First Commission.

This is my first try at writing something on the more fictional side.

Before my gigantomastia got this bad(big) I was training to be a teacher. I've put that idea and school on hold for now, but one of the patrons in here was so tickled by the idea of me going into an interview looking the way I do that he paid for this story.

The outfit in the story is something I own and wear often when I'm leaving the house and wanna minimize my chests silhouette. I figured I'd post it along with the story to help immersion :)

anyway, I'll leave the prompt here, and the story below that.

The Prompt:

start the story off with some thoughts from your character about how nervous they are for the day, how much the job would mean to them, and how you've worked so hard to not let your breasts hold you back from following a career you want to do. 

Describe your outfit and the thoughts that went through your head while picking it. Ideally you've picked something modest to downplay your size as much as is possible while looking reasonably pretty as you want to still express yourself in whatever limited fashion is possible. For example, a nice largeish white top that inevitably hugs you close but paired with an open pink sweater that hides your shape somewhat, at least one the sides but is still feminine and teacherly. It's your best version of a fun teacher look.

Then is time for the interview. Here we can have some fun and is where the real “story” is. You notice the interviewer(s)’s eyes as you walk in the room, taking in your body. You turn red but steel yourself from what should be a professional interview. At some point the question of your chest size comes up. Perhaps “organically”, perhaps directly. It's not sexual. Just pure curiosity and professional skepticism from the interviewer. You're free to write this (and the whole story) however you want but I can imagine the questions leading to you needing to reveal your gigantomastia and describe it in uncomfortable detail as the questions start perhaps getting to the point of you needing to assure the interview you won't grow anymore and that you're open to your wardrobe being under review given it's understandable that your shape might be an obstacle in assimilating into the teacher and student population. I know you'll write your real fears/embarrasing worries so il let you play with this 🙂

It should end with your character one way or another believing they didn't get the job either because they were told or they just read the room and then crying in the car on the way home, her boobs touching the steering wheel and bouncing over bumps in the road. 

Overall it should be a sweet, embarrassing little scene that plays fairly realistically with some fun flashes of fictional exaggeration like the questions that occur in the interview. Writing it blog style as if it just happens is totally fine. As you know, I'm open to anything and just want to hear your take on this premise. 

THE STORY

My life is my work.
To teach.
To build something real.

I woke up this morning already anxious, already sweating a little, even before I got out of bed. Not an easy task in itself. Today was the interview — the interview.

The one for the teaching position.

The one that could’ve meant a real future.
Stability.
A life.

It wasn’t glamorous — just a spot at a sweet little elementary school fifteen minutes away. But it would have meant security. Purpose. It would have meant finally doing something I loved, something I trained for, despite the hundred little things that always made it feel out of reach.

And I mean that literally. Out of reach.
Even something as simple as grabbing the steering wheel isn’t straightforward anymore.
But I’ll explain.

Yes, I worked hard. I studied, I prepped, I ran mock interviews, I wrote the most earnest, saccharine professional philosophy known to mankind.

"I'm not here just to teach, but to fulfill and exceed all expectations. I'm here to grow. Not just within my confines, but to fill the space given and blossom beyond any normal boundaries. I promise to enlarge. I already am a force to be reckoned with. If given the chance, I know I can push my profile bigger than any teacher before me."

Kind of dramatic. Definitely risky. But I really, really wanted this job. And honestly?
I'm a sucker for my own writing.

I also wrote all of that while pouring out of the newest, biggest bra I own — and maybe, just maybe, the idea of "growing" and "expanding" was living somewhere deeper in my brain than I realized.

Time for some uncomfortable truth:
I have gigantomastia.

Not “oh my boobs are big lol” big.
Medically anomalous.
Double-digit pounds of breast tissue big.
Bra-size-doesn’t-exist big.

And every time I apply to something important, there's this voice in my head whispering, Will they even see you? Or will they only see them? Will your breasts build a permanent, unwanted home in their brain before your words even have a chance?
Are my breasts triggering something in them they didn’t consent to?

Answer: Unknown. Always unknown.

Choosing an outfit this morning became a full-blown existential crisis wrapped in cotton.

Before fashion even begins, the battle starts with bras.
Custom 30U balcony bra to lift them off my hips.
Minimizer bra layered on top to squish them together enough to fit in the first bra.
Compression shirt over all of that to make the bulges slightly less apocalyptic.

I can't erase them. But at least I can tape the chaos together.

For clothes, I settled on my best "fun, modest, huggable-teacher" look:
A large white blouse with a flutter sleeve and little ruffles at the collar. Technically oversized — but against me, against them, it pulled taut across my chest, creating angry little tension lines that seemed to scream, "STILL DOESN'T FIT."

Over that, my pale pink cardigan — open in the front (because closing is a fantasy) — trying its best to soften the shape from the side. A warm, friendly presentation...
Of entirely too much breast.

