feed Karen, I could feel the eyes 
boring into my body. I used to go to the library almost every day, 
because I was reading so much; I didn't really have much else to do, 
because while you're feeding a baby, there's not a lot you can do. 

Instead, I turned inwards. I spent a lot of time talking to Karen (our 
conversations were a bit one-sided, so I used to imagine her replies) 
and feeding her, and I went to the public library most days, to get more 
books and to read the newspapers and magazines. And it was by reading 
these that I discovered about computers and stuff. 

It seems they aren't stupid and boring like everyone thinks. You can 
actually do interesting things with a computer, like write letters. Ron 
had left his computer behind when he left, so I got it out, plugged it 
in, and switched it on. It isn't as easy as they make out, though. 
There's lots of ways things might work, and only one way they do work. I 
read all the computer magazines in the library, and started getting out 
books on the subject. 

That's how I discovered about programming. It sounds really complicated, 
but actually it's just telling the computer what you want it to do, and 
unlike Karen, the computer does what it's told. I found that Ron's 
computer already had Quick Basic on it, so I learned that. My first 
program put coloured circles up on the screen, the size and colour of 
the circle depending on which key you pressed. I wrote it for Karen, and 
she liked it, and kept pointing at the screen and cooing. 

A lot of the computer magazines put CD Roms on the cover. The ones in 
the library didn't have these, of course, but I thought they must be 
there when the magazines arrive. And in June, one of the magazines put a 
C++ compiler on the cover, and I'd read about C++, and it was supposed 
to be really good. I could have bought the magazine, but they cost 
nearly five pounds, and that's a lot of money when you're a single 
parent family on the dole. Five pounds is shoes for Karen, not that she 
wore them yet. 

Clearly, the librarian was removing these CDs before putting the 
magazine on the shelf, and I wondered if I could ask him for the June 
one with the C++ compiler. I talked to Karen about it, and her imaginary 
reply was that I should smarten myself up, maybe put on a touch of 
makeup, and ask him. 

The main problem in making myself look presentable was my bust. So, the 
first part of this project consisted of making myself another bra, 
because the one that I'd made when I was 173 cm around and 28 cm in 
overhang, was far too small. I measured myself, and I was now up to 188 
circumference, 33 overhang. No wonder it wouldn't fit. So I scaled up 
the design again, making the back-strap a bit broader so that I could 
put in six hooks, and making the shoulder straps two inches wide, to 
reduce the effect on my shoulders. One problem I had, was my nipples. 
Karen's constant sucking on them had made them much larger than the 
standard design would cater for. I think most women have nipples that 
are pretty flat, or at least a lot less than a centimetre. Mine were two 
centimetres long and almost as thick, and after Karen has had a good 
suck, even longer. So when I made the pattern for the cups, I included 
space for my nipples to stick out into. 

I also knitted a sweater to go with my new bra; the nice thing about 
sweaters is that they have quite a lot of stretch, so if I grew a bit 
more, it would still fit me. Also, the hugging effect of a sweater helps 
to support your breasts, and every little helps when you've got as much 
to support as I have. 

The whole project took me about a month, but time was something I had 
plenty of. When I tried it all on, and looked in the mirror, I could 
scarcely recognise myself. I hadn't realised how much I'd let myself go 
in the last six months. I brushed my hair, and put on a dab of lipstick, 
and felt better than I had since Ron had left me. But as I looked in the 
mirror, I started to get worried. I did stick out rather a lot. When I 
wasn't wearing a bra, it wasn't too bad, but given some support, a lot 
of those 33 centimetres of overhang were sticking out, rather than 
hanging down. My big nipples made it even worse, and the sweater kind of 
moulded itself round them. So, before I went out with Karen to the 
library, I put on a poncho, which covered it all up nicely. 

Once I was in the library, I went straight to the ladies like I always 
did, to give Karen a feed before she started crying. They don't like 
crying babies in a library. I left the poncho off when I'd finished, 
brushed my hair a bit, and checked my lipstick, because I wanted to look 
nice. I went up to the head librarian, and waited by his desk until he 
noticed me and looked up. 

