Topic: Multiples - by Multibreast
My friend was enraged at what had happened to her. I, of course, provided all the support and sympathy I could. I told her how terrible it was. The change that had occurred in her. I remember that she depended on me as her best friend. I was her main support. I was her rock. I remember how she had rested her head on my shoulder and cried. I had cradled her, letting her tears moisten my shirt. I embraced her. I gave her the love an unconditional support she needed in my touch. Yet, I was not being the all-around wonderful friend that I was pretending to be.
I felt her new form against me. I felt her breasts pressed up against mine. It excited me, sexually. I couldn't believe it. I wanted to deny it. She had been my friend for a long time now. Kristen and I had been best of friends since the second grade. We loved each other, but only as friends. I had never been attracted to her; not before the change anyway. The transformation that she so hated, was the same change that now made her so beautiful to me. I couldn't tell her how I felt. She would never understand. How can you suddenly tell someone that you've know almost all your life as a friend that you were suddenly attracted to her physically. It would ruin everything. The relationship that had built up over so many years would fall apart immediately. I cared too much about her to just let it end like that. I hid my desires.
It wasn't the first time. I had never told Kristen about my fetish. I've know for many years now that I have a breast fetish. Not an unusual desire in men, so much so, that one can hardly call it a fetish at all. Yet, I suppose one must. After all, breasts are not directly related to the act of copulation. Thus, sexual desire for them would be viewed as a fetish. My own breasts are naturally large. I have a small D-cup. I have considered having them enlarged to an even larger size. Whenever I masturbate, the touch, sight, and thought of my own breasts always gave me more satisfaction than the thought of any man. I, of course, could never tell Kristen about this desire. She would have taken it as a sign of homosexuality. I couldn't blame her. I had struggled with those fears as well. I was scared by my own desires. I didn't want other people to think of me as abnormal. So, I kept my desires to myself. It wasn't difficult. I enjoyed sex with men. Plus, it was my own breasts with which I was fascinated. I guess it was some narcissistic enchantment with the large size, perfect shape, and soft feel of my own breasts. I certainly had a chest to be envied, and I think that many did, including my best friend. I really never cared about the breasts of other women though. At least, not until Kristen showed me what had happened to hers.
She was bawling at the time. She pulled up her shirt in disgust. She pointed to the new formations. She was angry and feeling sorry for herself. I went to her, and cradled her in my arms. I felt the two new breasts press against me. My eyes had not deceived me. I had thought that it was a joke when Kristen had told me through her tears. I thought it was just an elaborated joke after she pulled up her shirt, exposing her strange chest. Yet, feeling them next to my body, there was no longer any doubt. The transformation had worked, but not as she had expected.
Don't spells always seem to work like that. Either they don't work at all, or they work in some unexpected way. Almost every story I have ever heard has worked that way. I suppose a few stories have a spell which result in a change that goes exactly as expected, but those tales usually end with the character deciding he or she was better off without the change in the first place. I suppose these stories are trying to convey a moral of being happy with what you've got. I remember thinking about such stories when I heard the tale from the young woman who sold Kristen the cream. That was all I thought it was: a story. A work of fiction from a very convincing con artist. Indeed, she almost had me believing her story. But really, a cream which causes one's breasts to enlarge. Surely there had to be better con a young woman could use on a street corner. Then again, maybe not, I saw Kristen getting her money out, ready to pay this woman! I nearly lost control. I yelled at her, and told her not to waste her cash on such a ridiculous notion as a breast-enlarging cream. Despite my protests, she did buy it.
The woman told her to rub the cream on her breasts liberally, and the area covered would grow overnight. I laughed. I told Kristen that if such a cream really worked it would be sold everywhere, not on the street by a single woman.
"Magic is not sold in department stores." The woman responded. I yelled at the woman, and even cursed her. It didn't matter. Kristen still brought the tube of cream. The name on the tube said: "multiplication cream." I could detect some smaller writing on the back of it, directions I assumed. It was a rather large tube.
"Don't you have anything smaller?" I asked with my voice purposefully full of spite. "I'm sure that she doesn't need that much."
