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Prologue: The Shaping of Jenna
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Jenna Whitmore had always known her purpose. It was stitched into the hems of her debutante dresses, whispered between handshakes at fundraisers, and carved into the marble of her father's Senate office: Legacy. Family. America.
At nineteen, she was majoring in Political Communications at Liberty Grace University and could quote Reagan faster than she could undo a bra strap - though she'd never needed to. Her figure was what polite Southern society called "willowy," and what her roommate Mallory called "tragically flat." Not that Jenna cared. Not until *he* said something.
He was an intern. Anonymous. Handsome in the forgettable way most of her father's hires were. Catalog model handsome but precisely as vacant in character. At a cocktail mixer, he leaned too close and murmured over the rim of his bourbon,
"You'd be perfect if you just had a little more... presence up top, y'know? Rich guys don't marry flat girls. They fuck them and forget them."
Jenna laughed politely, then she excused herself to the bathroom. Looking at her reflection until the porcelain tiles blurred, she saw it clearly. She was smart, sure, and confident, but none of that was a substitute for the one thing every guy she'd ever met looked for first: a girl who was fucking stacked.
That night, alone in her dorm room, she made a list and titled it FIXES, underlining it twice. Top of the list:
1. Get breast implants. Big ones. Round. High. Unmissable.
She told herself it was strategic. Her daddy had always emphasised her role in the political process. He spoke, but she had to keep them around to listen. If she wanted her daddy to win - in politics, or anything else - she needed the kind of silhouette that silenced rooms and opened wallets.
By July, she was in Miami taking a vacation, officially, but unofficially because it was away from the political media.
By August, she had found the surgeon she wanted - discrete, expensive, at the top of his field.
By September, she had become the ideal woman.
But ideals, as she'd learn, are easily corrupted - and some changes can never be undone.
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Chapter One: The New Jenna
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The first thing she noticed was the tightness. Not pain, exactly - just a heavy, unfamiliar fullness across her chest, like someone had strapped weighted pillows to her ribcage, then asked her to lie still.
Jenna blinked through the dim hospital light. Her throat was dry. Her skin, clammy. And under the gauze and compression bra, her new breasts throbbed. Not with pain, but with presence. High, tight, enormous.
She let her head fall to one side. The curtain rustled in the soft breeze of an over-air-conditioned room. Machines beeped quietly.
Her fingers twitched, then crept upwards - hesitant at first, now bolder, trailing up from her waist to cup the bandaged swell of her breasts. Her breath caught. They were so... there. Even wrapped and hidden, they dwarfed her hands. Jenna had always been petite, but next to these things, she felt it.
She swallowed. The memory flickered: the surgeon's smile, the size chart, Mallory giggling over an Instagram filter.
"Go big or go home, baby," her friends had said. Oh, god, why had she listened to them?
Her thumb brushed a curve, and she gasped. Not from sensation - they were still mostly numb - but from the idea of it. Porno proportions on an all-American girl. They were hers now.
Heavy. Round. Obscene.
A hot pulse ran between her legs.
"Oh!" She yelped.
She shouldn't be turned on by this. It was cosmetic. Practical. Strategic. A power play. She wasn't even planning to keep them once she'd actually found a man, but... they bounced, even through the wrap. She shifted, and the movement dragged against her skin, tugging something primal awake. Her legs pressed together.
"You'll look like a bimbo," Mallory had laughed during the sizing consult. And Jenna had smiled, then chosen the biggest option on the chart. But now, staring at the ceiling, breath shallow, pussy aching, she realised something that made her moan softly into the silence:
She didn't just like looking like a bimbo. She wanted to *be* one.
Perfect. Sexual. Plastic. Owned.
Not a Senator's daughter, not a political legacy - just tits and lips and curves all wrapped in pink. A living wet dream. A thing men whispered about and women envied.
A nurse entered the room.
"Oh good, you're awake. The procedure went swimmingly. Can I get you anything?"
Jenna smiled sweetly, her beauty radiant and obvious even without make-up on. She asked the only question she could think of right now:
"Does this surgery offer lip fillers?"
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Chapter Two: Nothing Fits
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Three weeks later, Jenna stood in front of her bedroom mirror and stared at a stranger.
The bruising had faded. The swelling, mostly gone. What remained was - even to her - stunning.
Her breasts sat unnaturally high, two impossible hemispheres perched atop her chest, daring gravity to challenge them. Round, perfectly shaped, yet huge - they didn't just alter her silhouette, they had redefined it. Everything about her seemed smaller by comparison. Her waist, her arms, her thoughts.
She hadn't planned to look like a porn star. Not exactly. But beauty standards being what they were, well, it was tough not to.
She pulled her old sorority formal dress from the back of her closet. Pale blue satin. Modest, tasteful. It had zipped up like a dream last spring. Now? She could barely get it past her hips.
"No, no, come on!" she muttered, tugging the fabric up over her new chest. It bunched beneath her breasts, caught in the curve, refusing to rise. She pushed, squeezed, lifted - nothing. She felt like she was trying to slip a basketball into a sock. When she finally wrestled the dress into place, her nipples were just about covered but her tits spilled out of the top like foam from a shaken can. The neckline was obliterated. The bodice puckered like it had been stitched for a doll. The zipper in back refused to meet.
She turned sideways. Her profile was... cartoonish. Like a doodle sketched by a man with a porn addiction.
And still, she didn't take it off.
Her breath caught. Her nipples hardened beneath the thin lace bralette she wore underneath. She hadn't worn a real bra in days - none of them remotely fit, and she liked the way the bralettes almost failed to contain her. Like they'd given up trying.
Jenna stared at her reflection. Even after a few weeks she was still fascinated. One hand drifted to her breast. She lifted it slightly. It barely even moved - it was too firm, too perfect. Her lip trembled.
"I look like..." she whispered. Then she didn't finish the sentence, because the truth was sitting too heavy on her tongue. I look like a fucking sex toy.
Her thighs clenched. She stepped back, turned again, watched the way the new weight pulled her posture forward - hips tilted, ass pushed back, like her whole body had adapted to be looked at. Touched. Used. She pressed her palm flat against the curve of one breast, then slid it down over her waist, to where the dress clung, hot and tight.
And when she whispered, "Good girls don't dress like this," her reflection just smiled back at her. Eyes wide and vacant. Cheeks flushed. Lips parted and swollen, like her mouth existed just to obey.