He didn't look up any further than my breasts; I could see him focusing 
in on my nipples. I needn't have bothered with the lipstick. Anyway, I 
gathered all my courage together and asked him if I could borrow the CD 
Rom from June with the C++ compiler on it. His mouth moved a couple of 
times before he said anything, and then he nodded, without taking his 
eyes off my nipples. I held my hand out and waited - nothing happened. 
"Unh - it's round the back in the office", he said, and stood up. He led 
me through to the office, then stood by the door so I had to squeeze 
past. 

I'm not completely stupid, you know. He didn't have to stand by the 
door. I guessed what he was after, and since I wanted something from 
him, I decided to give him something to remember. I pushed Karen's pram 
into the office, and then went through the doorway myself, first turning 
sideways so that I faced Mr Kegleigh, and making sure that I rubbed 
myself hard against him as I went in. I was sure I heard him moan 
softly. He kept all the CDs in a pile in a corner of the office, and we 
found the one I wanted. He gave it to me, and I put it in my handbag and 
left. 

When we got home, I talked this over with Karen. "You know, Karen, I'm 
sure Mr Kegleigh likes my breasts. When I brushed past him, I think I 
felt an erection through his trousers, like Ron used to have 
occasionally." Karen just started to cry, so I took off my new bra and 
fed her. 

Over the next few months, I started to learn C++, using the compiler on 
the CD, and books that I borrowed from the library. I was just like 
Latin; all rules and grammar. But, with Latin, once you've got the hang 
of the grammar, you can start writing iambic pentameters, and with C++, 
I wrote a database to track which books I've read, and their authors, so 
I could keep from getting out the same book twice. 

You know, these computers really are rather fine. When I was at school, 
they had computers, but they wouldn't let the girls anywhere near them, 
so I never had a chance to explore. The main problems in programming, 
are working out what you want to do, and keeping your breasts out of the 
way so that you can see the keyboard. Wearing a bra was out of the 
question while using the PC, but that didn't matter too much, because 
with a bit of practice, I found that I could simultaneously feed Karen 
and program. I just held Karen in my lap, and sat several inches back 
from the keyboard. 

In September, I was signing on at the dole, when I noticed that some of 
the job adverts were for computer programmers. With Karen to look after, 
there was no way I could go out to work, but it came as a revelation to 
me that people might be willing to pay for what I regarded as an 
enthralling pastime. I copied some of the adverts onto a piece of paper, 
and when I got home, I phoned up to see what sort of person they were 
looking for. And, just to see what would happen, I asked them for job 
application forms. I knew I didn't stand a chance of actually getting a 
job, because first of all, I don't have any qualifications. And 
secondly, I've got Karen to think about. 

One of the companies I applied to, wrote back to me, asking if I would 
come in for an interview. I was dumbfounded. They must be pretty 
desperate for programmers if they'd even consider someone without any 
qualifications like me. I thought of telling them about Karen, and that 
I couldn't actually take a job, but then I thought, they're paying the 
expenses, I'll go for the interview. 

The first problem was, of course, clothes. I'd been getting bigger all 
this time, and had to construct yet another new bra for myself. In fact, 
things had gotten so bad, even my nice sweater was too tight. I measured 
my breasts again, and I was just one centimetre bigger than the tape, at 
201, 38 overhang. I also measured the separation between my nipples, and 
that was also 38 centimetres. So I made another bra, this time with 
eight hooks, and padded shoulder straps. And I knitted myself another 
sweater, only this time I made it a bit too big on purpose, so that it 
didn't cling to my nipples the way the old one used to. Fortunately, 
skirts weren't a problem; I could still get my 36 inch hips into a 
standard size 10.  

I put my new bra on and went out to practice a bit. I was beginning to 
have real problems with balance. It was fine as long as I didn't wear a 
bra, well, maybe not fine, but I could cope. The problem with the bra, 
was that it redistributed my weight all differently, and my balance was 
wrong. I didn't dare wear any kind of heels; trainers or court shoes 
(for formal stuff) were all I dared wear. It also got a bit embarrassing 
in shops, if someone backed into me, or if I collided with someone, my 
breasts would sort of envelop them and I'd mumble an apology. 

