Improving On Perfection

This story begins at a time of my life when everything was going my way. I was barely twenty five, and was already kicking ass at a job I loved. I had no debt, no receding hairline, no kids to keep me up at night. And I had a devastatingly beautiful wife with a promising career of her own. On top of it all, I had a big cock. Life was good.

Gillian and I had met at Law school. We barely knew each others' names until our final year, when we both took "Justice Issues for Women" and Prof. Pinck randomly assigned us to the same team. We worked well together, and fell into a pleasant routine: late nights in the library, followed by a quiet table at La Simone "to discuss our project." By the end of the week, she thought maybe it would be a good idea to slide on over to her place to "go over the precedents," and I found myself in complete agreement with my esteemed colleague. "Justice Issues for Women" was my favorite subject, and I took my studies seriously.

Our assignment was finished in a fortnight, but we managed to find other reasons to keep seeing each other during the rest of the term. After graduation, we both landed jobs in the same city, so it seemed like we were fated to be together. The wedding was in mid October, just as the leaves were starting to turn.

I was on top of the world. I remember lying in bed one morning, reflecting on my good fortune, idly stroking my fat cock under the covers while watching Gillian get ready for work. She didn't seem to mind me staring, as she zipped her hot ass into that tight little law-clerk skirt. I could feel my penis stiffening in my hand as she buttoned her white blouse, lifting her pale arms to expertly flip her blond hair over the collar, briefly showing a flash of white skin at her waist. Through her open shirt sleeve I caught a glimpse of the neat curve of her armpit and the slight swelling of her breast.

I say "slight" swelling because, unfortunately, her breasts were not very big. Not as big as I would have liked, anyway. A B-cup is plenty for some guys, and I wish it had been enough for me. But the heart wants what it wants, as some perverted filmmaker once said, and mine just had a thing for the busty girls. In high school, and even before that, I had always been turned on by those perky little cuties with the overstuffed t-shirts, especially the ones who were still kind of new to having big tits, and were a little awkward and self-conscious about them. Nothing was better than a top-heavy girl accidentally knocking over some glassware in the chem lab, dropping sandwich crumbs into her cleavage, or inadvertently brushing her unwieldy bazongas against my arm while we were lining up in the cafeteria.

So, as I lay in bed that morning, watching my hot wife get dressed, my eyes wandered to her chest for the briefest instant, and I felt my dick softening in my hand. Then I shifted my gaze to her magnificent ass, and was soon as hard as an axe-handle, and I'm afraid she was a little late for work that day. Afterwards, as I was driving to work myself, I reminded myself how lucky I was, and tried to steer my thoughts away from the one little imperfection in my otherwise perfect wife.

But the human mind is an unruly thing. The more I try not to think about something, the more it thrusts itself into my thoughts. I reasoned with myself constantly. She had really nice breasts, even if they weren't all that big. She certainly was great in bed, and holy fuck, will you look at that ass! Anyhow, maybe her breasts could still grow a bit? I'd heard of woman who got a second growth spurt in their twenties. And hey, what about implants? They're not as nice as the natural ones, but better than nothing. Do you suppose I could I subtly encourage her to consider surgical enhancements, without seeming kind of, I don't know...shallow and selfish?

Actually, I did try to work that into the conversation, a couple of times. Once, we were watching a show on TV-one of those stupid romance comedies where everybody keeps blundering into the wrong person's bed-and I mentioned, as casually as can be, that it looked like the female lead had had implants, and by golly they didn't look bad at all. Really, they seemed to suit her body type quite well, don't you think? Isn't it amazing what surgeons can do, these days?

Gillian was no fool. She sighed theatrically, and rolled her eyes. "If you're hoping I'll install a pair of rubber hooters on my chest, you can forget about it." She laughed, "It's hard enough to find clothes I like, and I'm an easy size to shop for. Minah, in PR, complains about that all the time."

I'd met Minah, and from the way she was spilling out of her red shirt, I could tell she had a lot to complain about. Her husband, I thought wistfully, had no reason to complain at all.

I knew I had to accept that this was one thing I could not change, and go on with my life. I watched a little "big-tit porn," sometimes, and scanned the net for girls who reminded me of those early-bloomers I'd known in school. Then one summer day I found myself alone during lunch hour with nothing much to do, and decided to wander about a bit and do a little window shopping. My aimlessness took me to a part of my city that is still called "Chinatown," though it is mostly Vietnamese now. I passed one of those odd little oriental pharmacies-the kind that sell dried seahorses and big jars full of mysterious roots. In the window there was a sign in big red letters: "Fong Powder, to Make More Womanly!!" Intrigued, I found myself walking in. Behind the counter was a tiny old man with thick glasses. He was stacking boxes with quick efficient movements, and greeted me briskly without pausing in his work.

"I saw the sign on your window. The one...with red letters." I paused, delicately.

The old man gave me a shrewd squint, then reached under the counter and pulled out a small metal jar.