"That is the only size tube that I have." The woman said with a grin, what I considered to be a devious grin, which I also presumed was the grin that swindlers like herself get whenever they execute a con well done. I just rolled my eyes. The woman took note of it and responded with a comment to Kristen. "Your friend doesn't seem to have much faith."
Kristen smiled and commented. "You have to excuse Megan, she's a major skeptic. I, however, want to believe."
That much was true enough. I hated to think it, but Kristen was a real sucker. It didn't matter what kind of crap someone was peddling, she would usually fall for it. Whether it was psychic friends, lotteries, phone promotions, half-off sales, or real estate promotions, Kristen was always the first in line. I remember seeing her phone bill once. I nearly blew my top when I saw all the charges for psychic phone readings.
I had yelled and screamed at her: "Don't you know they're just fakes? They just want your money." She yelled right back at me. She asked me to just try it once, that I would be astounded by the accuracy of their predictions. "Yes," I responded. "I'm sure that they are very good at what they do. It takes practice to become a good con artist, even to convince someone as gullible as you." We continued to bicker, but in the end it was useless. She continued to call her psychics, and to buy unproven products that she didn't need. Here she was again, buying this damn cream.
She always wanted to believe in the fantastic, even when all the products she bought never worked, or just sat and collected dust. I always found it hard to believe that someone who had spent so much money on worthless merchandise could continue to buy such junk. It just infuriated me how these people kept ripping her off. Yet, it didn't seem to bother her. She would just smile and move on to the next product for sale. She never lost hope that the next product would be an undiscovered miracle of some sort. I, on the other hand, always remained open but highly skeptical. I guess you could say that I was the Scully to her Mulder.
"You got gypped." I said as I drove her home that day after she had bought the cream.
"Don't use that word." She had replied harshly.
"'Gypped,'" she stated. "It 's racist. It implies that all gypsies are scam artists. I'll have you know that some gypsies set up a booth at the flea market downtown one day. They had some very fine trinkets at a very reasonable price. I don't mean to imply that all gypsies are peddlers either. They are just the ones you notice the most. Probably because they fit the stereotype better."
"Yeah, and I'm sure you bought all of their crap too."
Kristen gave me another harsh look. "Fine," she said smugly. "You just keep living in your bigoted world, Megan."
"Trust me, I will." I said confidently.
"Your lack of faith troubles me, Megan." Kristen stated, taking on, what I liked to call, her 'serious voice.' "You don't believe in anything. You don't believe in a magic, god, or an afterlife."
"So," I said. "And, why are you moving the conversation from breast creams to spirituality?"
"It's all connected you know!" She stated with a certain amount of authority.
"Really? I didn't realize that breast creams were part of the major religions." I said with a smirk.
"Very funny," Kristen mumbled. "You know, over 90% of the world's population believe in some kind of afterlife. Most of these beliefs deal with magic and miracles of some sort or another. I don't know how you can just dismiss something in which so many people believe."
"I never said that I dismissed it." I remarked in a more serious tone. "I just think it's good to have a scientific skepticism. I believe there is a possibility of an afterlife and in magic, I just want some facts. I don't want to believe! I want to know! Plus, some of the magic you hear about is so stupid. Speaking of gypsies, do you remember when you heard that story about that old gypsy woman with magic clothing. You were actually trying to find some old woman with underwear that makes your legs longer and bras that make your breasts bigger. How stupid is that? I can't believe that you would actually believe in such a silly story, Kristen."
"I didn't say that I necessarily believed it. I just though that it was interesting. I just wanted to investigate the possibility of it actually being true. Where is your sense of adventure, Megan?"
I didn't waste my breath on talk of my sense of adventure. I just kept reminding her how she had wasted her money as the long drive home continued. As always, she replied by saying: "We'll see." Indeed, we always did see. We always saw that I was right. I was never ashamed to let her know just how right that I was too. Not that it mattered. She never listened. I didn't know it then, but this time it seemed that I was wrong about the cream. I guess the woman was right. They don't sale magic in department stores.
