You Bet Your Ass 3

"You Bet Your Ass (and All the Rest!)"

Author's Note: This story was told to me by its original author, Jenni (pseudonym), and was written with her permission. When we last spoke, she was fairly sure she'd grown larger than she was at the time of this story and was still nursing daily. Candace was still part of her life. Milena and Tracy are doing well. If you have an Internet connection, you've likely seen Katana in action; she is, I believe, pregnant again. Jenni's story themes involve those of body transformation, risk, bimbofication, weight gain, breast growth, lactation, pregnancy and gambling with the size of one's butt. There is extreme growth in the forms of fat, height and muscle and includes appreciation of more zaftig/plus-sized women. While this story is true, some aspects of the game show sounded similar to those in a story called 'Bimbos to Billionaires.' When I asked Jenni about it we agreed the producers of "You Bet Your Ass" had probably read it and used it as inspiration when launching their program.

Length: 20k words.

CHAPTER ONE: JENNI, PRESENT DAY

The toughest part of the morning is figuring out how to get my big self out of bed without disturbing the boy. He's not actually a boy, only a few years younger than me, but I've never called him anything else. It just fits. Though for such a little guy, he's got a lovely appetite and is always hungry when he wakes. I don't have the will to have him wait even a second longer when he's like that, all sleepy and ready to nurse, plus my breasts are usually close to bursting with milk by that time. This morning is no different. They do feel heavier than usual.

Getting out of bed was hardest in the first few weeks after I was on the show. Adjusting to being three times the size I'd been most of my life didn't happen overnight, especially since there for awhile I'd kept growing. It still amazes me to think there had been a time when I'd thought being 150 lbs. at 5' 6" meant I was fat. That was back when I was "Meredith," a name that just didn't fit after all the changes I went through. They say it's common for contestants to change their names afterwards. I'd never understood why and never thought I'd do so, but now I get it.

It's not just my size that's changed. Gone is my long brown hair, replaced by straight blonde cropped at an angle following my soft jawline. There's permanent eyeliner and, of course, my lips, inflated into a size called "Pillow Talk" on the show because they resemble two soft pillows. Meredith had never been one to get her nails done. I feel almost naked these days if they aren't on point. Long and pink or French nails, like I have now, what I call "porn star nails" are my favorites. My eyes, still light blue, are the only part of me I still recognize.

On first impression, I look like a pretty, still young (just turned thirty-one), supersized suburban mom. That holds true even after the extent of my appetites surface. They'd made some behavioral changes, too. I'm more nurturing, more maternal, than I was. My ramped up libido can cause problems, I feel like I'm wet constantly, but I like the new me. If succumbing to the mayhem of the world's most controversial game show is what it took to get me here, that's fine. "You Bet Your Ass (and All the Rest!)" with its "Wheel of Fate" and audience-driven body and mind modifications. Thinking about it all, especially the name, still makes me chuckle.

With a little luck and practice, I pull back the covers and shift first one leg than the other to the side of the bed without shaking the bed too much. I can't sit up all the way when I do this otherwise my belly gets in the way. It is, I noticed with amusement recently, one of the rare times during the day where I get to see my feet. I let them slip off the bed and shift around to sit up. The mattress creaks as I do. The XXXXXL t-shirt I sleep in does catch under one thigh and pull snug against my belly rolls and breasts. Resting on my belly and pushed a bit off to each side, they leak a bit with milk. At first damp spots darken the material over my nipples, then as they harden and lengthen it seeps through. Beneath the shirt, I can feel its warmth spreading over then under each breast. I can tell this is one of those mornings where, if I touch them at all, they'll start to spurt. Best to wait for the boy to wake up.

Like the rest of me, they are massive. Custom made nursing bras have been my only option. The woman who made them thought I was messing with her when I sent in the order for 54Js. She's big herself but I was a first. I ended up sending a photo so she'd see I was serious. I don't blame her for doubting. I don't know my weight for sure, the only scale we have gives me an error when I get on it, and it tops out at 500. I'm big. That I know. Still, let me tell you, even when you know you're big, when you see a tape measure say the skinniest part of you, under your bust, is fifty inches, eight inches less than around the fullest part of my chest, it's hard not to be a bit shocked. I'm almost as big around there as I am tall. That's nothing compared to my hips. There are centers in the NBA who are shorter than I am round, at my widest.