"This make somebody more of a woman. Bigger breasts, more love in woman parts. Become very sexy."

I picked up the jar and read the label, which seemed to have been made with carbon paper on an old typewriter: "Dr. Fong's Curvolium. One application is enough. Massage on skin."

I knew it was sure to be a worthless product, but Gillian's birthday was coming, and I convinced myself it might make an amusing joke-present, to go with the lovely watch I'd already picked out. Who knows, maybe she would even go along with the joke and try the stuff out! And then...maybe it would, you know...work! No harm in hoping, anyway.

The asking price was high, but I paid it in cash. The instant my money was in his apron pocket, the old man went straight back to his work. Before I could ask him for more information about Fong's powder, he'd slipped through a dark doorway behind his counter, and I could hear him bustling around in the back room. My lunch hour was finished, and it was time for me to get back to my desk, so I tucked the jar into my jacket pocket and walked to the office to finish my workday.

My commute home was shorter than Gillian's, so as usual I was home before her in the evening. I used the time to have a closer look at Dr. Fong's Curvolium. I pried open the tin lid of the jar and held it up to the light. To my surprise It was nearly empty, containing a little less than a teaspoonful of pale powder at the bottom. At first I was a little disappointed, but then a thought came to me. Clearly, the powder was supposed to be rubbed onto a woman's body, presumably on the parts you wanted to make "more womanly." Since there was so little of the powder, it crossed my mind that I could probably use it on Gillian without her even noticing!

It was a sneaky idea, and I knew I should be ashamed. But what were the chances that this stuff would even do anything? "Dr. Fong," whoever he was, probably just put talcum powder in his jars, and was too cheap to use more than spoonful. I realize that my reasoning was weak. If this stuff was so ineffectual, why on earth was I suddenly plotting to sprinkle it on my wife's tits without her knowledge? But I was not being driven by logic, at that very moment. Just thinking about my plan had given me a hard-on (the uncomfortable kind, where your stiff cock is still poking down one trouser leg). I went up to our room, and slipped the jar under my pillow, just seconds before Gillian returned from work.

Supper was pleasant, as usual, and afterwards we sat together on the couch, bantering about our workdays over a glass of Sauvignon. Our evening routine was usually the same. After unwinding for a few hours, maybe watching some TV, I'd head off to bed and read for a while as Gillian showered and removed her makeup. Then, she'd come to bed, and the lights would go out, and usually we then had sex. We were young, and had sex about four nights out of seven. I was determined that this would be one of those nights.

I executed my plan very carefully. I would wait until I heard Gillian emerging from the shower, and then I knew exactly how long she would take to pat herself dry before slipping into her nightshirt and coming to bed. When I heard the shower door click open, I pulled out the little metal jar out from under my pillow and emptied its contents into the palm of my left hand, and closed my fist over it. I put the empty jar in my bedside table, picked up my magazine in my right hand, and waited innocently.

My timing was perfect. Gillian emerged from the bathroom, on cue, and slipped into bed beside me. Luckily, she was in the mood. We kissed, and within a minute or two I was slipping my left hand under her night gown, then opening it and caressing her soft little boobs in the most loving way. She did not seem to notice the very small amount of powder that I was rubbing into her little mounds, brushing over her stiff nipples, and dusting into what would have been her cleavage, if only she'd been busty enough to have any. With the last traces of the powder on my fingers, I let my left hand wander down to the moist lightly-haired placed between her thighs and rubbed what was left of it into the plump lips of her vulva. Then I pushed my long, thick cock between those soft lips and sighed with pleasure.

That night, our sex seemed a little more exciting than usual, and I was feeling quite pleased with myself as I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, I was disappointed, but not the least bit surprised, to see absolutely no change in the size of my wife's chest. Dr. Fong, it seemed, was a charlatan. Ah well, I thought. I'd had a bit of harmless titillation. My little game had added some spice to our "married sex," and that was a good thing in itself.

I had a good day at work, and was in high spirits as I drove home in the evening. As I threw open the front door, I saw, to my surprise, that Gillian had arrived a little before me, and was hanging her coat in the hall closet.

"I ducked out early," she said. "I was feeling a little weird. I think my period is coming early."

She turned toward me, and I saw that she looked a little flushed. As I reached out to put my hand on her forehead, I happened to glance down and noticed something a bit odd about the way the cloth of her shirt was hanging. I had to suppress a gasp when I realized what I was seeing. There had been a small, but unmistakable, "improvement" in her bustline.

She caught me staring. "Yeah, I'm retaining water, or something."

I felt my cock stirring and began mumbling something about getting supper started, when she reached out impulsively and cupped her hand over my half-hard penis. I was startled by her forwardness, but not displeased.

"You know," she said gripping the stiffening shaft of my cock through the fabric of my trousers, "I've never properly appreciated the size of this thing." She laughed lightly, pulling me over to the couch, unbuckling my belt with her free hand.

