Procedure

Note: This is a story-prompt for alexander estrada-palma.

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Stacy sat on an uncomfortable chair in the shabby-looking waiting room. She flipped through an old magazine, marveling at all the beautiful celebrity actresses with their perfect dimensions, their round, supple chests displayed braless in their dresses.

Stacy had a great fondness for breasts. Ironically enough, she was completely flat-chested. She suspected that one matter related to the other, but she didn’t think about it much. The singular idea that saturated her days, and even her dreams, was the knowledge, the need for beautiful breasts of her own.

Which brought her to the present, in the very small, and very empty medical office she was presently occupying, on the bad side of town. She had scheduled a procedure with Dr. Warren. He was the only person in the whole province who still did string implants.

A wan-faced medical assistant appeared from nowhere, and ushered Stacy into a back room. In a matter or moments, Stacy was lying supine on a medical table, with a gas mask fitted over her face.

Dr. Warren hovered over her, looking dreary in his oversized round spectacles. “I’m going to start counting back from three…” he told her in muffled tones.

But the doctor didn’t even get to start counting. Stacy was already unconscious.

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Stacy was out of the procedure within an hour. It was minimally invasive, and aside from some soreness, she felt great.

The implant was designed to draw and absorb fluid, thus expanding her breast tissue progressively. Despite that knowledge, Stacy couldn’t deny the bit of regret she felt that she had walked out of the surgery with virtually the same chest size.

But over the next several days, as Stacy healed, she began to see, and feel a change. The usually-baggy chests of her tops were filling out with gentle hills of flesh. Stacy eschewed bras, and instead took enjoyment of the sensation of her nipples rubbing on her shirts as the fabric tightened against her day by day.

As her breast size increased, so did the absorption rate, and the implant surged with growth. Her B-cups became Cs, then DDs, as her breasts plumpened and fattened, standing out on her chest.

Grapefruits became honeydews, her breasts stretching out her shirts. She was outgrowing her newest dresses and tops, her breasts often popping over the necklines of low-cut tank tops, or straining the buttons of her formfitting blouses.

Her breasts were just getting so fat and round. Her credit cards could hardly keep up with her rate of growth.

Stacy awoke one morning, grimacing as she heaved herself up from beneath the weight of her chest. But then she gazed fondly at the way her breasts tented out her overly-stretched nightdress. Stacy shifted slightly, and the neckline began to tear apart.

Stacy sighed. It seemed she was due for another shopping venture. She got up, washed, and began to dress. She pulled on a skirt, sandals, and began to struggle into her biggest top, but the material was just…too…tight.

Stacy’s face reddened as she abortively tugged at the fabric, but it simply refused to negotiate her swollen chest flesh. Stacy swore as the fabric tore right down the middle as her nightdress had, and she was left watching her bare chest rise and fall with her breathing, almost as though they were growing visibly.

The mounds were flushed and sweaty, pressed together, resembling two basketballs in size by then. She cupped the side of one with her hand as she deliberated on the subtle, but continuous pressure of growth, unsure of whether it was good or bad.