The Shrink Grew Me

By Ivy Maxwell

Amber will do anything to get her husband to desire her again.

Anything.

Even if that means trying out a mysterious new drug her therapist gave her.

A drug that will grow her breasts to enormous sizes. Succulent sizes. Irresistible sizes. Just like hubby likes it.

And that’s before the cream starts gushing out of them.

Will it be enough for Amber to win back her husband? Either way, she’s going to have her hands full . . . of herself . . .

This is an erotic romance novella featuring egregious breast expansion and hucow transformation. This story takes place in the Growth Chronicles universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ivy Maxwell
• Release date: Jan 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463631294

Ivy Maxwell

In her teens, Ivy Maxwell stayed up late watching Dragon Ball Z--the transformation scenes left a vivid impression on her psyche and desires that has persisted to this very day. By day she's a mild-mannered teacher raising respectable young citizens--by night, she drops all pretense and lets loose by writing romantic erotica. Ivy's stories feature breast expansion, female muscle growth, giantessism, body growth, succubi, bimbofication, hucow transformation, and a big dose of fun, adventure, and sexy hot intrigue.

Book preview

The Shrink Grew Me

The moment my eyes opened, shrugging off the veil of sleep, an insatiable throbbing deep within my pelvis gripped me. It was still dark out, though a morning bird was singing a prelude to the coming dawn.

Another morning, like so many before it. Stretching out in either direction, grey and mute. My life.

I fought back a sob.

Damn it all, I thought. I refuse to spend another day ignoring how I feel.

Yielding to temptation, I slipped my hands under the forest-green winter quilt my husband had bought me for Christmas last year.

I loved that quilt. Soft as silk, a cocoon of warmth. Hand-woven 88 years ago in India by a master artisan, he’d told me. Warded off the winter cold like a champ. Impressive to look at, too.

It was a good gift.

My hubby always bought me good gifts.

My fingertips found their target, slipped through my flimsy red panties.

Ah . . . I exhaled through my nose, my tense body unwinding.

Heat bloomed everywhere my fingertips met burning flesh. I stroked myself agonizingly slowly. The throbbing coalesced like a thundercloud, filled to the brim then burst in a surge of sexual pleasure that arched up and down my spine faster than chain lightning.

That sob I’d fought moments ago came back as a gasp.

My eyes flitted to my husband. Hard to see him in the dark. Did I wake him? He was a light sleeper; I’d have to be careful. I listened closely, heard the rise and fall of his breath. The rhythm of deep sleep.

What do you dream of these days, Charles?

At the thought, anger seared its way through me and mixed with my sexual tension in a strange way. It wasn’t unpleasant. A singular sense of self-righteousness possessed me, more powerful than a priest promenading at his pulpit.

Whatever it is, you certainly don’t dream of me. Not anymore.

I rubbed myself down there again, and this time, it wasn’t just for pleasure. It was a silent scream of rebellion at my own fate.

I was a ghost haunting my own home. Cooking the meals, looking pretty and nubile, taking care of our twins and the newborn, cleaning up—God knew why I still did that last one, when it would be so easy to hire help. Charles made more than enough.

Habit kept me going, I suppose.

It was so easy to fall into habits as life ticked along. Like pretending to be a happy housewife.

My other hand joined in on the action, my fingers flying tilt-a-whirl as they spun circles in all the right places. My hands were my two little secret lovers that no one could take away from me. The throbbing that’d woken me palpitated like a lusty heartbeat.

I was so wet, and full of such emptiness. Longing to be filled.

I stifled a moan that burbled in my throat. Ah, it was going to be so hard not to wake Charles.

But I needed this.

I’d do whatever it took, if it meant getting through another day of this lifeless marriage with a husband that no longer found me attractive for reasons I couldn’t fathom.

I closed my eyes, and the darkness was a canvas for my fantasies. I imagined my husband in his youthful prime going down on me. My hands became his own eager tongue and lips and fingers as he worked me expertly, played me like a fiddle.

Oh, how I missed those days. He’d make such sweet music of me. He was so good down there.

My back arched. I hooked my swollen boobs between the crooks of my elbows and squeezed, making them pop out round and full.

Hah, habits. Old habits die hard. Charles loved it when I did that, back during happier times when we had wild sex every chance we got.

Anything that made my breasts look bigger made him lose his mind in bed. Normally so poised, he’d devolve into an ape. His erection would noticeably engorge, and a certain brutish gleam could be seen in his eyes. A lustful fire.

I’d stoke that fire  mercilessly. With enough teasing, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. He would crawl all over me, overpower me, enter me with the savagery of a caveman.

Lost in the past, I carefully pushed three fingers inside myself.

This was the most dangerous moment of my act of indulgence. Penetration was