W-oo-t – Get Huyooj
Choose your own adventure!
You are Janis Holm, a feisty, ambitious archaeologist raised on a steady diet of adventure movies. Academia is all well and good, but what you really want to do is make groundbreaking discoveries in the field. You’ve found a lead. It’s time to act!
Sunlight filters through a tiny crack in the chamber’s limestone ceiling, casting the statue in front of your trembling hands in high relief. The glyphs you spent the last month translating hinted at it being underneath the temple complex, and there it is— the Idol of Hyuooj! “Oh, aren’t you beautiful,” you croon to the figure, admiring its serene smile, following its downcast eyes as they gaze lovingly at its swollen breasts. They’re beyond ample. They make it look like the statue will tip over at any moment and shatter. It’s such an important artifact that the very thought makes you shiver. You step closer as if to prevent that from happening.
• Do you come to your senses and follow the proper protocols— documenting only, not disturbing a thing until the rest of your dig team arrives? If so, turn to page 5.
• Do you give into the sudden urge to steady the precariously perched figurine? If so, turn to page 37.Roughly two and a half thousand years ago an Ixtlan priest placed this statue on its pedestal. Now you’ve removed it. You hold it gingerly by the waist, but the top-heavy thing threatens to slip from your grasp and hit the floor, so you change your grip. Your eager fingers curl around those big, gravid breasts and suddenly it’s stable and content. “Sorry,” you whisper to the idol, blushing. It feels naughty to cradle them even though the statue was probably sculpted to be handled this way.
Imagine putting that detail about the horny Ixtlan artists into your paper! The discovery was thrilling, but the research to come will be your real meal ticket: fame inside your field, the respect of your peers, easy grant money, and maybe being put on the fast track to tenure… and the glory will be yours alone! You snuck ahead of your archaeology team, acting on a hunch. It was risky and a little dangerous, but it sure paid off!
• Do you start to plan your scientific award acceptance speech aloud? If so, turn to page 44.
• Do you continue to fondle Hyuooj’s captivating bosom? If so, turn to page 60.You carry the idol in front of you as if it were the Globel Prize. You do a little turn and imagine your dress swishing just enough to show some toned leg to your rapt audience. You’re petite and mousy but know you clean up great once your hair’s done up and out of its usual ponytail. “Thank you. Thank you so much, thank you. Wow. First, let me say what an honor it is to receive this award.” You clutch it tightly to your chest. “I’ve dreamed of this moment ever since I was six and I used my mother’s hairbrush to polish some pebbles I dug up in my backyard. Sorry, not-sorry, Mom! Of course my parents played a big role in encouraging me to pursue my education. And there were many teachers- particularly Ms. Mason in eighth grade who— ooh!” The statue is small, but it’s getting annoyingly heavy. You interrupt your speech to arch your back, hearing the satisfying pop of vertebrae. You roll your shoulders and look down. “What the?”
You have boobs. Well, you’ve had boobs since junior high, but these are new. These are larger. Your arms strain under the load of holding them up. Your hands sink into soft, giving flesh. For a minute you imagine you’re back giving your acceptance speech in front of a now-murmuring crowd. They’re watching your dress inflate. Since they know you’re famous for researching Hyuooj, the absurdly endowed Ixtlan fertility goddess, they assume it’s some crass publicity stunt done with balloons and hidden air hoses. Your bustline waxes past the polite cup sizes. There’s nervous laughter from the front row. “Uh— of course my team was instrumental in aiding…holy…my apologies. Just a sec.” Your dress is so tight it’s making it hard to breathe. Lines of strain appear in the fabric as it struggles to hold back your pent-up breasts. What started as a tiny tear in the neckline suddenly splits into a yawning fissure down the front of your gown, with a rip that’s amplified to rock concert levels by your lapel mic. Cleavage spills out of the breach and widens the rift, letting everyone in the crowd know that this isn’t fake. Your tits surge outwards and knock over the podium. Screams erupt.
The daydream is over and your chest is overflowing your arms. Melons ripen into pumpkins. The new weight is staggering. The volume is incredible. Buttons on your shirt skitter across the chamber floor. Nipples the size of shot glasses become erect in the cool, damp air. They’re so sensitive! You can feel every fiber of the white cotton undershirt they’re tenting. You’re starting to panic and you feel like playing with them won’t calm you down, but it would be a pleasant distraction. Then you realize what you aren’t holding: the Idol of Hyuooj! You don’t think you dropped it. Uh-oh. What happened?
