You Bet Your Ass!

"Holy cow."

Milena's eyes narrowed.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

Her face broke into a smile. "Just kidding. I've heard all the jokes. You want your own pair, don't you?"

I struggled to get the words out while not thinking of Milena's breasts dripping with milk, and wondering what it might feel like. "Yes," I said. "Maybe not as big as you. But please don't take that the wrong way."

"Neither did I, but now I love it. Either way, you might be at the right place."

"I'm a bit worried. How much choice do you think we have in what happens?"

Milena raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

I tucked myself into the corner of a couch. A year ago, when the show first came on, I'd mocked it. "You Bet Your Ass" seemed like the latest drivel and proof that culturally we were going down the drain but I wasn't so sure anymore. It had been a hard year. A relationship had ended and at my job, I was overworked and underappreciated. The women who seemed to do best there were the same glammed up babes I'd disliked in college. Mostly I was tired. Tired of fighting it all, tired of feeling invisible. If walking into work on Monday with a massive set of tits and an ass like Kim Kardashian meant I could work regular hours, it would be worth it. Plus, it would be fun to be hot. Provided I didn't get stuck with the most outrageous options that could happen on the show, every part jiggling.

Truth was, I'd only seen one episode but remembered it clearly. The contestant was some thirty-something chick with a dye job and a thing for push-up bras who admitted her whose ambition was to be a trophy wife. She straight up said she didn't want to work. I had wished she'd been fattened up into a brainless slut with a fetish for getting pregnant, which I'd heard were options, but of course that would be justice so it didn't happen. Instead, the woman had pocketed fifty grand and ended up looking ten years younger and like a stripper with legs for days, platinum blonde, bolt-on tits usually only seen in porn, perma-tan and, yes, they'd done something to her mind, made her a real airhead, but she seemed pretty happy. She'd get stares in public and—holy shit. That was it. I almost laughed out loud.

Tracy. Tracy the sex-bot was her.

But why was she back on the show?

"You girls have fun," said the production assistant before departing, "I'll be back when it's your turn."

"Shouldn't they tell us the order?" I asked.

"Katana's next, then I'm on with...her," Milena said in reference to Tracy, "then you. She stole my husband," whispered Milena, reading my expression. "I couldn't believe it. He's such an idiot. No pre-nup. She's a total bimbo. Anyway, she and I are going to be on together. It's a new spin, so to speak, for the show and more of a competition than usual. Given her state of her mind, I should win easily."

I wasn't the vengeful type, but felt bad for Milena nonetheless. Tracy, entranced by the show, didn't seem to hear anything Milena said. Coming back from commercial, the show's fluorescent purple logo flying across the screen, the host, Alex Somethingerother, bounding out to a roaring crowd with his bleached teeth and nice suit.

Better late than never, I figured, when it came to learning more about the show. I settled in and tried to catch up. The contestant was a pretty if conservative-looking woman in her early thirties with a ton of debt from law school, something like a hundred grand, and that was her reason for trying out for the show. Her name was Dixie and while she was living in the northeast she was, shockingly, from somewhere in the Deep South, although it sounded like she'd worked hard to erase any trace of her accent in, no doubt, a desire to sound more professional.

Things weren't going well for Dixie. With each spin, money went into her "bank" of winnings but that was hardly the most riveting thing about what I was watching. On her first turn at the wheel she'd ended up with "Boobs," which caused the audience to go nuts, take out voting tablets and vote that she submit to a look called "Plastic is Perfect."

She'd been strapped into The Throne by a blonde woman in a nurse's uniform, who'd then unbuttoned Dixie's blouse. Making sure to expose much of Dixie's quite pale and breasts she'd then pulled down Dixie's bra and placing an innocuous-looking and small white suction cup-like thing on each nipple. Thick tubes ran from the cups and disappeared behind the Throne. As soon as she'd finished, Alex pulled a remote control from a pocket and hit a red button. Dixie's eyes rolled back in her head and she gripped the armrests her arms had been locked onto, all of which distracted me for a moment from noticing her breasts begin to swell into two perfectly round globes that quickly dominated her chest, her bra quickly disappearing beneath them. The results were obviously fake F cups, at least.

