by Tabico (email@example.com)
(mc, f/f, m/f, nc)
DISCLAIMER: This material is for adults only; it contains
explicit sexual imagery and non-consensual relationships.
If you are offended by this type of material or you are
under legal age in your area, do NOT continue.
Copyright (c) 2003 Tabico (firstname.lastname@example.org)
All rights reserved; this story is not to be reproduced in
any form for profit without the express written permission
of the author. This story may be freely circulated only in
its entirety and with this notice attached.
Becca's flatmate Cheryl touts the merits of her cosmetic
This one's from an idea I had while discussing bimboization
with trilby. Some parts are also strongly redolent of
Chris Chris' <i>Quicksilver</i>.
It was another beautiful Southern California afternoon. Becca was jogging along the beach, skin glistening with sweat, bikini bottoms drawing interested glances from the men she ran by.
The beach was hopping, as usual; the path running along the miles of warm golden sand was busy with cyclists, roller bladers, and runners. Folks moving slower than that tended to meander along the beach itself, and avoid the path. Bikinis and swim trunks, muscle shirts and jogging bras - flesh of all sorts was on gay parade.
Becca was in a jogging bra, not that she really needed it. The heads only swiveled when she passed them and they got a glimpse of her grade-A ass. Even the L.A. crowd wasn't bold enough to simply stare at a pretty woman's face. Her ass didn't look back.
Reaching Venice, she turned left and jogged into the sunbleached warren of buildings. Many of her friends lived down in Manhattan or Redondo, but Becca preferred the Bohemian feel of Venice. Tie-dyed hippies sharing air with the hulks on Muscle Beach. Besides, it was cheaper, particularly since Santa Monica had finally done away with
So she lived in Venice, three blocks from the beach. She staggered in through the front door panting.
"Hey Becca," came Cheryl's voice from the kitchen.
"Hey," Becca gasped, collapsing onto a sofa. None of their furniture was the sort to worry about getting all sweaty. She ran a hand across her forehead and rubbed it on a thigh.
Cheryl came around the wall that separated the kitchen from the main room. She was in a tight pink belly shirt and baggy khakis, and had a sandwich on a plate. In her other hand she had a bottle of water.
"Jeez Louise, you're a mess," Cheryl said. "How far did you
"The pier," Becca replied.
"Santa Monica? Dang, Becca," Cheryl said. In a smooth motion, she threw the bottle of water to her flatmate. "Here, you need this
more than I do. I'll get another one."
Startled, Becca nonetheless managed to catch the slow-moving bottle.
"Thanks," she said, unscrewing the top. While Cheryl went into the kitchen and back, Becca chugged down half of the bottle.
"So," Cheryl said, returning with a second bottle, "you got home from the interview and ran all the way to Santa Monica." She frowned. "You didn't get the job, did you? I'm so sorry."
Becca sighed. "Yeah, well."
Cheryl dropped herself down into the papa-san chair next to the sofa. "Did they say why?"
"No," Becca said bitterly, "but we both know."
Cheryl frowned, and took a bite of her sandwich. She shook her head slowly while she chewed.
"It's your tits again, isn't it?"
Becca looked at her hands. "Yeah," she said.
Cheryl put her plate down on the table next to her. "Assholes. You've got a great body, and a face that just screams girl-next-door."
Becca smiled at her sadly. "Thanks, Cheryl. But tits are what it takes to be a model, even for the catalogues. If I had a body like yours, I'd be a shoe-in."
Cheryl was a model as well. But where Becca was still scrambling to find jobs posing for local clothing store mailers, Cheryl had moved smoothly through catalogues to magazine ads and was even starting to get television spots.
And, to make matters worse, she was just so <i>nice</i> that Becca could never be jealous of her.
Becca finished the rest of the water in one long pull. Cheryl was looking at her appraisingly.
"What?" she finally asked.
"Have you considered buying them?" Cheryl asked.
"A boob job? Constantly," Becca replied. "But you know as well as I do that even if you don't get obvious scarring, they're going to look fake. And I'm not going to wind up working a camera for Internet porn."
"They aren't <i>all</i> that obvious," Cheryl said. "It depends on where you get them done."
"Come off it," Becca said. "You've been in L.A. long enough to pick out the fake tits just like everyone else can. If they are enough to raise you a cup size, they're going to look fake."
"Mine are fake," Cheryl said quietly, hands under her breasts.
Becca stared at her. Cheryl just sat there, looking back at her.