Lifts are completely hopeless. If I try to use a lift, and then several 
people get in after me, then I find myself pressing my breasts into 
people's bodies - I avoid lifts. Travelling on buses is also difficult; 
the seats are too close together for me to be able to sit in them, and 
if I stand, then I have to hold on to Karen with one arm, and to a 
balance-strap with the other. The jerking and swaying of the bus throws 
me into other people, because I can't control my weight. This means that 
my breasts act as buffers, which embarrasses me and the people I cannon 
into. 

Karen and I went for the job interview. On the way there, I made sure 
that Karen was well fed; I didn't want her crying in the middle of 
everything. And that got the usual stares from my fellow passengers. 
When we arrived, I was shown in to the interview room, where I took off 
my coat, and made sure Karen was settled. Then, a man entered, 
introduced himself as Derek Tagbury, and started asking me questions 
about my skills. I gave him a copy of a program I'd written, and leaned 
back in the chair. 

I think that it was at this point that Mr Tagbury noticed my bosom. I 
saw his eyes open wide, and his mouth; then he collected himself and 
started reading the program I'd written. But he couldn't concentrate on 
it, he kept looking up at my breasts, like he couldn't believe them. 
Eventually, he asked me about my previous experience, and I had to admit 
that there I hadn't any. I also told him that I had another problem - 
Karen. I explained that I was a single-parent family, and I had to stay 
at home to look after Karen. Also, I had to feed her about once per 
hour, because she was so demanding. 

He was still staring at my breasts, and I don't know what got into me, 
because what I did next was really very naughty. It was a sudden 
impulse, an instinct. I really felt that maybe I had a chance to get 
this job, and if I did, it would lift me out of the desperate penny-
pinching existence I hated. It would mean I could get nice things for 
Karen, instead of buying second hand clothes from charity shops. But I 
knew that it would only happen if I could work from home - that way, I 
could still take care of Karen. So I leaned back a bit further in the 
chair, and put my hands behind my head, and told Mr Tagbury "I really 
would be so happy if I got this job. I could work from home, and 
communicate via email using a modem. I'm a good programmer, you can see 
that from my work. And you could come round to my house every time we 
needed to have a meeting." 

Putting my hands behind my head, had the effect of lifting my breasts, 
pushing them forward, and separating and accentuating the nipples. Mr 
Tagbury looked like someone had hit him with a sledgehammer, which I 
suppose is pretty much what I'd done. I'd kind of hoped it would help, 
but I wasn't expecting such an immediate and total effect. "OK, Mary, 
the job's yours. The monthly salary is £11,000, paid monthly in arrears. 
Overtime is extra, by agreement. Three weeks holiday; the usual sickness 
arrangements. You'll be working from home; log in every day using a 
modem. We'll put you on the company email system." 

I was processed by personnel, then taken down to the programmers shop to 
meet the other people on the project. There were about ten of them, and 
as I expected, all of them were men. I walked into the room, pushing 
Karen's pram, and they all turned and started at me. Perhaps I should 
have made this bra a bit less supportive; maybe if I made the shoulder 
straps a bit longer. Or even adjustable? Anyway, I was introduced to the 
others, and learned that I was to be the junior programmer on this 
project, doing the user interface stuff. While I was there, I cadged a 
modem, because I didn't have enough money to buy one of my own, and I'd 
need one now. 

When I got home, I had a long talk with Karen. She still didn't 
contribute much, on account of she was only eighteen months old, but 
they do say it's good to talk to your baby. "Your mummy might have 
discovered something, darling. Those things you like to suck on, seem to 
have quite a big effect on men, well some men, anyway." I remembered 
that Ron had called me a fat cow more than once. "If I wear a well-made 
bra, and stick them out proudly, then they go gaga, Karen. Isn't that 
useful?" 

So I started work for Accounting Solutions. Mr Tagbury visited me at 
home, to explain what needed doing and I put on my best bra and sweater 
in his honour. He had the menu tree already designed, and showed me some 
screenshots of what he thought the various screens should look like. 
Then it was up to me to implement this, to make it look nice and be easy 
to use. The program I would write wouldn't actually do anything; they'd 
add that code later. All my thing had to do was look nice. Mr Tagbury 
said he'd visit me each week to see how I was getting on. Of course, I'd 
be sending my code in via modem, so this wasn't really necessary, but I 
guessed that the real reason was that he wanted to look at my breasts 
some more. Well, mustn't grumble, I suppose, I wouldn't have gotten the 
job if I hadn't led him on a bit. 