Her next spin had landed on "Butt" and the audience had voted that she should get something called "The Kim," leaving her with an inflated apple-shaped ass. On her third spin, she'd hit "Libido," the audience choosing the "Double Trouble" option, doubling her natural libido. Described as the most modest option, it peaked when the woman was at her most fertile. While Dixie absorbed whatever was happening to her brain thanks to the metal ring, the show played a clip from her interview:

"I figure there are certain risks but if it goes poorly, I've got the self-control to quit before it gets out of hand. Worst case scenario I don't make any money but leave a blonde or something like that, which is no big deal."

Dixie, in the Throne, shook her head, trying to clear her mind. "I think I need to quit."

The audience booed in disappointment.

"No, no," corrected Alex. "It's her choice."

"I don't know what to do. I already look outrageous. And all I've got to show for it is eight thousand dollars."

"You'll figure it out. Your choices, just to make clear, are to continue or you can quit now. If so, all you have to do is walk offstage. Folks back stage will help your apply your winnings to the total cost of the modifications made so far. We take both cash and credit..."

"Wait. What?"

"...in your case, the boob job is valued at eight thousand. Getting "The Kim" ass is ten. All mental upgrades are ten and you got a libido amplification, so that's twenty-three thousand, minus the six you have in winnings already. So that's a total of—"

"I OWE YOU MONEY?"

"It's in the contract."

"So if I keep playing I don't owe you anything."

"As long as you finish the round. There's a lot left on the board. You don't have your Multiplier yet. Heck, maybe you score a few more grand and get a Multiplier and knock that total down."

"I can't leave here with nothing!"

"You're not exactly leaving with nothing, he said, gesturing at her chest."

"I guess I have to keep going."

In the Green Room, I was thinking I'd made a mistake in coming on the show.

Dixie bounced over to the Wheel, her ass having turned her knee-length skirt into a mini, her boobs barely contained by her bra.

"Here goes..."

She spun the wheel.

"Oh shit," she said.

"And we have—Belly!" shouted Alex. "That's two thousand dollars into your winnings. Pass, and have that two grand subtracted from your total and spin again or accept it? What will it be? Remember, as with the other categories, the audience has the options on their tablets."

I remembered this part. I was pretty sure the options ranged from a tiny waist to pleasantly plump, to looking permanently pregnant.

"I'm beginning to think this thing is rigged," muttered Dixie, "but I'll go with it, Alex."

"Great! Time to vote!"

The show's theme music played while the audience votes were tabulated, and automatically displayed on a scoreboard over the Wheel of Fate. I could see the panic in Dixie's eyes as the numbers increased. Of course no one had voted for "As-is" (what it sounds like). Where was the fun in that? "Ab-solutely" (a six-pack) got a single percentage point. "Plush (a chubby belly that hangs over panty line with a pronounced muffin top)" rocketed up to 36%, edging out "Bun in the oven (a pregnant look at either 3, 6 or 9 months)" at 26% and "Ballooned" (smooth and hugely round) at 5% and beating out "Stacked," intentionally obscure, the name left the contestant with a huge "double-stacked" belly with one fat roll on top of the other. It scored 32%.

"That was close," said Dixie, too relieved to notice as her midsection softened, swelled and spilled out into chubby pudge.

"Seven left," reminded Alex. "Four if you land on a Look."

A Look? I wasn't sure what that meant, then examined The Wheel. Oh right. That's the one that turned you into whatever the audience chose.

Dixie kept going, jiggling between the Wheel to the Throne as her hair flowed into a thick blonde mane that went past her shoulders, her voice shifted into the slow drawl she'd worked to eliminate and her lips plumped up to "Pillow Talk," soft blowjob lips. Once she left the show, she'd feel compelled to dress as what they show called a "Cheap Date," in short skirts and pumps, semi-sheer and tight tee-shirts without a bra or panties with lots of cheap jewelry and heavy makeup. Torn jeans, with holes in the inner thigh and under her butt cheeks were also on the table. Twice, she landed on Intellect, lowering her IQ by a total of 20%. She'd also landed twice on Fetishes, developing an oral fixation with an exhibitionist streak and was immediately conscious of how her mouth and throat felt empty without something in them, preferably a cock. Thinking of others watching her ass sway down the street, and her tits bouncing free made her wet. Each one had had a monetary value attached to them from one to five thousand dollars leaving her with a measly $13,500, nowhere near the hundred grand she needed to pay off her law school debts, which would be even harder to pay off now given how she looked, not to mention how in dropping her intellect she'd ceased to understand much of what she'd learned.