It was facts that I wanted. Some observable evidence of all these miracles in which Kristen believed. It was evidence that I got. It was undeniable. As I held her in my arms nearly three weeks after she had bought the cream, I felt her breasts against me. My sense of touch confirmed the fact that my eyes cannot lie. It wasn't an illusion, and it wasn't a joke. The transformation had occurred. For whatever reason, magic or science, my friend was different. So much different that she had ceased being just my friend, and started being the object of my desire and innermost fantasies.
Kristen recounted the story. She spun the tale of her transformation to me with a voice of sorrow and a tearful agony. My feelings were so mixed. Half of me felt such passion, and the other half felt such sorrow and sympathy. As soon as I had dropped her off that day, she had run into her bedroom and pulled off her shirt and bra. As I drove home fuming at my friends waste of her money, Kristen joyfully rubbed the cream on her breasts. She had offered to share the cream with me. She had wanted me to stay with her and rub the cream on my breasts too. I had refused of course. I said that it was a messy waste of time and that my breasts were big enough already. I truly believed the part about it being a messy waste of time, but the part about my breasts was not something in which I believed. I loved my breasts, and I loved big breasts. Of all the crap that Kristen had ever brought and offered to share with me, this product was the most tempting of all. I wanted to have bigger breasts. I realize that it is a strange desire to have. I mean, I already have D-cups. Any more than a couple cup sizes larger and I would look like a real freak. I have seen the contempt that most women have for those dirty magazine models. They look at the pictures in their boyfriends' magazines and shake their head in disgust at the women's huge bosoms.
"How can those women disfigure themselves just to please men's stupid desires." Such are the comments I had heard before. I, however, did not hold such contempt for these women.
"Think of all the money they are making though." I would respond. I would watch the shows. The talk shows with Jerry Springer and the other sleazy hosts who would constantly bring out huge-breasted models for display. Kristen and I would often watch television together. Whenever I stumbled on one of these shows, I would always put down the remote control. It would always annoy Kristen.
"Change the channel!" She would yell. "I don't want to watch these degenerates waving their huge boobs around! I can't believe that you want to either."
"I just want to understand why a women would increase her breast size so much. I'm interested in how they can live like that." I would respond. Such responses were meant to take any hint of sexuality out of my motivations. Kristen would always except it. Yet, sexuality was my motivation. I wasn't attracted to women, nor was I attracted to other women's breasts. I was, however, attracted to the idea of these women's breasts. I fantasized about what it would be like to have their breasts. I thought of how wonderful it would be for me to masturbate while fondling my own massive breasts. I held no contempt for these women. I envied them. I didn't want to strip, or appear in dirty magazines. I just wanted to have their breasts. To have their breasts, and to be accepted. Accepted as a god damn human being.
Yet, that desire was impossible wasn't it? If I were to have such huge breasts, I would be nothing more than a sex object. Most people would not set out to treat me differently. They would try to be fair, but they wouldn't be able to help themselves. Big breasts are not just mounds of flesh. They are symbols. They are symbols of sexuality. They are symbols of stupidity. A women can't have a mind and large breasts. It is either one or the other, right? As much as I wanted to have larger breasts, I knew that I never could. People would be too judgmental.
I hated the labels. Yet, I was bound by them. If I had the breasts that I wanted, I would be a "sex object." If I were to admit my excitement at fondling breasts, I would be a "lesbian." These labels represented my struggle. I had no problem with homosexual men or women. Yet, I did not want to associate myself with them. The power of the gender stereotyping with which I had experienced, from the time I was wrapped in that pink blanket as a newborn right up to today, is strong. I can recognize the problems with it, but I cannot personally break free from it.
Why lesbian? Why gay? Whether it be a man or a women that they desire. Aren't they just lovers? Why is there such a need to classify? I suppose it is the same reason that, when you see a baby who is not dressed in pink or blue, you ask: "Is it a boy or a girl?" People have a need to classify. Maybe it helps them make sense of the world. A certain cognitive economy is inherent in being able to neatly fit people into slots based on some preconceived schema. Even with gay couples, there seems to be a tendency to label one as "the man" and the other as "the woman." It seems that we even apply a preconceived relationship schema to unfamiliar relationships as well.