I started work at once. Not being paid until the end of the month was a 
real hardship, but I kept telling Karen it was only temporary, and that 
soon we'd be getting around £250 per week, about five times as much as 
my dole, child allowance and supplementary benefit, although I guessed 
they'd keep some of it back for tax. I was surprised at how much that 
turned out to be; my expected £250 was dwindled down to £140. I expect 
it's all those scroungers on the dole (that's a joke, of course). Even 
so, for the first time for several months, more was coming in than was 
going out, and you have no idea what a weight off my mind that was. When 
my first pay arrived, I took Karen out and bought her a new dress, the 
first new dress she'd ever had. For myself, I bought some more material, 
elastic, cotton and sewing materials. One bra isn't enough, and I wanted 
to try out my idea of making the straps adjustable, so I could point my 
nipples straight forward, or down towards my toes, according to how I 
felt. 

My heart sank as I measured myself. The tape was too small to get my 
circumference! So I used a piece of string, and then measured the 
string. I was 215 centimetres around, with a overhang of 45 cm.  At 
least the separation between my nipples hadn't changed much - that was 
40. I made the bra, and used double straps; one with the adjustable 
buckle, and another one under it with padding, to stop the buckle from 
cutting in to my skin. And I increased the number of hooks round the 
back to ten. I wasn't sure if that was really necessary, but I thought, 
better to have to many than to have to few, and risk the whole thing 
coming apart. And, since it was winter, I knitted two really chunky 
sweaters to go on top. 

When I tried it out, it worked quite well. With the straps fully 
extended, my breasts sagged as low as my waist, and I had good balance, 
and could move quite easily. Also, I wasn't in much danger of them 
colliding with other people too much. But with the straps done up as 
tightly as they would go, I stuck out like two dolphins. Looking in the 
mirror, I estimated that my nipples were projecting 30 cm in front of 
the rest of me, and were about 30 cm below the level of my shoulders. I 
didn't think that this would be useful for everyday practical use, but 
it would be useful to have that capability for handling men like Mr 
Tagbury. And if I ever got invited to a party, I could be the most 
outstanding girl there! 

December came, and with it Christmas. I was dreading it. My father was 
dead, my mother was in Australia, and I had no idea where Ron was (nor 
did I want to know). I had no friends, unless you count Mr Kegleigh the 
librarian, or Mr Tagbury. And they were both married men. And anyway, 
they weren't friends, they just liked looking at my bust. As Christmas 
got nearer and nearer, I got more and more depressed, until eventually I 
was so down, I decided to see the doctor. Maybe he could give me some 
pills or something. 

Dr Carter looked up as I came in, wearing my new bra, breasts in the 
lowered position. He frowned at me. "You've put on a bit of weight, 
Mary." Then he looked again, and realised that it wasn't a big belly, it 
was my breasts. "Strip off, Mary, let's have a look at you." I took off 
my sweater and bra, and pulled down my skirt so he could examine me.  He 
weighed me, measured me, prodded me and listened to me through his 
stethoscope. Then he explained "Just checking for lumps and bumps", and 
he squeezed and kneaded my breasts far worse than Karen ever did. "Well, 
seems fine, but they're a bit bigger than they were, aren't they?" "Dr 
Carter, they're a lot bigger. I'm worried that I seem to keep growing - 
there seems to be no end to it. And I'm really depressed. Have you got 
anything that would help me?" 

I explained to him about my father dying, and my mother moving away, and 
how Karen was all I had now, and how she still wanted feeding at all 
times of the day or night. He interrupted me - "You're still breast-
feeding her?" "Yes" "But she's, how old now?" "Karen's twenty months 
old, she's just starting to toddle" "Mary, you should have weaned her 
ages ago. You can't breast-feed a toddler, you know?" "Well, I give her 
solids as well. But she just cries and cries if I don't give her a 
suck." He frowned at me. "Mary, there aren't any pills that are going to 
make your life wonderful. You've got to do it yourself. You've got a 
decent job, earn reasonable money. You've got to start getting out, 
meeting people. You've let yourself become dependent on your baby for 
your social life, and one of the reasons you're still breast-feeding her 
is because you haven't got your own friends." 

