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Psychonaut: An Erotic Bust Expansion Sci-Fi Story [Patreon Exclusive Preview]
🕑 Added 2025-08-04 10:03:56 +0000 UTCBig boobs are great; I’ll fight anyone that says otherwise. And my enthusiasm is infectious…
Magpie is a psychonaut; looking for trouble in the dreamscape before they reach the real world. But when she encounters an expansion-obsessed Anomaly, she gets more than she bargained for: This Anomaly has stolen Magpie’s looks… and she’s determined to make the agent share her thirst for big, growing curves.
Will Magpie be seduced by her incredibly bodacious twin and the promise of what she could be, if she only allowed herself to grow? Can she escape the Anomaly’s clutches when she fills the entire dream with busty, salacious clones of herself? And when she gets a taste of that enrapturing expansion, how buxom will Magpie make herself—in the dream, and in the real world?
This 7,800 word story contains: Expansion (BE/AE; Room-Filling and Beyond), Solo/Lesbian, Corruption, Female Growth, Giantess (Briefly), Reality Warping, & Clones.
Free Story Sample
I am psychonaut: a scout at the edge of human consciousness. I project myself into other worlds, into the tapestry of existence that surrounds our own. I look for trouble, and I deal with it before.
My code name is Magpie. In the real world—or my world, at any rate—I’m floating in a sensory deprivation tank, safe and sound in the bowels of the reality-preserving Pandora Protocol. But my mind is racing, soaring through an endless sky, jumping from world to world as I patrol the interlocking dimensions that touch our piece of existence and constitute what we consider the real—even if it does contain a fair bit of the imaginary, too.
Such is my task. Patrol, surveil, sound the alarm if I find anything amiss. Anything that I can’t handle, at any rate. My work is primarily pre-emptive. For anything higher-grade, anything that wants to tussle, there’s always the agents and the strike teams. But the resources of the Protocol are ever stretched thin—the consequence of fighting the flow of infinity, battering itself against our precious, little bubble—so personal initiative is the order of the day. I am left with a great deal of freedom to engage as I so choose.
Right now, I am using that freedom to cruise over an azure sea, the waves glittering in the light of three alien suns. I dip my fingers in the water, enjoying the cool sensation as the waves part around my hand, spraying salty seawater across my body. I’m wearing a wetsuit as I fly across the dreamscape ocean, not completely unlike the one I’m wearing back in the suspension tank. There is no need for the similarity; a change of clothes is only a thought away. But I want to dive, and the wetsuit reflects my desire. I plunge into the welcoming waves, the water and the wetness jolting my face and whirling through my hair. Although I can taste salt, there is no sting; I don’t even have to hold my breath. This is the stuff of dreams, and what I say goes: I shoot onwards through the underwater world as easily as I did above, smiling at the wavy streaks of light from above, the embrace of the sea, and the distant ruins of old reaching up from the murky depths.
All is peaceful. Until I notice her.
***
Is she a fellow psychic? An errant dreamer, led astray from her own domain? Or is she something… else?
Whatever the case, she’s far away, a mere blip in the distance. But she’s not supposed to be here at all. This world is empty, a crossroads. I use it to transition between dimensions and dreams—and unofficially, as a personal reprieve. But it is not empty now. Someone has stepped inside my sanctuary, her presence rippling through the water like a sonar ping. But though I can perceive her, I can’t make sense of the shape of her thoughts.
Her body, on the other hand, is clear as day. Sensual, seductive. The impression is so strong that for a moment it knocks me off course as my mind fills with notions of impossibly feminine figures. If this is a dreamer, then they’re having the wildest fantasy of their life—but something about the strength of their desire tells me that what I’m approaching—at the speed of sound—is not a regular human.
I’m already too late. The interloper has vanished, fleeing not through the ocean, but into another world entirely. All I’m left with is an afterimage, and a fast-fading astral rift. But what an image it is—a vision of beauty and carnal desire, a woman so overwhelmingly curvaceous that my heart skips a beat. I can’t help but feel a trace of jealousy, staring at the blurry, ghostlike shadow before it dissipates entirely into the ether—and into a fragment of my own secret fantasies.
“Angel, did you catch that?” I say, addressing my handler.
Back in the warrens of the Protocol complex, Angel looks up from her monitor. As the mind flies, we’re worlds apart, but in the real, she’s just across the room, keeping an eye on my vitals and cataloging my discoveries. She’s my lifeline to the real world.
“Not with any sort of clarity,” Angel replies. “What did you sense?”