I suppose that classification is needed for reasons of unification and solidarity too. It has served as a way for homosexuals to band together to fight for a common goal. Yet. it is strange. They are the only ones who constantly get labeled by their sex lives. Close-minded people automatically would label them as deviant. Yet, other people who engage in strange sexual activities aren't subjected to that labeling. They don't have to reveal any of their sex lives if they don't want, because in public, they are just a couple. They are a man and a woman. That seems to be the problem, the problem which I would face if I were to admit my desires, the desires that I now had for Kristen. What would it mean if I started a relationship with her? It would mean being labeled as a homosexual or bisexual. It would mean that my whole personality would be judged by my sexuality. Two women being together as a couple automatically reveals a little about one's sexuality. It is a sexuality that most consider perverted. Yet, other activities which they might find even more perverted are never revealed to them by the straight people they may meet. A straight woman who likes to get peed on by her boyfriend isn't labeled as perverted, because it isn't revealed. She is just labeled as straight. It's not like she introduces herself by saying: "Hello, I'm such-and-such. I'm straight, but I liked to get peed on during sex." Their sexuality, like most straight people's is kept private, and thus they are not judged by it. Since it is so well hidden, as far as many people are concerned, it is just the deviant sexuality practiced by perverts and pictured in dirty magazines.
And why "dirty"? I hadn't even realized it before. I always referred to the magazines as "dirty." Why? Most of the magazines I had seen were just pictures of people having sex. An expression of love certainly couldn't be dirty. Then again, perhaps it could be. Some people have awfully strange sexual desires. But, who am I to judge? It certainly seems to me like desires which include whips and handcuffs are very strange. Yet, perhaps those people who enjoy whips and handcuffs would find my desire of having huge breasts to be just as strange. Who should decide what is acceptable and what is not? Certainly not me, and certainly not any politician. As far as I was concerned, the morality of sex didn't depend on the number of people involved, the gender of the people involved, or the activities pursued. It instead depends on one's feelings and motivations. Did you truly love the person, or were you simply using the person?
It was not so much a challenge for me to hide my desires. I did enjoy the socially acceptable sex of that between me and a man. Yet, I couldn't really admit that either though, could I? I mean, even though I had always engaged in a socially acceptable form of sex, it is unacceptable for me to admit it. Even in socially acceptable areas, labeling comes into play. If I was to ever admit openly that I love to have sex with men, I would be labeled as a "slut." But sluts is what we all are isn't it? If "slut" refers to an enjoyment of sex, then all people, both men and men, are sluts, at least every one that I've known. They are all sluts because they all enjoy sex or sexual thoughts. After all, it is enjoyment, not number. For a woman, it is all about reputation. A reputation which is built on admissions and hearsay. Do I admit that I enjoy sex? Do others report that I enjoy sex? It is those reports of enjoyment that get a woman labeled. It has nothing to do with the number of lovers the woman has. I have known so many women that have had so many lovers, but avoided the label of "slut." I have also know women with very few lovers who have had that label thrust upon them.
Even worse, sometimes not having sex can get you that label. I remember a girl from high school who emotionally fell apart when all the boys, and some of the girls, started calling her a slut. The rumor was that she had offered to suck the school quarterback's cock. She said that she had actually refused to suck it, and that he was getting back at her by making up stories. I hadn't believed her at the time, but now I think that she may have been telling the truth. I mean, what if I were to go around and tell everyone how much I liked to have oral sex with men. I was true after all. But what if I were to openly admit it to people? Girls are taught from an early age not to advertise such desires. But why? I don't hide my nonsexual desires. I tell others of my love of chocolate. Yet, a woman who is know as a chocolate-lover does not have to face the same consequences that a woman who is known as a sex-lover does.