"But what about these?" I asked. He looked at them. "Yes, they're big, 
aren't they. But you seem to be able to cope with them, and you know 
some men like them really big." Yes, I'd discovered that for myself. 
"But they keep getting bigger. When will it stop?" "Mary, you stop 
breast-feeding little Karen, and then nature will take it's course. Your 
milk will dry up, and your breasts will get smaller. Not as small as 
they used to be, of course, but a bit smaller. And you mustn't feel that 
you're depriving Karen; babies have to be weaned sooner or later, and 
Karen is a year overdue. She'll thrive on normal babyfood, you'll see. 
And if they're still too big afterwards, there's always cosmetic 
surgery." Ugh. No thanks. If someone takes a scalpel to me, there had 
better be a really good reason for it. 

It made sense to me; I knew he was right. I was using Karen as a 
substitute for a social life. Karen's a lovely baby, but her 
conversation is very limited. And the doctor was right; I had to be firm 
with Karen; I had to wean her one day, and she was already more than a 
year past the time when I should have. I decided that I'd taper her off 
- instead of giving her a suck ever hour, I'd change it to every four 
hours, and then six, and so on. I also bought her a dummy. If other 
children sucked a dummy, why not Karen? 

Just before Christmas, Accounting Solutions had their staff Christmas 
party. I'd originally intended to give it a miss, but after talking to 
the doctor, I knew that a good party was just the medicine I needed. But 
what should I wear? I didn't have any party clothes. You can't go to a 
party in a sweater, and there was no chance that I'd find anything in a 
shop to fit me. I thought I'd have to make something, but I'm not really 
that good with a needle. So one Saturday, I took Karen down to Regent 
Street, to Liberties, and visited the fabrics department, which is huge. 
I went to the Ladies, and gave Karen a short feed, and tightened my bra-
straps to life me up to my maximum projection of 30 cm. I found a nice 
lady assistant, and explained the problem to her, I wanted something 
pretty for a party. I don't think she appreciated the scale of things 
until I showed her. She looked down at them, and raised her eyebrows. 
"They certainly do jut out, don't they? You want something that 
emphasizes your bust, I think", she said. I wasn't sure that I wanted to 
emphasize them - they were far too big already. "Nonsense", she said. 
"They're your best feature. Most women would give anything for a pair 
like yours. You should be proud of them, show them off. You'll be a big 
hit with the fellows. You won't be able to wear a dress", she commented. 
I already knew that. "What would you suggest", I asked. "A girl your 
size, the only answer is a crossover." "What's a crossover?" 

She showed me. She took a bolt of fabric, and wrapped it once round my 
waist making a waist-band, then brought the ends up crossing behind my 
back, then crossing again over my breasts so that they were covered, but 
not concealed, if you know what I mean. Then she tucked the ends under 
the waist-band. "You can wear a belt on top, to keep it securely in 
place", she explained. I looked at myself in the mirror. I thought the 
effect not bad, really. If we used sequins or something glittery, it 
could even look a bit glamorous, suitable for a party. She showed me how 
you could adjust it to make the crossover emphasize the deep valley 
between my breasts. It looked really easy to make; you take six meters 
of fabric, cut it to about 50 centimetres width, hem the edges, and Bobs 
Your Uncle. I bought three lengths, one in gold lame (I wasn't sure if 
I'd have the courage to actually wear gold lame, but wotthehell, as 
mehitabel says, you only live once), one in blue double jersey, and one 
in cream satin. I liked the cream satin one best. 

On the night of the party, I left Karen with a neighbour. I travelled to 
the party on the train, with my party clothes in a bag, and I changed 
when I got there, into low-heeled shoes (high heels are a real hazard 
with my weight distribution) and my cream satin crossover. I had my bra 
done up to the maximum, with a projection of 32 cm (I'd measured it). I 
walked into the room, and conversation just died as pretty much everyone 
turned to look at me. There were a few giggles. I told myself that they 
were just nervous, and actually everyone was admiring my breasts. I 
heard a few people asking each other "Who's that?", and of course no-one 
knew, as I didn't go into the office like everyone else. 