"Oh, uh-" Becca stammered. They'd only been flatmates for four months, but... "Wow. Did I just put my foot in it, or what?"
"You sure did," Cheryl said, slowly. "Now go on, tell me how real they look."
Becca let her eyes drop. "They- they <i>do</i>," she said, honestly.
"I know," Cheryl replied. She smiled. "Hold on."
She reached down and grabbed at the bottom of her shirt.
Cheryl pulled the shirt off, and her frilly pink bra bounced into view. She was a C-cup at least, and a very full one at that.
Dropping the shirt to the floor, she brought her hands together at the clasp.
"Cheryl, don't- I don't need-"
And then the bra was open, and Cheryl worked it off of her shoulders.
They were great tits. Becca was a devoted fan of boys, but even just aesthetically Cheryl had marvelous breasts. And they looked totally natural.
Becca had a thought, and frowned. "You're putting me on," she said. "Those aren't fake."
"They sure are," Cheryl said. She stood up, and stepped over in front of Becca. "Here, touch them."
"Uh, that's okay, uh-"
Cheryl reached down, breasts dangling inches in front of Becca's face, and grabbed Becca's hands, which she slapped firmly onto her tits.
"Go on, squeeze."
Eyes wide, Becca squeezed Cheryl's breasts gently. She didn't have anything but her own to compare to, but they certainly <i>felt</i> real. She pulled her hands back.
Cheryl was looking down at her. "I was a B cup," she said. "And I had just the same problem you do - I needed bigger tits to get the jobs I wanted, but I didn't want those fake plastic things. And then my agent hooked me up with the Rose clinic."
Becca looked back at the breasts hanging in front of her. Cheryl's aereola were such a light pink as to almost blend into the white, untanned skin around them. No scars there. And they had just the sag you'd expect from a twenty-one year old, smooth and even but obviously with some weight, just the smallest of creases at the bottom where they overhung her ribcage.
"Uh, may I?..." Becca asked, raising a hand.
"Sure," Cheryl said.
Becca lifted the right breast, looking for any sort of scar underneath. There was nothing but smooth skin, with faint wrinkle marks where it was folded under by the weight of the hanging breast.
"You're lying," Becca said, gingerly letting go. "You haven't had a boob job."
Cheryl laughed. "I sure have," she said. "But Dr. Rose has this totally different method of doing it. It's not like an implant at all."
"How does he do it?" Becca said.
"Well, the way I remember, he has this goop, that mimics the cells that are already there. So he injects it into your tits, and the goop becomes like the fat cells you've already got. It takes a few dozen sessions at the clinic, because the stuff can only be a thin layer and still work, but once you have about a dozen layers, you go from flatness to this!" She wiggled her torso, and her breasts bobbled in small ellipses.
"Yeah, okay, put those away," Becca said, turning her head. "You've made your point. They look fantastic."
"And they feel pretty good, too," Cheryl said, reaching for her bra. "The new fat layers don't have nerve cells, but it doesn't feel like I've got some hard lump floating around in my breasts."
"So how much did it cost?" Becca asked.
"You're going to do it?" Cheryl asked.
"I... maybe," Becca said. "How much did it cost? That sort of thing sounds really expensive."
"Well," Cheryl said, clipping her bra together, "yeah, it is. I'm still paying it off, actually. For me, it was twenty-four thousand."
"Twenty-four thousand dollars?" Becca said. "I can't afford that!"
"Oh, they set up payments," Cheryl said. She chuckled, and bent over to pick up her shirt. "It's like buying a car. But I'll tell you, the difference in my career - I got these done last year, and already I've paid off over half of what I owe them because of all the work I've done. And the interest was like four percent."
"Huh," Becca said, looking down at her own chest. They weren't bee stings, but they certainly weren't what Cheryl had.
"Well," Cheryl said, tugging her shirt down in place so it gripped her fake breasts just right, "I totally recommend it. If you want to go talk to them, I've got their card somewhere."
"I'll think about it," Becca replied.
The waiting room of the Rose Clinic looked nothing like Becca had expected. Doctor's offices had beige rooms with last year's magazines. Some had white walls, some had muted wallpaper, most had boring little framed prints of sailboats or seaside towns.
The Rose Clinic's waiting room was a library. Wall-to-ceiling shelves of some dark wood, filled with books. A five-foot globe in an alcove on the opposite wall. Carved wooden chairs with button-down upholstery, one of which Becca was in. They were surprisingly comfortable.