I can't stand holding all my sexual desires within me. I tell Kristen more than anyone, yet I tell her nothing. I have always loved Kristen. She has been my closest friend for such a long time, but I fear that telling her my true desires will alienate her from me. Some desires must go unspoken, and some contradictions must go unquestioned. For example, I see how Kristen holds those big-breasted women in contempt. Yet, she buys breast cream. It is natural in our society for women to want larger breasts, and it is also natural for them to dislike any woman with unnaturally huge breasts, even though what they have done to their chest is just a exaggeration of every woman's desire to be more busty and thus more beautiful in our society. Such obvious vanity is easily scorned, but yet, how can you punish them for wanting to be desired? It is nice to be admired, even if it is by shallow people. I enjoy being admired and complimented just as much as anyone. If large breasts can give you that admiration, then why not have them? How can I endorse the enlargement of breasts, yet condemn everything that it represents? The whole experience with Kristen's breast cream made me realize the contradictions within me.
I struggle with my own feelings sometimes. Kristen has often chastised me for my lack of faith. Yet, how can I have faith in anything without faith in my own feelings? I sometimes want to make light of Kristen's beliefs in a supreme being just as much as I make fun of her belief in miracle products sold on street corners. I could never be so rude though. I want to hate religious people for being so intolerant of people who have desires such as mine. I resent the fact that they are so judgmental. Yet, I realize that I am being judgmental of them being judgmental. I also realize that I am hating them for hating. Thus, I am just as guilty of intolerance as they are. How can I hate them when I love my friend? How can I hate them for hating when I sometimes hate myself for loving, loving breasts that is. I feel so confident that my feelings are right, yet so afraid that they might be wrong. As I said, I struggle.
The greatest struggle of all came when I saw Kristen's chest. Suddenly, I could no longer pretend to be satisfied with just men, and I knew it. As I comforted Kristen through her story, I knew that I would have to cope with my bisexuality. The sight of her beautiful chest made it clear that I had an affinity for the female body as well as the male one. The secret walls which separated my public self and my private self came crumbling down as Kristen had pulled her shirt up. I agonized through my feelings of lust and love as Kristen unraveled her story. I listened without a word. Inside however, my passions were screaming to be set free from the bondage of societal conformity.
Kristen told of how she woke up the following morning. Her breasts were still covered in the dried cream, but they were no larger. A result that I would have fully expected, but Kristen was truly hurt by the results, or lack of them. Her recollections of that moment brewed more tears. It was her initial pain of no results mixed with her current pain of all to tragic results. I cradled her head until she was able to regain enough composure to continue. She told me of how she had shed a tear over the lack of results and how she had felt sorry; sorry that she hadn't listened to me. She give me a look which seemed to beg for my forgiveness. I pecked her lightly on her check in a silent yet undeniable show of my affection and forgiveness.
She continued with her story. She said how she had wiped her tears away and accepted the failure. She had known failure before and had lived for another day. I admired my friend's resilience and unwavering faith in the face of so many failures. As it turns out however, this product wasn't a failure. It didn't take her long to realize it either. It was only minutes later. She told the story well through her tears, only stopping a few brief times when the memories became too much for her to handle. It started about ten minutes later while she was taking her morning shower. She striped off her clothes in front of the bathroom mirror as usual. She glared at her reflection in the mirror, straining to see some perceivable change in her breasts. It didn't matter how hard she looked, they were not any bigger. They were her ordinary B-cup breasts covered in a white film of the dried-on breast cream. She grasped her breasts as she stood in front of the mirror. She felt along them, hoping that her hands would reveal some change that her eyes did not. Once again, she found no changes.
It wasn't until the warm water of the shower rinsed the white film off her breasts that the changes started. The water cream rinsed off of her breasts and ran down her stomach and legs and finally down the drain. As soon as the dried cream was clear of her breasts, they were overcome by a sensation. A hot, tingling feeling swept over her two breasts. Her breasts had gone almost numb, but yet she felt a change. They were growing bigger! She suddenly remembered. She had read the directions on the tube the night before. They had specifically stated that the cream should dry on and then be washed off with water. Perhaps the water was the final element which set the transformation into motion. She couldn't help but let out a small giggle right there in the shower. She could see it. She could see the change. They were visibly growing larger. The increase occurred at a constant pace. She wanted to grasp her growing breasts and feel the increase under her palms, but she was afraid. She was afraid that if she touched them it would make them stop growing. So, she let her hands sway down at her sides.