I had a great time at the party. No-one actually asked me to dance, but 
I talked with lots of people, and it was so great after having only 
Karen as a conversational partner, that I resolved to do something in 
future about my self-imposed isolation. Although I wasn't sure what. I 
drank a bit too much wine, and I flirted with all the men, who seemed 
quite happy to flirt back, although they did seem to mostly keep their 
eyes on a point about eighteen inches below mine. Or rather, on one of 
two points. Still, that's why I'd worn my uplift bra with the cream 
satin crossover, so I could hardly complain. 

As I got home that evening, I was still walking on air. I'd had a 
wonderful time, so much better than all the parties I remembered in my 
young days. At least people noticed me now; back when I'd been a skinny, 
spotty, mousy teenager, I felt that I was invisible, for the amount of 
notice people took of me. At the Accounting Solutions  party, a least 
people had noticed me. 

Christmas was every bit as depressing as I had thought it would be. 
Karen and I were cooped up in the house, with not much to do, and Karen 
was crying a lot, because I was depriving her of the comfort of my 
breast. I cuddled her a lot to make up for it, but I was determined that 
she would be weaned. At least I could afford to buy her some nice 
presents - her favorite was the bear. I spent most of Christmas working 
on the user interface, and muttering to myself about getting a social 
life. 

The first thing I did in the New Year, was to get myself Internet 
access. I've been reading about this, and how it's a way to meet people 
without actually having to travel, and it sounded ideal. Of course, 
things are seldom as good as the advertisements make out. I got myself a 
web browser, and an ftp client, and that sort of thing, and started to 
look around. 

I discovered three things. The Internet seems to be entirely American, 
and I have the impression they don't even realise that anywhere outside 
the USA actually exists. The second thing I discovered was that the 
Internet seems heavily populated by the electronic equivalent of spotty 
kids. And the third thing I discovered was an intense concentration on 
one subject, sex (which they call "adult"). Still, on reflection, maybe 
it doesn't matter that these people are so geographically distant from 
me; it means I won't get them turning up on my doorstep. Spotty kids can 
be rapidly identified and avoided, which leaves only the sex problem. 

This will probably sound strange to a lot of people, but I actually 
don't want sex. I tried that, with Ron, and it wasn't a tenth as good as 
it's cracked up to be. I think he felt the same. What I really want, is 
a friend, or even better, friends. But the way men react to me these 
days, I could see that friendship would be impossible; they either find 
me disgusting (like Ron), or they find my breasts fascinating, to the 
exclusion of the rest of me. I suppose everyone says they want to be 
judged on their mind, not their body, but in my case, it really is 
important. 

One of the best things about the Internet, is that no-one knows who you 
really are. I found the anonymous penet server, which meant that I could 
hide behind a pseudonym (I'm using a different one for this). It means 
that I can have sensible conversations with people in many countries, 
and they aren't staring at my breasts the whole time and wondering if 
they are real (a question I've been asked so many times now that I have 
two standard answers, "No, I always carry watermelons this way" and 
"Yes, and it's almost milking time"). 

Anyway, here's the problem. I want to have another baby. Partly because 
it would be better for Karen not to be an only child, and partly 
because, well, I miss being suckled, I miss having a tiny baby around, 
and I'd like to have another one. Of course, I know what causes babies, 
and I'm not doing any of that currently, and I know I'll have to, to get 
a baby, and I'm quite prepared to. But I don't want to just pick up some 
guy at the library and take him home, or anything like that. 

Because I think Karen needs a father. Forget Ron, he's history. I mean a 
real father, someone who likes her, and plays the games that fathers 
play with her, and tells her off when she's naughty, and all that. The 
new baby will also want a father, it's only natural. It it's a boy, even 
more so, as he'll need a role model. And I know there must be someone 
suitable somewhere on the Internet, probably in America, since that's 
where most people seem to be. I want to find someone who can appreciate 
me for who I am inside, not for how big my hooters are (that's what 
Americans  call them). 

And I don't know how to do this. 

And I don't suppose anyone cares.