And Gwen came to visit me every day when I was all bandaged up in the recovery  room, my mind a turmoil of doubts about how I would look after I healed. I’d chosen a nude picture of Gwen as my model for Dr. Casey, which flattered her I think, but still, you always  thought of the horror stories. Everyone’s heard about people who, for all their surgeon’s best  intentions, come out with chests like two servings of lumpy mashed potatoes with dots of gravy at the center. I thought too of the freakishly endowed substitute teacher at my high school years ago, who all the kids called Ski Jump, after her startling profile. Would one of these be the new me? Would I turn out as Mr. Potato Scoops, or Sir Ski Jump? Gwen was there to reassure me that Dr. Casey had stuffed my new set with just the right amount of real fat from my real ass to make me look both natural and hot. That was the other part of me that was healing too, so I was in bad shape there for a while. 

When the bandages came off, I was plenty black and blue, but you could already see I was stacked like heaven. In a week or two I could have put on a wig and posed for Playboy, provided I kept up the regular depilatory treatments I needed to keep my chest smooth. I was a fairly hairy guy, and I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of lathering up my mahatmas each day and shaving them with a safety razor. So I decided to go with hair removal cream, and found I needed a lot of it to keep my mams from looking like a female gorilla’s. At first I put the cream just on the jugs, and was thrilled to see their snow-white beauty emerge from the hirsute forest that was the rest of my chest. It was Gwen who suggested that I remove the hair from my entire upper body, so I wouldn’t resemble King Kong sporting Fay Wray’s fandangos. For a time I heeded her advice and spread the cream everywhere above my waist, but ultimately this was too much trouble, and the idea of extensive electrolysis terrified me. Besides, all I cared about was my na-nas. As long as they were smooth and silky and sensitive, I didn’t mind if the rest of me resembled an old rug. I wasn’t entering any nudist pageant after all. This was just for me, and whomever I happened to be sharing my bed with. Happily, that was an understanding soul like Gwen. And I was comforted in the thought that, even if Gwen up and left me someday, I’ll still have her rack to remember her by. 

When I lie in bed with Gwen now, I touch her and then me and make comparisons. Yep, I’m fondling four these days. She has marginally better nippletons, and my aureolas aren’t that great. I prefer her, I think, but it’s close. In my breast judgment, we’re both soft as butter and white as cream. And then with all my comparison testing, I find my greedy hands and mouth are on Gwen about as often now as they were before my change; if she was hoping for a break there, it hasn’t come. It can’t be much less, I’m thinking, than every minute of our time together, same as always. But Gwen says she gets a kick out of the new me, that I’m sort of like sleeping with a couple, a man and a woman both, and that allows her to work out certain fantasies. And I’m all for working out fantasies, believe me. Anything that helps Gwen enjoy the new me is to the good.

But mainly I’m for myself, when Gwen isn’t around, so that not for one moment do I have to go without a nifty set to cherish. In the privacy of my own apartment I fondle Susie and Kate, as I call my new girls, to my heart’s content, and talk to them in loving tones. I like to stand in front of the mirror with those rose-tipped sisters hanging over my hairy forearm that I place under them like a shelf.  Man, that makes me drool. Or watch them change shape as  lie down or get up and bend over. They’re big enough that I can suck on ’em, or just peak down my own cleavage if that’s all I want. Sometimes I pretend they’re Gwen, and sometimes they’re only me. I’m cool either way. 

Since I’m not into being a public ninny, I wear a tamping-down undergarment to work, and no one but Gwen and I know my little secret. Everyone else thinks I had lung surgery. Sometimes I think it’d be fun if I took up an invitation from some of my pals at the office to go to the Y for some chest-flopping basketball and an eye-popping shower after, but I’m saving that for when I’m roaring drunk. Right now my babies and I are fine by ourselves. Thanks a bunch, doc, for slappin’ ’em on me. They’re worth every one of the million pennies I paid you, and so much more.