But she was done. That was it.

"Ready to cash out?" asked Alex.

"Isn't there an option to keep going?"

"There surely is. You pick the number of additional spins. Whatever number you choose we'll multiple that against each modification total. For instance, if you'd gotten those boobs this way they would have earned you six grand instead of two."

"I'll go with...three spins."

"Three it is."

"Boobs again! You're up to $18,500."

"Holy shit," gasped Dixie. I was pretty sure she wasn't talking about the money.

Alex ignored her concern, instead addressing the audience. "Remember when we get a category for the second time we limit the options to the ones that fit best with what contestant already has, so no Heavy Hangers! They won't go with your current rack, but that leaves you with two choices. So what will it be, audience, Volleyballs or Basketballs! You're close to volleyballs already. What do think, will the audience be merciful?"

The answer came quickly.

"Oh my God," whispered all of the women in the Green Room. Even Candace.

Milena sighed, stretching her back and causing her chest to rise. "She won't be able to walk with those things."

"Am I crazy or are her nipples huge?" Meredith asked.

"You're not crazy," said Katana. "I mean, I'd love a nice, new set of tits, but that's crazy."

"Aww," said Tracy, her voice a sexy purr.

Milena rolled her eyes.

"Two more to go," I said.

We watched as, thankfully, Dixie landed on the Multiplier, meaning her final total would be multiplied based on the three additional spins she'd taken.

"She should get close to what she needs," said Milena, looking concerned. She wanted revenge on Tracy, but this woman was a stranger with two titanic basketballs strapped to her chest. Her bra had exploded at some point and all she could do was hold them up, which was beginning to look more like fondling.

Dixie spun The Wheel of Fate for he last time, and for the first time it was truly kind. Sort of.

"A Full Body Look," hollered Alex. "That's fifty thousand dollars. Multiplied by three—you're up to $168,500."

"I can pay off my loans."

"And that's before your Multiplier!"

"Three times $168,000? Meredith thought Dixie's eyes were going to pop out of her head and hers might as well."

The totals flickered on the scoreboard.

"We have 12% for Perfect Pear and HourglASS just barely beating out A Whale of a Good Time at 46 to 42%."

Dixie looked like she couldn't process what she was hearing. Neither could Meredith. Didn't she already have an hourglass figure? Shouldn't Dixie object? Except, if she did, they'd go with the second place choice. She didn't know what "A Whale of a Good Time" was and was afraid to ask.

In the Throne, Dixie groaned. Her arms strapped to the arm rests, her breasts now hovered over her lap like the basketball-sized boobs they were. The warm seat that cupped her ass tingled with a thousand tiny injections of synthetic fat. Immediately absorbed, they began to grow, hips spreading as she rose in the Throne. Alex helpfully reached over and ratcheted up the armrests to give her growing hips somewhere to go. Soon they'd spread beyond the Throne's width. Her thighs thickened and pushed her knees further apart. When it stopped there was a moment of silence, then a foot-stomping applause from the audience that brought Dixie back to reality.

"Congratulations, Dixie. You're a big winner today. How does half a million dollars sound?"

"Amazing," drawled Dixie, through her swollen lips, looking still very much out of it. Stunned, she shuffled off stage, her ass clapping with each step, breasts swaying free over her plumped belly.

"Oh Dixie," sang Alex. "In case you're interested, for another thirty thousand dollars, which makes ninety with your multiplier, you can Risk the Bump."

"I'll pass, Alex."

In the Green Room, I asked the others if they knew what "Risk the Bump" was. Either no one did or were unwilling to say. Or they were so stunned they couldn't speak. That was an option, too. Except for Tracy.

"Aww," cooed Tracy. "Boobies."

"Shut up, Tracy," said Milena.

"Umm. Does anyone know who's next?" asked Katana.

"You, doll," said Milena.

"Fucking sweet," said Katana.

I'd had enough so rose to my feet and, as casually as I could, walked to the door. I'd seen enough. There were no trick angles or special effects. All of the transformations were so extreme. If I walked out onto that stage there was no telling what might happen. What had I been thinking?

The door was locked. I pulled on the knob anyway and began banging on it. A voice that sounded like the production assistant's squawked in over an intercom, asking in a soothing voice if they needed anything.

