Transformation

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.