Pregnant tits

I've made something of a career out of being the flat-chested sidekick of a number of better endowed friends -- D cup Sarah; Julie of fuckingrad fame, who's deluded herself into believing that men are really staring at her stunning posture; Laura, who has such magnificent breasts that my fashion-challenged husband can actually remember what her shirts look like. (That blue one that makes her tits look great. That striped one that makes her tits look great. And on.)
As for myself, I've always possessed your standard issue B cups. Nothing flashy. They're set a little too far apart on my rib cage to ever hope for cleavage. You know how Joan Rivers' plastic surgery has caused her eyes to migrate to a point about half an inch away from her ears? Well, those are what my tits look like, a little too cozy with my armpits to be sexy. In clothes, they get the job done, so long as I'm wearing a V neck sweater.
But then I got pregnant, the usual way, by getting drunk. Mostly, being pregnant sucks. And then your boobs grow. I visited a lingerie department and had the opinion confirmed by a trained bra fitter (I told my husband she was hot; she was really about 225 and had bad breath). My 34Bs were now 36 Cs. This was about 3 months ago. Admittedly, I've grown larger everywhere else during that time, too. But this weekend, I'm headed back to the lingerie department, where I have every hope of nestling my girls into a D cup. A D cup! I've heard that when my milk comes in I could get as big as a DD.
I'd have gotten pregnant in high school if I'd known this would happen.