"I want out!" I shouted. "This is too much. I have to go."

"Here we go," sighed Milena.

"What?"

"Let's just say I did my research on this whole operation and once you're in, you're in. Resistance, as they say, is futile."

"What are you talking about?"

"They'll do what they have to do to get the show made. A lot of contestants get cold feet and they can't have that so..."

As if on cue, a white fog drifted into the room from a vent in the ceiling. I frowned at it, tried to keep from breathing it in but failed. Within seconds, a calming sensation flowed over her body from head to toe. I was also startled to feel her panties get wet. The feeling was distracting. Why was I standing next to the door? What had I wanted? The answer was there, then it floated away as if on a cloud. A day or so after the show ended these memories would come back but at that point I felt so confused. Slowly, I walked back to my spot on the couch. Katana was glassy-eyed and Candace looked a bit sleepy, too, as did Milena who reached out and held me hand, telling me it would all be fine. Tracy seemed unaffected and continued to watch the show.

CHAPTER THREE: KATANA'S LESSON

The fog cleared and the production assistant entered, waving at Katana.

"You're up!"

Katana bounced rose to her feet and followed the woman through the door.

Still feeling a little dopey, I heard the show's opening music and the host's quick explanation of the rules before he brought out Katana. Then she came out and they went over her basic biography. As it turned out she had been a sorority girl, briefly, before dropping out. Alex read off his notes that she said she volunteered helping elderly people and just wanted to make the world a better place.

"That's right," she said, more nervously than made sense.

"Is it?" asked Alex. "Because you know we do screener questions and personality tests."

"Uh-huh," said Katana.

"Uh-oh," said Milena.

"Yours came up with some irregularities so we did a more thorough background check. We spoke with your old roommates and several other people."

Katana looked ill.

"Are you ready to come clean, Katana? Or should I say Catherine. Such an ordinary name, Catherine."

"I..."

"Katana, Catherine, what we learned is you want to be on the show mostly because you want to be on TV. You're imagining yourself as one of those "Influencers." And see this as an easy way to get a free boob job. Does all that sound right?"

The audience grumbled.

"Umm."

"Right. We want people who are honest and dedicated to the game, not people who are trying to game the game. I mean, my goodness, where is the sense of integrity?"

I was momentarily distracted by the notion of a show like "You Bet Your Ass" finding integrity important.

"Normally," continued Alex, "we'd pass on an application like yours and pick someone else but this has been a problem before, so we thought we'd have you on anyway."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm sure you will be."

"I'm really a good person. I promise. I'm trying to raise my profile, you know? It seemed like a good opportunity to help people know who I am. It was just a silly idea—"

"People will know who you are. Don't worry. Audience, are you ready to get the show on the road?"

I could feel the vibrations from them shouting "YOU! BET! YOUR! ASS!" I asked Milena if she had any idea what was about to happen.

Milena frowned. "No. I've never seen this happen before."

"Audience, take out your tablets. We won't use The Wheel for Katana. We're going straight down the list. You vote and we do it. Category number one..." He didn't get a chance to say it, the audience could see them all on The Wheel and shouted it out.

"BOOBS!"

"What will it be, folks. We've got Fun Sized, Heavy Hangers, Udders and Plastic is Perfect. Remember with the last one you also get to vote on how big they go. Because CCs don't mean much to everyone, we use the volume of softballs, volleyballs and basketballs. That's 1250 ccs to 4600 ccs or 6500 ccs. Remember she's tiny. If she can't walk out of here we have a problem."

Katana, strapped in tight to the Throne, nodules attached to her temples, watched the tally on the scoreboard, her eyes widening then moving from the board to her chest. Alex reached over and unzipped the zipper at the center of her workout top, exposing her little A-cups, and attached the suction cups to nipples the size of dimes. Immediately, her boobs began to swell. Even bigger than Dixie's, they formed perfect spheres, two perfect volleyball-sized tits. Too wide for her chest, they'd be visible even from behind, get in her way and be impossible not to notice.

"What do you think?" asked Alex. "You wanted a boob job. You wanted to be a walking sex bomb. Be careful what you wish for."

The girl couldn't speak. They were embarrassingly huge. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Something about their weight, about knowing others would see Katana as a walking pair of tits made my pussy wet. I wasn't the only one. A thin wet line appeared on the crotch of Katana's leggings.