There were no magazines. Almost the only concession to being a waiting room was the counter with the receptionist behind it. And she was a stunner. Dark red hair in complicated tresses, a pouting mouth, and from what Becca saw when she signed in, a figure to die for. Not surprising, given what the Rose clinic did. And how much they charged. She was probably working off her debt to them right in that chair.
Becca looked around. This was taking a bit longer than she'd anticipated, given that no one else was in the waiting room. Maybe she should take a book.
"Miss Young? The doctor will see you now," the redhead said.
Becca looked up. Sure enough, the doctor was standing in the now-open doorway into the office.
He was very striking. In his early forties, probably, his head was spear bald. He had a neat moustache and goatee of a very dark brown, and wore thinly rimmed glasses. His chin and nose were very strongly defined, giving him a handsome if severe appearance.
And, as she rose to shake his hand, she realized he was <i>built</i>. Like a Mack truck. The white lab coat was just a bit stretched over the solid muscle that had to come from an hour in the gym every day.
His handshake, however, was firm but unchallenging. Which was good; Becca hated people who thought that squeezing was the way to shake hands.
"Miss Young. A pleasure. Mary Lou tells me that you are researching the possibility of breast enhancement."
"Uh, yeah. I have a friend who recommended you to me."
"Fantastic. Referrals are our number one form of advertising. Please come in."
He led her past several closed doors, down a hallway hung with framed antique maps. Opening a door on the right, he gestured her inside.
"My office," he said, following her in. "Please, have a seat."
As Becca sat down, he picked up a large green folder from the top of the desk, and handed it to her. "Here is an informational packet," he said. "You can have a look at it when you get home. But please, feel free to ask me any questions you have right now."
"Well," Becca said, "Cheryl told me a bit about what you do here, but I'd like to hear it from you. Could you talk a bit about your process?"
"Certainly." He placed his elbows on his desk, and steepled his fingers. "We, the Rose Clinic, have a substance which mimics human cells. We inject that substance into areas that our clients wish augmented, in a very specific manner and on a very specific schedule, and when we are finished, the client's body contours have been re-shaped."
"What's the substance?"
Dr. Rose smiled. "Well, that is a secret, but it is a carbon-based gel that hardens when exposed to tissue. It is totally non-toxic and non-carcinogenic, and once it hardens, it is immobile and inert. Like plastic, only much more supple."
"Is it patented?"
"No, it is a trade secret. To patent it, we would have to divulge how it is made and how it works, and then cheap shops in Mexico would try to duplicate it, and..." he waved a hand dismissively. "We prefer to keep it a secret."
"I see," Becca said. "Have you have any problems? Adverse reactions?"
"Not one," he replied. "We have performed over eight thousand individual cosmetic surgeries, of which almost half have been breast augmentations. If you like, I can provide you with a client list of some twenty-five hundred individuals who were willing to give testimonials as to their satisfaction."
"And the others?" Becca asked.
"Not everyone is willing to admit to surgical enhancement," Dr. Rose said. "In fact, the natural appearance of our work, and the deniability that provides, is one of our most valuable competitive advantages. I assure you, we have had precisely zero complaints, much less litigation. If you like, you are more than welcome to research us with the Better Business Bureau or the legal system."
"Sorry," Becca said, "I didn't mean to sound so accusatory."
"Not a problem," Dr. Rose replied. "This is both a significant investment and a great personal change. You should be one hundred percent positive before going through with it."
"So, ah, how did you know I wanted breast augmentation? I haven't filled out any forms."
Dr. Rose smiled. "Had you come in asking for facial surgery, I would have tried to talk you out of it. And we don't do reductions, here. That leaves very little you might be interested in."
"Ah, right," Becca said, flattered. "Okay, let me look this over."
"Take all the time you want," he replied, standing. "As I say, this is a big decision, and it needs to be something you want to do."
Three weeks later, Becca was on her back on a padded bench.
She was naked to the waist. Dr. Rose was making tiny marks on her breasts with a pen. Behind him was a large machine, silver and glass, with dozens of hoses emerging from it. It reminded Becca oddly of a futuristic hookah.
He had shown her the gel, that trade secret compound he used. It looked like hair gel, clear and glistening. Apparently, it became opaque when it set, but no one ever got to see that.
"There," he said, standing up and stretching his back with a groan. "Perfect." His eyes moved to catch hers, and she saw him switch from technical skill to people skill.