I try not to think about my breasts all the time but they are a big part of who I have become. Back when I was Meredith, I had little B cups with pale little nipples and areolas. Unrecognizable little bumps compared to now. I'm shy about calling them "udders," but when my nipples swell to the full glory, an inch long and thick as plump, pink thumbs, releasing small streams of milk at the slightest pressure, getting longer and darker and more sensitive by the end of a nursing session, that's what they look and feel like. I hope the boy wakes up hungry.

My feet, somewhere under my belly, find the floor. I let gravity do the rest, pulling me forward as I grip the dresser to keep my balance. Once I'm standing things get easier and I walk, well, waddle to the bathroom, which we had to remodel to accommodate my new size. Even though I'd left the show with a nearly life-changing amount of prize money, the show had still been nice enough to pay for the renovations. There had been an issue with their equipment and they wanted to make nice to avoid a lawsuit. If that incident hadn't happened I'd still be a big woman, but a bit less wide, so to speak. A lot less, to be frank. Call it a win-win.

In the kitchen, I get myself a big glass of orange juice and drink it down, enjoying the soft weight of my belly hanging over my thighs. The idea of enjoying this feeling would have horrified me six months ago, back when I'd wanted no more than to be transformed into a bit of eye candy, especially if it meant being thin. Now I can't imagine such a thing. I have to give it to them, for all the craziness on that show, their personality assessments were spot on. They'd known me better than I knew myself. That certainly applied to the other women I'd met that day as well.

Sure, there have been plenty of adjustments. I can't do everything I once was able to. Jogging, for instance, is out, but even at my size I can walk farther than many people assume. Dealing with other's expectations being another adjustment. I guess in some ways that's always been the case, I just worry less about them now which, even more than having the chest I'd always wanted has been the nicest change. (Of course, when I'd thought about having a more voluptuous figure up top I hadn't quite imagined exactly how voluptuous I'd need to get "the girls" to this size.) Otherwise, I'm also slow, of course, and need to plan ahead sometimes, thinking about if a restaurant or a movie theater has seats I can fit into, but I don't mind.

"Jenni?"

The boy is up and has wandered into the kitchen. He's sleepy-eyed and only in his boxers. I'm fairly sure milk is the reason he's a bit plumper than he was when we met.

"Morning, baby."

I tell him to come to me and he does, resting his head against my chest. He won't try to nurse without permission but I can tell how bad he needs it. He's stiffening against my thigh and his stomach gives a low rumble. We'll relocate to the sofa soon but I go ahead and pull up my shirt so he can find my right breast, bigger than his head and dripping in anticipation. The nipple swells and fills his mouth, needing only the lightest pressure from him to begin filling his mouth. I let out a soft moan and feel myself go wet. We do a full feeding every morning and night and brief ones throughout the day when he gets hungry and I'm feeling swollen. Each time my reaction is the same. When full, it can be difficult for me to think about anything other than nursing.

Our little routine keeps us in a constant state of arousal, but once I've expressed enough so they don't feel as if they might explode it's not so bad that I can't think. As time has gone by, it's made the boy more focused and attentive. A hard worker, too, at his job. Again, a win-win. I'll need him to help me cum in a minute but, for now, he's a bit occupied and I'm a bit desperate for him to relieve the pressure that's built up in my chest overnight.

After a minute or two, I move him to my engorged left breast. I can feel the pressure of the milk spraying into his mouth. His cheeks puff out a bit and a bit escapes down his chin, but he doesn't stop sucking. To say I produce a lot is an understatement. Once, we used a breast pump to measure how much. Three cups from each breast had been the result, a shocking amount.

Once the mild pain of my swollen chest moves into warm pleasure, I pull the boy closer by his hips, reaching down to release him from his boxers. I'm not the only one ready to burst, but he keeps nursing. His breathing quickens as I slip him into a fat roll on my belly and he begins reflexively making the little humping motion I find both adorable and sexy. My size has made regular sex a challenge at times, which I surprisingly find intensely erotic. In other ways, with a soft body offering so many places I can put him, combined with a few tricks I've taught him, it's become better.

