byCal Y. Pygia©

Tammy checked her breasts for the hundredth time. She had already looked at them--had already studied them--from every possible angle. She'd checked their nipples, their areolas, their height, their width, their volume, their firmness, their sleekness, their color. She'd looked at the shadows they cast upon her wall and their reflections in the full-length mirror on the back of her bathroom door. She'd imagined them in various blouses, tops, and dresses, displaying varying amount of décolletage and cleavage and offset by every color she could envision, both in and out of her wardrobe. Judging as objectively as she could, she'd had to admit to herself, as she had to her doctor, that the surgeon had done a splendid--an absolutely marvelous--job. The hormones she'd taken over a period of many months had done the preliminary work, had set the stage, had prepared the way, as it were, but she had to give credit where credit was due: Dr. Malcolm Chiles had, indeed, performed nothing less than a miracle in constructing her rack.

She wondered whether her on-again, off-again boyfriend, James, would be as pleased with her new boobs as she was. After all, she'd had them done for him. She lifted her eyes from the puffy pink areolas atop her beautiful breasts, looking herself in the eye. The woman in the mirror winked at her. "Don't lie," her reflection counseled her, "not to yourself." Tammy spoke the words in unison with her mirror image: "Don't lie, not to yourself."

She'd had breast implant surgery more for her own sake than she'd had it for James' pleasure. Hormones could take a girl only so far. Eventually, if a transwoman were ever to have true boobs, she'd have to have implants. Tammy, wanting to be a woman, had gone under the knife more than a week ago, and, finally, the soreness was gone, although her breasts remained swollen and unusually sensitive. It would be months, according to Dr. Chiles, before the swelling completely disappeared. However, he'd said, with his trademark wink, she needn't wait that long to have sex, provided that her boyfriend was gentle. She didn't bother to tell the surgeon that James had never made love to her. Except for kisses and caresses, their love remained unconsummated. "I can live with your cock and balls," he'd told her, "but I can't fuck you, even in the ass, until you have boobs."

"I have boobs," Tammy had replied, cupping her "A"-cup breasts.

"Those aren't boobs," he'd returned. They're fucking beestings!" Before he could bring himself to fuck her, he'd been adamant, Tammy would have to have womanly breasts--breasts of a "C" cup size, at least. Then, he could fuck her, he'd insisted, despite her cock and balls; otherwise, no matter how feminine she looked, he'd feel like a faggot fucking a dude.

His words had hurt, but they'd also motivated her to schedule breast implant surgery.

James had no idea, of course, what she'd been through or what the surgery was like, nor, ultimately, would he be likely to care. He was concerned with only one thing: his ladyboy needed bigger boobs so she looked more the lady and less the boy, especially if she ever wanted him to be intimate with her or expected him to stay with her.

Three incision sites were commonly used to implant breasts, Dr. Chiles had informed Tammy. The inframammary approach, in which an incisions is made in the fold at the bottom of each breast; the periareolar approach, in which an incision is made on the bottom part of each areola, leaving an "inconspicuous scar"; and the transaxillary approach, in which the implant is introduced through an incision in the armpit, leaving no scar on the breast. Dr. Chiles had explained that he'd use an endoscope, or a tiny camera attached to a monitor, to make a precise pocket to fit each implant. Tammy had opted for the transaxillary method because it would result in no scarring to her breasts.

He would position the implants behind the pectoralis major muscle--the muscle in her chest wall, and, since aesthetics and sensuality were important considerations for Tammy (or for James), he would also use silicone, rather than saline, implants, because silicone implants provided a softer, more natural feel and rippled less.

He'd warned her that her breasts would be sore for several days after the surgery and that her chest would probably feel tight and stiff as well. In addition, it would be hard for her to raise her arms until the soreness subsided. Her breasts would probably look swollen and tight for several weeks after the procedure, until her skin and muscles relaxed, and, after the swelling went down, her breasts could appear smaller than they looked right after the surgery.

She'd smiled. "You make it all sound so straightforward."

Dr. Chiles hadn't returned her smile. "It is--usually," he'd said, "but, as with any surgery, there can be complications."

Tammy hadn't liked the sound of that. Her smile had faltered. She'd felt suddenly weak and queasy. "Complications?"

"Most women are happy with the results of their surgery. Many feel a boost to their self-esteem and confidence as a result of the procedure. They feel sexier, and they're delighted to be able to wear bikinis, lingerie, and other clothing that they wouldn't have worn before the surgery--"

"But?" Tammy interrupted.

"But all surgery carries risk. Serious complications--bleeding and infection-- are rare, but lesser complications, such as breast asymmetry, can occur, and there could be changes in the sensitivity of the nipples. Capsular contracture is the most common complication of breast implant surgery--scar tissue builds up around the implant, creating a tight pocket that produces a firm breast and deforms the implant's shape. In some cases, this condition responds to medications, but some patients need another operation to open or remove the implant capsule. Breast implant deflation can occur any time after the surgery, requiring the replacement of the implant. Implants have ruptured in a few cases, requiring an MRI to detect the rupture of silicone gel implants, such as those you're having inserted."


He'd asked her whether she had any questions, and Tammy had said, "How long will it be before my breasts' final shape is evident?"

"They'll look good very soon after the operation, but it will take six months or longer before they realize their final shape," he'd replied. After a pause, he'd asked, "Shall we schedule an operating room, or have I scared you off with the fine print?"

Thinking of James' delight in her new breasts, Tammy had smiled. "Let's go for it, doc!"

Now, pain free, if not yet fully recovered, she was going to unveil Dr. Chiles' masterpiece in less than an hour for James' approval.

Would he approve?

She looked again at the lovely bosom in the full-length mirror, wondering whether James would like her new rack. How could he not? she asked herself. Her boobs were gorgeous--full, firm, high, round, sleek, soft, buoyant. They were everything a man could hope for in the way of tits. If James didn't like them, he really would be a faggot, she thought. The woman in the mirror winked, smiling, to indicate her agreement.

Promptly, at seven o'clock, he rang her doorbell. He was handsome as ever in his three-piece suit, and he held a bouquet of freshly cut, long-stemmed red roses out to her when she answered the door. No sooner had she put the flowers in a vase of water than they were in bed, naked. He looked at her beautiful breasts, but he said nothing.

"What do you think of them?" she asked, cupping her boobs in her hands, as if she were offering them to him as gifts.

He smiled.


The smile broadened, then faded. "Transwomen always think being a woman's just a matter of walking the walk and talking the talk--taking hormones, learning to swish when they walk, speaking in a falsetto voice, acting coy, batting false eyelashes, and having breast implant surgery," James said, speaking as if he were a professor lecturing a class that consisted of only one student--Tammy herself--"but being a woman is really much easier--and harder--than any of that shit: being a woman means getting fucked, pure and simple, just as, to be a man, a guy has to fuck someone else." He paused to let his words sink in. "So how about it Tammy? You ready to be a woman?"

She'd closed her eyes, and she seemed to hear his voice only from afar, but she'd heard everything he'd said, and she thought him wrong on all counts but one. It seemed to her as if another woman spoke, using her voice: "I'm ready, James; God knows, I'm ready!"

His cock, thick and hard, slid through her anus, past the sphincter muscles, and deep into her rectum, and he ground his balls against her impaled buttocks. "Now, you're a woman," he told her, and he fucked her fast and hard, almost frantically, as if her life, and his own, depended only upon his fucking and her being fucked.

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