“Nothing that can go in the report,” I say, banishing the thought of squeezable breasts and swaying rears from my mind. “But it’s an Anomaly. I’m going to pursue it.”
“Roger. I’ll see if I can get a better read on the signature. Good hunting.”
“Thanks.” I grip the lingering trace of the unknown woman’s escape path with my mind—the silvery thread moving gently back and forth in the current of the sea—and ready myself to leave my aquatic paradise behind. I hold my breath. Up I go—and as I breach the surface, I cross the threshold. And plunge into darkness.
***
The suns have vanished. An unfamiliar moon shines on me in their stead, illuminating the nighttime scenery. I’ve emerged from a swimming pool atop a tall building—a hotel, I think—populated with pool chairs and parasols, but no people. There’s hardly any man-made light on the roof and nothing makes a sound. Beyond the edge, there’s the suggestion of city life, but something tells me that there might not be anything more than that—a suggestion, a mirage.
I had entered a diminutive slice of existence, strictly limited in space and time. A memory, perhaps, or a dream.
The rough stone tiles feel real enough under my feet, at least; and I give a silent thanks to the warmth of the gentle breeze as I dry myself off and change out of the dripping wetsuit. A flex of my mental muscles brings a change of clothes. I’m ready for the hunt.
But she isn’t interested in the chase. I’ve already followed her into her own world, and this little plane of existence doesn’t have enough nooks and crannies for the sport. So as I reach towards a door, expecting a staircase, I instead find myself entering a luxurious bedroom, complete with satin sheets, live candles, and a lingerie-clad woman perched provocatively on the bed.
“Congratulations. You found me,” she says. “Now what’re you going to do with me?”
Somehow, the whiplash of moving from the abandoned pool area to a well-lit boudoir isn’t the most shocking thing on my mind. No, it’s that the Anomaly is wearing my face.
“That depends entirely on what you’re doing here,” I say. “And I can already tell you; you’re not off to a good start.”
“Why not? Is this form not pleasing to you?”
“Identity theft is a serious crime. You’d know that, if you were from Earth.”
The Anomaly smiled at me. “You didn’t answer my question.” She arched her back, making a point of showing off the curves I had never had. Gosh, she made it look pretty. Her breasts were nothing short of poured into that lacy bra, far larger than her—my—own head!
“Neither did you,” I say. “But I already know why you traveled here. You were trying to hide from me. The question is, where did you come from? And are you going back willingly or not?”
“You don’t want me to go back. Not when you’ve seen what I can offer you.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea of it, lady. And while I might not turn down a chance to fuck myself, I need at least a token effort of wining and dining before I put out.”
“That can be arranged.” The Anomaly smiles crookedly and a filled champagne bucket appears beside her. She takes an ice cube and places it against her chest, letting it melt into her vast, captivating cleavage.
“Better. But there’s still the tiny sticking point that you’re currently an intruder. And I don’t recall giving you permission to be me.”
“Not consciously,” she says, still smiling that impish smile—one that I use only for my closest friends and my silliest ideas. “But you want it. You want you, like this. How better to demonstrate my potential to you?”
“I’m not against huge boobs, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I say, eying her warily. “But that is not the get-out-of-jail-free card you might think it is.”
“I’m not trying to get out,” she says, laughing. “You can do whatever you want to me. I’m merely showing you what you could be.” She’s running her hands over her magnificent breasts, now, breathing a little harder as her fat, suckable nipples grow thick and firm under the cup of her brassiere, the pink of her areola teasing at the edge. It seems to me that with every breath, the rise and fall of her chest leaves her breasts a little fuller than before, rising out of their cups, little by little.
It takes me a second to wrangle my attention and my eyes back up from the Anomaly’s obvious ploy. “Please. You think I haven’t experimented with my shape before? That’s, like, the first thing anyone does upon diving into a dreamscape.”
“I know,” she says, not breaking eye contact as one of her hands creeps downwards, past that tremendous, feminine curve of her hip and across a thick, inviting thigh, towards the tiny strip of fabric protecting her modesty. “How fortunate that your handler was a good sport about it. You didn’t even know she was watching, did you?”
My heart skips a beat. I had not noticed the intrusion, but now I make sure my mental defenses are up. “That’s none of your business.”