"I have marked the injection points," he said, placing the pen down on a tray. "today we will put the first layer in. It will be very thin, to be sure that there are no unforseen complications. I have never had anyone reject the gel, but as long as it is theoretically possible, I want to use as little as possible the first time."
"Additionally," he went on, "I will be inserting microscopic filaments to ensure that the gel forms an even layer, rather than clumping or forming pockets. Inasmuch as this can be very... upsetting to a patient, I very much prefer general anesthesia for this."
Frankly, Becca had been hoping for general anesthesia anyways. "Knock me out, Doc," she quipped.
He smiled. "Very well," he said, reaching for the mask which hung next to the bench. "See you in an hour or so."
The small mask fit snugly over her nose and mouth, and she smelled nothing but slightly metallic air. For a while, nothing seemed to happen, and then she was falling asleep, eyes closing on their own, and then she was-
Dr. Rose waited until he was certain that Miss Young was unconscious. Then he pressed the button to summon a nurse.
Nurse Nguyen strode in. She was in a fetishist's idea of a nurse
outfit, white panties clearly showing beneath the far-too-short
skirt hem, inflated breasts forming impressive cleavage in the tight
She didn't work at the front counter.
She stopped, robotically, at the bench, and turned to Dr. Rose with a
"Yes, master?" she asked.
"Take Miss Young here into the MRI room, and take a Phase one scan of her brain."
"Yes, master," Nurse Nguyen replied. She pulled a gurney from beneath the bench, released it to its full height, and slid Miss Young onto it, head first, then feet, then pulling her midsection aboard.
Dr. Rose watched the nurse's ass as she left, pushing the gurney. Unlike Miss Young, Nurse Nguyen hadn't come to him. But he'd needed a few well-trained RNs, and as long as he was kidnapping them, he'd
kidnapped the best.
Of course, he'd given her the tits afterwards anyway. Among other things.
The world was blurry.
Becca realized she was awake. She shook her head, slowly. She seemed to be on a sofa, in some sort of sparsely decorated room. There was a woman in the room with her, reading something, but she was facing the other direction. She seemed to be in a nurse's outfit.
Becca's chest felt funny.
Oh, right - her breasts.
She looked down. She was in a robe, of a sort. Vision clearing, she looked up to be sure the woman was still looking away, then opened her robe and looked at her tits.
Her first observation was that someone had wiped those purple dots off. Her second one was that they looked just the same as they had earlier, only they were red, as though they'd been roughly handled.
They felt like that, in fact. Not really hurting, just... squeezed.
If she looked really closely, she could see little red dots where-
"Ah, you're awake."
Becca looked up quickly and got the mother of all head rushes.
"Oh," the woman said, and suddenly she was at Becca's side, "you shouldn't do that."
Becca looked up woozily at her. A second nurse, with a startlingly pretty face and pageboy cut brown hair. Were all the women who worked here gorgeous?
Of course they were.
"Here, you should rest a bit," she was saying, closing the front of Becca's robe and cinching the belt. "Doctor says you should rest for at least half an hour. I'm sure he wants to speak with you, too. Let me go fetch him." The woman waggled a finger at Becca. "No more sudden head movements, now." Then she walked out.
Becca looked around the room. It looked sort of like the waiting room, only the shelves covered only about half of the room. There was a window onto the parking lot, and she watched a blue Nissan ZX pulling in.
"Ah, you're awake," Dr. Rose said, bustling in the open door. "I've got some excellent news for you. The gel is setting just the way it should. Your body seems to have no trouble with it at all - which is, of course, what we expected."
Becca's head wobbled a bit, but it was intentional. She thought. "Great," she said. "I feel a bit... not sore, really, but..."
"Well, you will feel sore, once the anesthetic wears off a bit more. It shouldn't be too bad. We're going to give your breasts a day to recover, then on Wednesday we'll inject the next layer. You're looking to reach a 'D' cup, right?"
"Yeah," Becca said.
"Well, we'll get you to a large 'C', and then you can decide from there. One of the nice things about this process is that you can stop whenever you like."
"That is nice," Becca replied, a bit dreamily. "But I don't think I'm really in the right mind to make decisions right now."
Dr. Rose smiled. "No problem. Get a little more rest - you should be fine to drive in half an hour. Ask Nurse McArie if you need anything."
"Bye," Becca said impulsively, as he left. She looked at the short-haired nurse, who was watching her. "That gas is pretty good stuff, huh?"
The nurse just smiled prettily at her.