• Do you put your concerns on hold and start twiddling your eager nips? If so, turn to page 69.
• Do you decide something is very wrong and it’s time to get out of the temple? If so, turn to page 221.
• Do you stay put and start searching for the missing idol? If so turn to page 242.Right away you glance at the narrow door frame, then back to your burgeoning bust. After some mental math, you take off at a run before you’re forever trapped in the room. Breasts heavier than medicine balls jounce violently and batter your rib cage. Ouch! Apparently, running is a bad idea. You use your hands and arms as a very poor sports bra and jog down dark passages. As they jiggle, your boobs eventually escape your grasp and flop free, forcing you to stop to gather them up again. This happens more and more frequently as they continue to grow. At one of these pauses, you lean against the wall as your heart races. You feel your lungs struggle to fully expand in your compressed chest. This is so hard. Your little body is being asked to do so much more work than normal! But you can’t stand still for long— this is a dire race you must win.
As you prepare to get moving again, you growl in frustration as you discover you can no longer get your hands underneath your boobs to do your bad brassiere imitation. They’re just too big and unwieldy. They squirm out of your hug. They plop against your upper legs as you jog. You feel like the absurd extra mass is going to cause you to fall forward, so you slow to a shuffling walk— lower impact. Your shoes skid against the uneven ground. Your inner thighs are rubbed rosy red. They feel like friction has lit them on fire. You clap your hands to your hips and feel extra padding blooming there. “Oh, come on!” You didn’t need more ballast, frowning as you remember that the rest of the Idol of Hyuooj’s body wasn’t exactly slim.
You’re so preoccupied with kneading your chubby legs that you almost step into the void. You manage to stop yourself from pitching forwards by windmilling your arms, but unfortunately, you overcorrect and sit down hard. Your ass is a lot fatter, but you wouldn’t be at all surprised if you bruised your coccyx. Getting back on your feet is a chore. Your leg muscles are jelly. Your back is strained. Just now you realize your glasses are somewhere on the floor. If you try to retrieve them, you might wreck them as you get to your knees, and if you find them, you simply might not be able to stand again. What a cheery thought!
There’s still the problem of the void in front of you. You kick a pebble into it and hear a sploosh. What? This wasn’t the way you came! It was so easy to get turned around in these hallways when you were in a hurry and could hardly see in front of you. Your headlamp’s batteries are still doing fine, but your shelf tits create a vast shadow. You angle your breasts towards the wall and turn your head to get a better view of the water trap ahead, squinting. With no glasses it’s blurry, but you think you see a rope bridge. Not a bridge with wooden slats trussed together with good, strong cords; just a solitary vine spanning the gap. A dry-rotted, pre-Christ jungle vine. Your light’s reflected back by the coppery retinas of a crocodile lurking in the water, then another. Fudge.
• Do you risk drowning and dismemberment by powering your way over the vine? If so, turn to page 255.
• Do you backtrack, looking for your original route? If so, turn to page 257.Fear propels you over the water. You leave a scream in your wake, partially because you don’t want to hear the vine creak and groan under your almost half-ton weight. Your shrill voice echoes down the hall in front of you, which tilts downhill. You’re picking up a frightening amount of momentum. Your breasts flap and flop against your lap. You knee your tits repeatedly. It hurts a lot. The only thing slowing you is an occasional brush with the walls as your bust widens. You can see a dark opening ahead of you. Another pit trap? No— you can smell the loamy forest air and you know you’re close to freedom… but you’re slowing! You’re almost tripping over your hall-plugging bust. One final heroic push to uncork yourself and you erupt into the outer world.
You pitch forward onto your tits. The hot jungle air is laden with humidity and your skin erupts in sweat. You’re relieved beyond words but also completely spent: your limbs are useless noodles- every muscle is strained, knotted, or completely limp. What now? How and when will you be rescued? You wish you cared. Your body begs for regenerative sleep. Your soft breasts are both a bed and a lullabye. Your head hits the pillows. Lights out.
The End
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