An hour later, we're back in bed. Before falling asleep, the boy came in my belly folds twice. The wide wet spot under me on the bed sheet will have to be dealt with in a little while. I've lost track of how many times I got mine. As often happens, it's just left me more turned on. I pull up the two big rolls of my belly and slip my fingers between my thighs. I can barely touch my clit. I'm soft and deep down there and like feeling stretched but I can't reach very deep using just my fingers. Swollen and wet I rub my clit lightly, exploring the folds of my chubby labia. They open, inviting a finger to slip between them. The desperate need to cum again is almost overwhelming.

Meredith wasn't like this. At most, she masturbated once a week. This was the work of the show and its audience and while I usually enjoy it very much, there are rare times I wish they'd been a little less generous. That said, knowing what I know now, if I could go back in time to the moment I drove onto the sound stage parking lot in Los Angeles for the show I wouldn't change a thing. The show was filmed in a giant beige concrete box that, from the outside, didn't impress. I have to admit I'd been hoping for something fancier even as I also knew I should have known better. What was television if not the selling of a fantasy?

CHAPTER TWO: THE DAY OF THE SHOW, AND THE DEMISE OF DIXIE

I'd barely stepped out of my car when I heard a woman's voice call out my name. I turned her head, finding a young woman standing in front of a half-open door and waving me over. Even from a distance, the woman made an impression. Twenty-something, so probably at least a couple years younger than me, she was professional in dress, sort of. She had thick dark hair, hip glasses and wore a snug gray jacket matching a skirt that didn't quite meet her knees. I'd call her cute except under that jacket was a thin, low-cut white top that did a poor job of disguising what could only be called a massive rack. Calling them boobs was wrong. "Jugs" was more accurate. Or stripper tits, if being rude. Especially on her frame, and she was a good thirty pounds lighter than me, it was hard to imagine they weren't enhanced. Triple-Ds, probably. It's funny now, to think there was a time when I thought that qualified as a big chest.

Perk of working for the show, I guessed, correctly, every female employee of the show I saw that day looked enhanced. Many, but not all, had the exaggerated hourglass figure similar to hers. I'm not sure I'd seen a bigger ass than the one flaunted proudly by one of the caterers. Petite everywhere else it looked like a target. All had great hair, nails and makeup. There weren't many men but the ones I did see were generally fit. If they'd had some kind of treatment, too, it was hard to be sure.

I tried not to feel jealous. The woman sent to meet me reminded me a bit of an office-mate, a sweet girl who in her own way had partly motivated me to attend the open casting call for You Bet Your Ass. In Los Angeles for work, and left with an empty afternoon after a meeting had been canceled, I'd told myself I was doing it just to fill the time. And now here I was.

Since I was going to be on television, I'd dressed up in one of my few fancy options, a classic little black dress with an exposed zipper all the way down the back. The dark color, combined with some serious Spanx action would, I hoped, disguise the size of my butt and hips from the camera and control the jiggling. I'd always wanted to be more of an hourglass. The dress was probably a 12 and fit up top but without the Spanx would have been too tight down below where size sixteen bottoms were most comfortable. If there was one area on me that did not need to get any bigger it was everything below the waist. If I gained an ounce, that's where it went. When a little heavier, it developed a little cellulite, and bounced if I wasn't wearing some sort of undergarment to control it. Even then, at my thinnest, I thought I had a fat butt.

"Am I late?"

"Not at all, you're perfect!"

She introduced herself as a production assistant and hugged me. That answered the question. Definitely enhanced. Maybe I was crazy but I swore I could feel her nipples through her blouse and jacket. Her hands definitely lingered a bit long on my hip as she said, "Everyone else is already in the Green Room watching the first taping, but you're schedule for the last one so we've got tons of time."

I followed, getting a full view of an ass and hips proportional to her top. Of course.

The show wasn't that complicated, but still a little insane. Each show had a woman given ten spins on something called The Wheel of Fate, a giant upright take on the gambling wheels she'd seen at casinos, for a shot at, of course, money. Where it got crazy was it also meant risking a long range of extreme modifications to the woman's mind and body.

