Chapter 8: The Pre-Op Exam
The crack in the examination room mirror ran like a lightning bolt from the top left corner down to the center, distorting the reflection of the overhead light into a jagged streak. Iliana stared at it while the nurse, whose name she’d already forgotten, took her vitals. The blood pressure cuff tightened on her bicep. Her heart was pounding.
“A little elevated,” the nurse said mildly, making a note on the tablet. “Pre-op jitters. Totally normal.”
Iliana said nothing. The jitters weren’t in her chest; they were a low, insistent thrumming in her cunt. The paper gown rustled as she shifted on the exam table, the thin material sticking to her skin. The room smelled of industrial cleaner and, underneath, a faint, coppery hint of blood. It was the same scent that lingered in the ICU after a traumatic arrest, a smell that usually sharpened her focus. Now, it made her wet.Dr. Reynolds entered, a file in his hand. He was in his late fifties, with the capable, dispassionate hands of a craftsman. “Iliana. Good to see you. We’re finalizing everything today.” He slid onto a stool, his movements efficient. “You’ve settled on 650cc, high profile, silicone, under the muscle. Correct?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded thin in the sterile space.
“I’ll need you to lie back and open the gown, please. Just from the waist up.” He pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. The snap against his wrists was obscenely loud.
She lay back, the vinyl cold against her bare back. She loosened the gown, letting it fall open. The air in the room was cool, and her nipples tightened instantly into hard, sensitive points. She felt utterly exposed, more than she ever had in front of Atlas. This was transactional. It was a purchase. The vulnerability was part of the price.
He leaned in, his head blocking the glaring light. His fingers, cool through the gloves, began to press into the soft tissue of her chest. He measured with a tape, marking points on her skin with a purple surgical marker. The lines felt like a brand. His thumb brushed the underside of her small breast, hefting it, assessing its weight and footprint. A jolt of pure, electric need shot straight to her clit.
“You’re very fit,” he remarked clinically. “Pec development is excellent. The implant will have a good foundation.” His fingers traced the inframammary fold, the future site of the scar. “The incision will be here, in the crease. Very discreet.”
She swallowed, her throat dry. His touch was impersonal, but her body was screaming a different story. The paper beneath her was damp where her thighs pressed together. She could feel her own slickness.
He cupped her breast fully, his gloved hand conforming to its shape, then released it. It was a gesture of absolute ownership. “You’re sure about 650? It’s a significant projection. A dramatic change from your natural anatomy.”
“I’m sure.” The words came out as a breathy sigh. She saw his eyes flicker from her face to her chest, to the visible hardening of her nipples, then down to where the paper gown tented over her clenched thighs. A faint, almost imperceptible frown line appeared between his eyebrows.
He straightened up, removing his hands. “Any questions about the procedure itself? The recovery?”
She shook her head, unable to form coherent sentences. The fantasy was unfolding in her mind with crystal clarity: him pushing her back on the table, the paper gown tearing, his own clothed body covering hers, the harsh light above, the smell of antiseptic overwhelmed by the smell of sex.
“Alright.” He turned away, rolling his stool to the sink. He began washing his hands, his back to her. The solid, broad plane of his shoulders under his white coat. The sound of the water.
She didn’t move. She watched him. She imagined him not drying his hands, but turning, walking back, his expression shifting from professional to predatory. She imagined him flipping her over onto her stomach, her face pressed against the cold vinyl, his hand pushing the gown up around her waist. She imagined the rough drag of his slacks against her bare ass, the sound of his zipper, the blunt, unyielding pressure of his cock against her soaked opening before he drove into her, fucking her right there on the exam table, her new, marked-up tits flattened against the surface.
A soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips.
The water shut off. He turned, drying his hands on a paper towel. His gaze was careful, neutral. “You can get dressed. The scheduler will be in with your date and pre-op instructions.”
He left. The room felt emptier, charged with the ghost of her fantasy. She sat up slowly, her body trembling. The purple lines on her chest looked like a map to a new country. She touched one with a fingertip. Her cunt ached, empty and demanding.
The drive home was a fever dream. Every stoplight was an agony of friction against the seam of her jeans. She replayed the touch of his gloved hands, morphing it into the rough, unfettered fucking of her imagination. By the time she pulled into the driveway, she was panting.
Atlas was in the living room, his laptop glowing on his knees. He looked up, his eyes wary. “How’d it go?”
“September 18th,” she said, dropping her keys on the table with a clatter. “The surgery is September 18th.” She walked past him toward the bedroom, not waiting for a response.
“Iliana—”
She didn’t stop. In the bedroom, she tore off her clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. She stood naked in front of their full-length mirror, tracing the purple marks with her own hands. Her small, familiar breasts. The last days of them. She cupped them, then let them go with a contemptuous flick of her wrists.
Atlas appeared in the doorway, his frame filling the space. “Did he… explain everything?”
“He touched me,” she said, not looking at him, staring at her reflection. “He measured me. He put his hands all over me.” She turned to face him, her eyes wild. “And I got so wet I ruined the paper gown.”
He flinched as if struck.
“You wanted this,” she whispered, advancing on him. “You wanted me hungry. Well, I’m fucking starving.” She pushed him backward, her hands flat on his chest, until his legs hit the edge of the bed and he sat down hard.
She shoved him onto his back and climbed over him, her knees pinning his hips. She didn’t kiss him. She grabbed the waistband of his sweatpants and yanked them down, freeing his cock. It was already half-hard, a traitor to his confused expression. She spat into her palm, slicked him roughly, and then guided him into her with a single, downward plunge.
He cried out, his hands flying to her waist. She was dripping, swollen, and he slid in to the hilt effortlessly.
“This is what you made,” she snarled, rolling her hips, taking him deep. “A needy, greedy cunt. A set of empty tits waiting to be filled.” She rode him with a frenetic, jarring rhythm, her own hands clutching her marked breasts, squeezing them, pretending they were already the heavy, artificial weights she’d bought. “You’re gonna fuck these new tits, aren’t you? You’re gonna come all over them.”
“Yes,” he gasped, his eyes screwed shut, his hips bucking to meet her frantic pace.
“Say it!”
“I’m gonna fuck your new tits!” he shouted, the shameful admission detonating something in him. He gripped her ass hard, his fingers digging into the muscle, and began to piston up into her, his thrusts turning savage, taking control.
The force of it drove her forward. She braced her hands on his chest, her hair falling around her face as he pounded up into her. The slap of skin, the wet, sucking sounds of their joining, filled the room. She could feel him everywhere, a brutal, stretching fullness. She looked down at him, at his face contorted in pleasure and self-loathing, and felt a surge of power so immense it tipped her over the edge.
Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and silent, her inner muscles clenching around him like a vise. He followed seconds later, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he emptied into her, his body arching off the bed.
She collapsed onto him, their sweat mingling. His softening cock slipped out of her, followed by a trickle of his come. They lay there, breathing in ragged unison.
After a long time, she rolled off. She went to the bathroom, cleaned herself without emotion, and returned to stand before the mirror again. The purple lines were still there. She opened her laptop on the dresser. An email confirmation glowed on the screen. Your order has shipped.
She traced a purple line on her skin, then traced the imagined curve of the 650cc implant underneath it. In the mirror’s reflection, she saw Atlas watching her from the bed, a haunted, hollow look in his eyes. She didn’t turn around. She just stared at the woman in the glass, the woman who was almost gone, and smiled at the woman who was about to be born.