Her breasts were no longer their usual B-cup. They had grown to a full C-cup in a mater of about two minutes, and they were still growing! Her jubilation at the sight was almost overwhelming. She felt lightheaded and felt like she nearly lost consciousness. The numb, hot tingling was magnificent. She was captivated at the sight of her breasts growing as the warm water of the shower hit them. She noticed a difference in the way the water ran off her chest. It no longer ran directly down her front from her breasts to her stomach. The water now ran off the sides of her newly curvaceous breasts. The droplets of water which fell from the tips of her nipples no longer hit her stomach. They dropped directly to the floor of the tub. It was because they stood out further. They actually stood out further from her body! She looked down. They were now a full D-cup. They had grown to a size bigger than Megan's breasts. Kristen now had a pair of breasts which were a large D-cup if not even DD-cup in size. The slow expansion stopped. Kristen grasped her two breasts. She caressed her wet tits with her hands, running her fingers over the nipples, and pressing the two full mounds of beautiful flesh together. She loved the feel of her new fullness, her new curves.
Even though the growth had stopped, the tingling was still there. Kristen barely noticed as she continued to fondle herself. She ran her finger along her right nipple. Something was strange. It was growing somehow. It was still the same length, and still the same width, but the aereola was taller along the flesh of her breast. The aereola looked longer. Instead of being round, it was in the shape of an oval, tall and skinny. It was growing even taller. She looked at her other nipple, and it was changing in the same way. Suddenly, her nipples formed dimples. They sunk in slightly in the centers. They continued to expand. She then realized that two nipples were forming! They were growing out of the area once occupied by the regular nipple. Kristen grew frightened at these new formations. She didn't want these nipples! How could she make it stop? She rubbed frantically at her nipples, as if she could erase them in the same way a person might erase a stray pencil mark from a piece of paper. It was to no avail. She had them, and they were not going to be erased. She had four nipples now, two on each breast. But, the changes were not over yet.
A new dimple formed. This time, it was in the area between the nipples. the flesh of both of her breasts sunk in slightly in the area between her nipples. It began to spread. She had creases in her breasts. The upper and lower halves of her two breasts were divided. The creases were growing deeper too. Her breasts were splitting. The gap between the two halves was widening. The lower half with the lower nipple was migrating downward. Kristen screamed. The piercing sound echoed in the small enclosed space of her bathroom. She could do nothing to stop these changes. Her lower breast half took position well below her upper half. The transformation had not ceased. The breasts halves were filling out. The missing halves were being replaced with new halves. Her four nipples were taking position in the center of the new breasts. See could see the changes. Within a mater of seconds, she had four breasts. She had a second pair directly below the first pair. Both of them looked to be about C-cup in size.
Kristen let out another scream of horror. She angrily grabbed at the lower pair of breast and yanked on them as if to pull them off. They did not come off. They were a part of her. They were just as much attached to her body as the upper pair. The tingling stopped. The transformation was over, but it was not what she had wanted. Kristen fell to her knees. The water from the shower hitting the top of her head. Her four breasts dangled, and dripped with water. Four droplets of water dripped off each of her four nipples. She brought her hands to her face. Her arms pressed against the flesh of her four breasts as she held her head. Tears drained from her eyes and mixed with the water draining down her face from the shower. She began to bawl. Her sobs filled the room along with the sound of the running water. She sat weeping under the shower for a long time. By the time she finally had the strength to pull herself out of the tub, the water from the shower was ice cold. She flopped herself down on the floor of the bathroom. She pulled the large bath towel from off the rack and covered herself with it, trying to regain some warmth. She lay sobbing for several hours with the towel wrapped around her as the cold water continued to hit the floor of the empty tub.
It was at that point that Kristen went into hiding. I had called a few times during the three weeks since I had last seen her. The first time that I had called her, she said that she was to tired to do anything. The second time, she told me that she had come down with the flu. I assume that was to keep me away. I had a tendency to just drop by her apartment without warning when we had not seen each other in over a week or so. Kristen was my only true friend. I got lonely easily without her, especially when I wasn't involved in any relationship with a boyfriend.