There were twenty-three options on the Wheel of Fate. Sixteen were individual potential modifications ranging from "Boobs" to "Fetishes." There were adjustments to hair, heights, lips and hips—the list went on. If one was lucky, or unlucky enough, to land on a "Look" that sped the game along but it meant you could up as anything from a Beach Barbie look, to Trophy Wife, to something called a Breeder, among others. Most of the "changes" were performed live or during commercial breaks by a chair called "The Throne" with the help of two nodules that when placed upon her temples caused her eyes to roll back in her head and all manner of madness to happen. Also, there was a big, white egg-looking thing called "The Pod" in the background. I had no idea what it was used for. I did know there was a lot of audience participation, decisions decided by coin flips, something else called the "Inflation Station" and, when it came to the money, something called a "Multiplier." It all conspired to leave each woman, usually, with some decent cash, and looking, often, like oversexed bimbos from petite to plus-sized with glazed looks in their eyes.

There was, come to think of it, a lot I didn't know about the show. I maybe should have done a bit more research. In my tryout interview, I had been asked some questions about why I wanted to be on the show, been given a written personality test and that had been it. That would have been a good time to ask a couple more questions. Hmm.

The production assistant pushed open a door and ushered me into a room filled with a couple sofas, a snack table, a huge flat screen tuned to the show, and four other women.

"Hey everyone, meet Meredith. Meredith, meet Katana, Tracy, Milena and Candace."

All four waved, Tracy without taking their eyes off the television. Something about her looked familiar but I couldn't figure out why. She looked the way many women did after appearing on the show. A mane of platinum blonde hair, the sort of bolt-on tits usually only seen in the adult industry. Tiny waist. She was seated but I knew she'd have a great butt. Great legs. Probably at least 5'10". Huge gold hoop earrings. Four-inch stilettos matching a brief slip of a gold dress held up with straining spaghetti straps that did little to contain her. Probably even smelled like peaches. If you looked up "bimbo" in the dictionary, Tracy was what you'd expect to see. Or maybe mature porn star was more accurate. Pinpointing her age was tough. My guess was she was a bit older than she looked, with a bit of the "Housewives of Wherever" look to her.

Candace, a shy-looking woman about my age in a baggy gray sweatshirt and blue jeans did make eye contact then went back to staring at her phone. Katana nodded and went back to touching up her makeup in a small mirror. What a name. I wondered if it was something she'd chosen on her own. The girl looked a bit more like a Mandy or something like that. Barely five feet tall, and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, with a ponytail of brown hair bouncing out from behind a pink baseball cap, something in Katana's posture suggested no lack of confidence. I wasn't sure what to think of her appearance; she looked like she was on her way to the gym rather than about to go on TV. Everything was very snug from her pink leggings to her baby blue lycra top exposing just enough tanned belly to reveal a navel piercing. In terms of curves, she didn't have much. She was a girl, really, probably barely twenty, and the type you'd call more cute than pretty or sexy. The sorority girl who'd been a cheerleader in high school. That type. Somehow, I knew being called cute would annoy Katana.

Katana's gaze popped up from her mirror and glared at me. "Can I help you?"

"Woah. Geez. No."

"Okay then."

Milena stared daggers at Tracy the inflatable sex-bot, but smiled at me. She looked to be in her early forties and I really liked her hair, dark and wavy, it stopped at the shoulder. Along with her hair, her nails, brows and skin said she was the type of woman who spent a lot of time at the salon. When she wasn't looking at Tracy, she had kind, expressive eyes. A bit plump, she wore a dark, thin sweater and slacks. The dark colors, I suspected, were to downplay what everyone would notice about her first. Sure, I was insecure about my own chest and that made me hyper-aware of other women's boobs, but anyone would notice that Milena had what looked to be a very heavy natural bust disproportionate to the rest of her body. Double Js, Epic. I guessed, hoping for her sake Milena didn't land on "Boobs" when she got on the show.

Milena had followed my gaze. "Yes, they're real."

"Sorry for staring."

"It's fine. I'm used to it. I used to be a DD, and thought that was huge, then I got pregnant and they inflated on me. The more milk I pumped out the bigger they got. That was twelve years ago and I'm still pumping out two cups a day."