Cleave Land

I was, after all, prepared to gain amusingly large amounts of weight. I was prepared to suddenly be unable to see my toes, and to look in the mirror in profile and wonder whose soccer ball I had accidentally swallowed. I was prepared for a lot of things, even, in a vague way, larger breasts; but I was not prepared for cleavage.

I've always been happily small breasted, meaning that not only was I small in the chest, but I was proud of this fact. Breasts are nice in that they define the female body, but large ones make one look top heavy and ditzy, and furthermore are like overlong hair; in the way of almost every thing. I've always liked the size mine got to be. Enough to prove to everyone that I am female. But not big enough to need major structural support 24-7.

Until now. I've outgrown almost all of my upper body underwear. My shirts are straining not only at the belly but at the chest as well. And yesterday I happened to look down at myself wearing a fairly low-cut shirt and noticed for the first time that I have grown cleavage.

"Holy Shit!" I yelled out. "Shit! Shit!" This was enough cursing for my husband to come running into the bedroom, where I was staring at myself in the mirror.

"What's wrong?" he asked, concerned.

"I have....cleavage," I gasped, holding the last word out like a dirty diaper. My husband's concerned look collapsed into a relieved smile.

"It's okay," he said, "It's only temporary."

Any man who can confidently reassure his wife that her cleavage is temporary is definitely someone worth keeping. God, I love this man.