I added a navy skirt, flats, hair down, light makeup. Just enough to look like a person, something my body tries its hardest to erase.

I practiced my answers in the mirror.
Watched my boobs shift and jiggle with the slightest breath.
Tried not to cry.

Didn't work.

Crying into your own cleavage at 8am isn't a great omen, by the way.
Especially when you realize that your tears left dark patches on your shirt — right over the very thing you were trying not to emphasize.

As if anything could miss it.
It’s like highlighting a headline that's already printed in bold, size 72 font:

MY BREASTS ARE FREAKISHLY BIG

No highlighting necessary.
They know.

The interview.

I walked into the office and immediately caught the look. Not a leer — just… that pause. That processing.
The male interviewer’s eyes dipped, snapped back up. The woman beside him smiled a little too tightly.
I felt my face heat up.

We shook hands. My chest jiggled with the motion despite the three layers of support.
Compression can only do so much.

I sat down gingerly.
The cardigan swished out behind me like a curtain.
Even sitting still, my chest perched out over the table, firm and heavy, like two stubborn children refusing to be ignored.

The questions started normal enough.

• “What drew you to education?”

• “How would you manage classroom expectations?”

• “How would you handle conflict between students?”

I answered calmly, trying to focus, even as I felt the slightest ripple of movement with every word I spoke. My arms stayed folded carefully in my lap, my little useless shield.

And then.

The man cleared his throat. Looked down, then up again.

“I hope you don’t mind… but your physical presentation is quite striking.”

I froze.

“Striking?” I echoed.

He rushed forward, defensive.

“We’re not judging, of course. Body types vary. But your…size. Specifically your chest. It’s unusual. And we have some concerns about interactions with students and parents."

The woman cut in sharply.

"Desks. Projectors. Can you write on a board normally?"

My cheeks burned.

I spoke softly.

"I have medical documentation. It's called gigantomastia. I’ve explored every support option. I’ve done everything to manage it professionally. It’s never interfered with my work."

They nodded — but their eyes never moved far from my chest.

The woman asked:

"Do you expect it to continue growing?"

Lie time.

"I hope not. It's slowing… I'm told."

I rushed to reassure them:

"I’m open to any wardrobe guidelines. I want to be appropriate. I am appropriate. This is just... my body."

The woman’s voice was gentle, but cutting:

"Students are blunt. Teenagers, especially."

I nodded, throat tightening.

"Would you be open to even more compression? Larger layers?"

Tears stung my eyes.

"I'm already wearing the biggest I own. More compression could cause bruising."

A silence fell. Thick. Heavy.

"You’re already compressing?" she said, half-curious, half-judging.

I could feel their eyes talking openly to my breasts.

I blurted:

"I could try adding another layer, maybe. If that would help."

I shifted awkwardly, my hands betraying me — rising to touch the massive overflow peeking up and out despite the compression.

Making it worse.

Drawing attention to it.

The woman said:

"Honestly? I’m not sure it would help. Even if you compressed down to half your current size, you’d still be... distracting."

I swallowed.

They asked for medical proof. Proof it wouldn’t get worse.

Proof I knew I couldn’t give.

Because sitting at home, on my kitchen table, was a letter from my doctor saying the exact opposite:
"Progressive growth expected."

They asked me to leave the room so they could "discuss."

I nodded, backed out carefully (no good angles when you have this much mass).
Sat awkwardly on a chair in the hallway.

I heard them talking through the door:

"There’s no way we can hire THOSE."

"She’s practically handicapped by them."

"Did you see her struggling to stand up?"

"I Googled her condition — and she’s four times bigger than the medical photos!"

Cruel little giggles.

My stomach twisted. My eyes burned.

And then: the kicker.

"Even if she could cover them up with a cart, how would that look?"

They called me back in.
They let me down "easy."

I smiled, nodded, still answering their weird, invasive breast-questions like some kind of humiliating pageant contestant:

• "Yes, they’re natural."

• "Yes, they’re heavy."

• "No, I can’t run anymore."

In the car, I crammed one boob under the seatbelt, then the other.
Sat there. Chest heaving. Sweat-soaked. Numb.

And then I cried.

Hard. Ugly. Loud.
Tears streaking down while my breasts bumped against the steering wheel with every pothole.

Not because I was ashamed of having this body.

But because I’ve worked so hard to be more than it.

And today proved, again:

I’m not.

Not to them.

Not to this world.

My life is my breasts.
My life is my breasts.

I took them out of their compression prisons that night. Let them swell, soft and enormous, into my lap, bigger than ever.

Watched my bras buckle under their weight.

My life is my breasts.

Over and over, I repeated it.
Until the tears stopped.
Until it was just me, the moonlight, and the heaving, unstoppable bulk of myself.

My life is my breasts.