Jugs On A Beach

By Ivy Maxwell

I’m stranded on a tropical island without food or water and should be going crazy with worry—but my thick, stacked Amazonian woman has a particular way of putting my mind at ease . . .

Jim Acosta loves big breasts and cannot lie: when a blonde with an itty-bitty waist walks into his life and thrusts her round things in his face, he gets sprung.

Then it turns out that girl, Sam, can magically grow her jugs to huge sizes, and Jim is over the moon with happiness. She’s playful, funny, and endowed with magical powers—everything he’s ever wanted in a woman, and a creme queen to boot. He knows he’s hit the jackpot with Sam.

After a hedonistic night of breast expansion and love-making on a plane, things get out of control. The jumbo jet unexpectedly goes down. Jim wakes up in the Atlantic ocean half-drowned and completely lost. With Sam’s help, they make it to an uncharted island.

Stripped of clothing, dehydrated and sweltering in the tropical sun, and without supplies, Jim and Sam’s woes have only just begun. It turns out Sam can’t simply magic them out of trouble—her dream powers are unreliable. And while the beautiful island may seem like a paradise on earth, the pristine beaches and friendly palm trees mask dark terrors in the night.

Are the other passengers still alive after the crash? Why won’t Sam tell Jim what happened after he blacked out on the plane? And what about the doubts Jim harbors about his budding relationship with Sam?

So much trouble, so many questions. This is the tale of Jim and Sam struggling to survive—and somehow having a lusty, busty good time doing so. Will Sam’s magical breast expansion powers be enough to save the day?

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

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ivy Maxwell
• Release date: Jul 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463612194

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

Jugs On A Beach

"E veryone, your man of the hour: the brilliant Jim Acosta !"

A dazzling spotlight blinded me, instantly heating up my tuxedo. A million stars pierced the glare as the media went into a frenzy, their camera shutters applauding furiously. A rousing cheer went up in the crowd and they joined in the applause. 

Sweating from the attention, I waved and grinned from my pedestal atop the reception ballroom’s promenade. The crowd’s clamor crescendoed to a roar of approval that practically blew my hair back.

A banner overhead boldly proclaimed: 

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*** THE GALAXIA FASHION SHOW *** SAN DIEGO, 2014 ***

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Even before the show had ended, I’d heard whispers carrying rumors. The critics were raving. The event couldn’t have gone any better for me, my staff told me. We’d blown it out of the water—my innovative clothing designs had stolen the show.

Yet I was a skeptic at heart. Critics were fine, but what really mattered was the people’s reaction. It was the people who would either purchase or ignore my clothes at market, not the critics.

Basking in the crowd’s adulation, I finally let out a sigh in relief. 

They loved us.

They loved me.

We had knocked it out of the park after all.

My head lieutenant Albert clapped me on the back and yelled over the din, "Well done, Jim! Well fucking done!"

I leaned in, delirious with satisfaction. Thanks, Albert. Couldn’t have done it without you.

Someone nearby popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, and a glass of bubbly quickly found its way to my hand. I downed it. The fizzy bubbles tickled my nose. 

Success had never tasted so sweet.

I descended the ballroom stairsteps, warm with contentment and ready to mingle. Fans swarmed around me. 

This was it. My big breakout. My Cinderella moment, as the fashion industry liked to say. My upstart firm would now be a leading brand on the world stage. And I would lead the charge.

After thirteen years of hard work and sleepless nights, we’d made it. 

I’d made it. I would have more power and prestige now than I had ever dreamed of.

It was almost enough to help me forget that heart-aching certainty I’d carried with me all those years, the certainty that I was an unlovable fraud.

Almost.

Hours later, the last tired guests sleepily yawned and stumbled out the doors of the convention center. I made my way into the guts of the convention center, my frayed focus set on my few remaining managerial tasks I had to do before heading home.

I’d danced. I’d schmoozed. I’d turned down quite a few propositions for intimate company. High in the moment, my elation exceeded even the thrill of sex.

My manager stumbled over and embraced me. I could smell the booze rolling off him. "This guy. This fucking guy."

I chuckled. Keys, Albert.

Albert hiccuped. "Fiiiiiine."

He chucked his keys at me backhand. They soared out of reach over my head and landed far down the hallway.

Whoops, Albert said, his arms swinging about like laffy-taffy. Don’t know me own strength.

I chuckled. The venue staff are breathing down my neck, wanting to lock up shop. You better call an Uber. You good to get home on your own?

Albert placed his hand on my chest. "Jim baby, I’m good for anything right about now. We gonna be rich as fuck. And you are gonna be the hottest fashion icon on the market since they invented sliced bread."

I laughed, running my hands through my hair. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I want to take this one day at a time. That means don’t get yourself killed.

You got it, boss.

Good. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow afternoon. Sleep in as long as you want.

Albert bowed low mockingly, hugged me again, and staggered away. I was alone. 

Exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks. Nothing would be better right now than a soft pillow and a dark room. But I still needed to grab some dresses from the changing room home with me. I’d taken copious notes during the show, earmarked a few designs for modification.

I’d settle for nothing less than perfection.

I walked quickly through the backstage labyrinth of the San Diego Convention Center until I made it into the changing room. The place was huge, capable of accommodating over two dozen models—and their egos—and packed with row upon row of clothing racks. There were nearly a thousand outfits stored here, all meticulously catalogued.

I retrieved a list from my suit pocket. Squinting at my chicken scratch, I then strode into the aisles of fabric.

#447, magenta, low hem . . . needs floral additions . . . I muttered to myself, whisking a dress off a hanger absentmindedly. #222 . . .  bust modification . . .

Once my hands were full, I returned to the changing area and laid the stack of clothes on a vanity counter.

Just one more trip to the trenches, then I’m outta here, I thought.

Right as I strode into the stacks, I heard the clang of metal hangers hitting hard cement floor.

I froze, suddenly weary. I’d sent my entire staff home. I should be the only person in the building, apart from the venue staff waiting anxiously near the front door for lockup.

Shit, cursed a breathy voice. I heard the swish of fabric across the hard ground.

My clothes! They were expensive as fuck, and now someone had soiled them on the dirty floor. I was pissed.

Straightening my back, I pursued that voice. I strode around a clothing rack and found . . . a black-haired woman bent over. 

She was awkwardly trying to smooth out and gather up clothing at the same time.

The lady was dressed in a cocktail dress. It was the same gold color as the champagne I’d had too much of earlier. The tight fabric clung snug about her body. It creased dangerously against her thick curves as she squatted, and my anger was replaced by worry that it might split open—it wasn’t meant for physical activity, especially not on a figure like hers.

She wore a ruby sash on her arm, marking her as one of mine, though I’d never seen her before. I opened my mouth to say hello, but the words caught in my mouth as my eyes fell upon her cleavage.

Bent at the waist, the lady’s bust stuck out in my direction, revealing the finest pair of breasts I’d seen all night—which was saying something, given every lady under fifty sported great tits at events like these, if not by nature then by the magic