Kristen visited a plastic surgeon at the nearby hospital. She had called the surgeon's office the day of the transformation, but had to wait a week to see her. She had asked the doctor to see her as soon as possible. It seemed that a week was the earliest the doctor could manage. It was the only way Kristen would leave the house, if it was to the plastic surgeon's office. She had called in sick to work the day of her transformation. She also asked for a vacation. Trouble was, she only had a week's worth. She had been forced to take unpaid leave. Kristen probably could have hid her new endowments under loose clothing, but she was so distraught by the change, that she could only sit at home and sulk. She was an emotional wreak. Lucky for her, she was always the planner. She has always been better organized than I. She was able to make it through to two weeks without pay with no difficulties. I, on the other hand, live from paycheck to paycheck.
The appointment with the doctor was the first time Kristen had left her apartment since the transformation. She had a hard time even revealing her chest to the doctor. She had reached for her loose T-shirt and pulled it slowly off. She burst into tears as she did. The surgeon actually had to comfort her. Kristen pulled herself together quickly. She was terribly embarrassed by her tears, and even more so by her breasts. The doctor had looked Kristen over. Kristen said that the doctor looked astonished at what she saw, yet tried to disguise it with a stone-faced exterior. The doctor stood speechless peering at Kristen's chest. Kristen had finally broke the silence when she grasped at her lower breasts and pulled at them in a violent ripping motion.
"Can you get rid of these damn things!" Kristen yelled.
"Of course we can," the doctor nodded and smiled.
Kristen had felt so relieved by those words. She was disturbed by the fact that the soonest the doctor could operate was yet another week in the future. She hated the fact that she would have to live with these dreadful things for an entire week more. She found however, that her second week of isolation went much quicker than the first. She had hope. Hope had been lacking the first week. She had the operation to which to look forward. She could get rid of the extra breasts and return to normal.
It must have been very difficult for her. She had to deal with it alone. I was usually there to provide support for her. I had always been her main emotional support. I was her life preserver whenever life saw fit to throw her into a raging sea of adversity. She provided the same support for me. Kristen had shared the most troublesome and embarrassing moments in her life with me. She couldn't bring herself to tell me this time however. She was too ashamed.
Kristen had not left her house the week leading up to the operation. She hated going out at all in her condition. She just wanted the surgery over, and her normal appearance, and her normal life back. The hours before the operation were the toughest for her. Everyone wanted to take a look at her chest. All sorts of doctors and nurses just had to have a look. They all said they need to "inspect the growths" in order to "provide assistance" to the surgeons. Kristen felt that this reason for inspection was true in some cases; however, she also felt that some of them had just heard about her, and wanted to see the freak firsthand. A freak is exactly what she felt like as the nurses and doctors gawked at her. And, what about the pictures? Yes, they took pictures of her chest too. Kristen had protested frantically. The doctor stated that it was absolutely necessary. They needed accurate pictures for hospital and insurance records.
"Great," Kristen thought. "Now, not only will doctors and insurance agents have written documentation of my freakiness, but both of them will have pictures too."
Kristen's torment wasn't over. The man who took the pictures enjoyed it. She could tell. It was a doctor who took the pictures. It was a male doctor, a male doctor who loved breasts. He didn't say a word while he took the pictures of her chest, but Kristen could read the excitement all over his face. It wasn't just his face either. He had an erection. He tried to discretely hide himself from Kristen's view, but it was impossible. Kristen had noticed. She said nothing. She simply shed a tear and wished for the ordeal to end as quickly as possible. Kristen couldn't help but fear that the pictures might get copied a spread out among this doctors horny friends. He was supposed to be a doctor. Yet, the way he look at her spoke nothing of professionalism. It was the same way a man might look at a topless dancer. Pure lust filled his gaze as he snapped the pictures. This so-called doctor didn't see Kristen as a patient, or as a woman, or even as a human being. All he saw was breasts.