“Please,” she says, relishing the act of throwing my own word back in my face. “I’m you. It’s entirely my business. Our business. We want to be bustier. You may put up a facade for your colleague, but I won’t.” She is touching herself openly, now, her fingers slipped under her panties, dancing rhythmically to her own beat. And with every little stroke and gasp, her breasts grow, brazenly and proud. There’s no room for doubt or denials; she’s growing curvier and sexier by the second, and she’s enjoying every minute of it.
I flinch. Even I can’t help but feel turned on. Seeing myself in such an idealized way, the shape of a wet dream—and visibly getting wetter by the moment—it’s no wonder that my own thoughts start to drift. I grow hot and bothered, squirming in place, my hands wandering without my permission. A part of me wonders if even my own mental projection has started to change, inspired by this unashamed display of hedonistic sexuality…
But I snap back; redouble my defenses. I won’t be had by such a simple trick.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t kick your butt if you don’t drop the act and come with me, pronto.”
“Ooh—gladly!” she exclaims and throws her head back with an orgasmic moan. “Let me cum with you right away!” In an instant, she’s a quivering mess, squirting hard, and her breasts bwoomph bigger with such enthusiasm that her lingerie is nothing less than doomed; stretching, snapping, and finally dissolving into smoke as her curves grow too impossible to contain. And that only makes the climax better for my unbelievably busty doppelganger on the bed, who hugs her fantastic tits tightly against herself as they grow past the alphabet of cup sizes and fruit comparisons, through melon, pumpkins, and beyond, while mauling her fat, suckable nipples like her life depended on it.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” I roll my eyes, trying my hardest to feign disinterest. But who am I really kidding? Certainly not her.
“Yes! Cry out loud. Moan your heart out. It feels so good!” She throws herself back on the bed, trembling with delirious joy. “Look at me! At you. Look at what we can become!” She bites her lip, squeezing breasts so enormous that she almost can’t reach around them. “So fucking big!”
I realize that I’m mirroring her expression, rapt with attention, utterly captivated. I feel a warmth bloom between my legs, a tingly, tantalizing wave of bliss—of need—that radiates from my loins and sends chills through my entire body. “Fuck,” I mutter. She really is fucking big. And she makes it look fucking good.
As if on cue, the Anomaly’s voice rings out again, a sultry shout of such naked allure that my knees go weak. She’s still working her breasts, and they’re evidently sensitive enough send her through another climax, her moans, her heat, and her scent filling the room with her sexual power. And her breasts aren’t far behind on that account, either: they’re dwarfing her torso utterly, hiding her face from view—and they’re growing faster, in unsteady bursts, swelling with every shuddering beat of her heart.
“Hey, now…” I start, realizing what’s about to happen. But there’s no stopping her.
“Bigger!” she calls, repeating her lusty mantra, damn the consequences. “Bigger! Bigger! Keep growing bigger!”
And she does. Her arms disappear from view as her breasts grow to dominate the bed. Then her hips, her thighs, even her feet—I can’t see anything else past her gigantic, heaving tits, save the little trembling jiggles that come from the thrashing of her limbs. The champagne-bucket, ice and all, is knocked over as her boobs expand beyond the limits of the bed, and suddenly the sensual boudoir begins to feel outright claustrophobic.
The absurdity, at least, snaps me somewhat back to reality, even as that reality is starting to fray at the edges, now that the Anomaly is no longer interested in maintaining it—I, thankfully, don’t have to worry about the live candles that was about to get swept away by the rising wall of tiddy—though I’m still hornier than I’d like to admit about the whole thing. A part of me echoes her moans, demanding that her—my—tits grow bigger and bigger… But, sympathetic or not, I don’t much feel like I’ll be able to get her under control any time soon. I try to reach out just once, guarding myself from the feedback that I’m expecting—she got into my head once already without me noticing—but what I encounter, I can only describe as an unyielding barrier of breastflesh; somehow feeling infinitely larger than the comical set of sweater puppies in front me that already take up half the floor space.
“Yes!” she moans, “Join me! You have but to let me in. Then all of this is yours. All of this and more!”
You wouldn’t think a voice coming from behind a set of giant boobs could sound menacing, but here we are.
“You know, that sounds real interesting,” I say, stepping backwards. “I’m going to have a real good think about it. See what Angel says. Don’t go anywhere, ‘kay?” I turn, fixing the idea of the exit in my head, in case she has locked or removed it.
The anomaly only moans harder, humping her gigantic breasts. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she is driven mad by how sensitive they've become as they grow, pushing against floor and walls and ceiling all at once. And very nearly—me.
I slip out, just in time, before ‘my’ breasts crush the room.
###