It seemed, then, that my more "womanly" wife was not only more desirable, but more desirous as well. I was secretly thanking Dr. Fong as I drove my thickness into her wet vulva.

We made love three times that evening, a record for us, and fell into a blissful sleep. The next morning, I awoke to a shriek of dismay from across the room. Gillian was standing in front of the mirror in her panties, fumbling with the straps to a black underwired bra. Three other bras were on the floor at her feet.

"This is my biggest one, left over from when I was on the pill...it's a 34C, and even this one doesn't fit!"

She turned to show me, and it was true. Her breasts were bulging out the top, and pushing out the bottoms of the cups, making a gap between the bra wires and her ribcage.

"They hurt, too. I'm calling in sick...I need to go to the clinic and find out what's wrong with me."

I did my best to hide my delight with "what was wrong with her." Faking sympathy to the best of my ability, I agreed that she should go the clinic on her own, but insisted she call me at work if there were any problems. Then I noticed her staring, with an odd fixed look, at the big bulge in my pajama bottoms, and it was not long before I was stuffing my cock into her from behind, gently cupping her big, tender tits in my hands.

There was no word from her all day, so I assumed everything was OK. On the drive home, I was almost trembling at the thought that soon I would be home alone with my new sexed-up, C-cup wife. She'd probably tear off my clothes before the door shut behind me. I whistled a cheerful tune as I strode up the walkway to our house. "I'm home," I called out as I flung open the door, like a 1950s television Dad.

I found Gillian at the kitchen counter, staring down while methodically cutting a cucumber into slices. She did not look up to meet my gaze. But imagine my pleasure when I saw what further changes the day had brought! She was wearing a ribbed cotton tank top, and a pair of loose jogging shorts. And her boobs were simply enormous. I could tell she'd been growing all day, and even by my rather high standards, she was stacked.

"So, are you happy?" she asked.

I was taken aback, and fumbled for an appropriate reply. "I'm not sure what you mean..." I began, awkwardly. "What did the doctor say?"

"They have no idea what is causing this...they said it's something that happens on rare occasions, even in fully grown women. Nature is unpredictable, they said." There was some sadness in her voice, and also, if I had been paying closer attention, some bitterness. "I stopped on the way home and was fitted for new bras. 32F, or maybe 30G! My God! And who knows if I've even stopped growing. None of my clothes fit. Nothing at all. I can't go out like this. They bounce when I walk, everyone stares at me and now my back is starting to hurt. I feel like a fucking bimbo. It's horrible"

She was working up to tears, I could tell. I stepped forward to "comfort" her, feeling my trusty penis tightening in my trouser leg.

She put the knife down and took a quick step back to evade my hug. Now she pulled something from the pocket of her shorts, and held it up for me to see.

It was the empty jar of Dr. Fong's Curvolium.

"You self-centred prick!" she hissed. She cupped her free under one heavy breast, and gave her chest a small shake. Her cleavage wobbled and swayed appealingly. "How did you do this, some kind of fucking hormone? Do you even know what this stuff is? Well, I hope you like what you're looking at, because you're never touching me again."

With that, she turned and left the room. When she was halfway up the stairs, she stopped and said flatly, "There are clean sheets on the guest bed. If you so much as knock on my bedroom door I'll call the cops."

And she left me alone with my guilt and my throbbing hard-on.

For the next three days, she never left her bedroom, except to eat, sitting quietly by herself at the kitchen table. She took to wearing a housecoat, so I could not tell whether her "condition" had worsened. Or improved, depending on how you look at it. For my part, I went to work every day, did my job without joy and returned in the evening to a dark house filled with my wife's angry silence. An ironic twist to my misery was that I was horny all the time. It was inexplicable. I would jerk off, and ten minutes later I'd be horny again. I seemed to be on a treadmill of lechery.

On the fourth day, I returned from work to find a stack of boxes in the hallway and some bags tossed in a pile on the living room couch. At first, I thought Gillian was moving out, but then I looked at the boxes and bags more closely. The packages featured the names of several fashionable clothing stores in our town. Gillian, it seemed, had gone shopping and bought herself a whole new wardrobe. I took this as a sign that she was beginning to adjust to her new circumstances. That evening, I did not see her at all, so I just sat alone on the couch and watched some reality television idiots behaving badly to one another.

The next morning, as I was getting ready for work, my wife suddenly walked into the kitchen. She was fully dressed and made up, and apparently on her way to work for the first time in days. As beautiful as Gillian was, she had always dressed in a demure and muted "professional" style. Today, though, she had selected clothes that showed off her new curves, as if she had decided to be proud of the body she had been forced to wear. She had put on an electric red skirt that registered every convexity and and contour of her ripe rear end. Above that she wore a filmy white silk top of some very fine knit material, cinched in tight at the waist and tapered to exhibit both her slender build and her generous bosom. It was unbuttoned at the top revealing an easy six inches of cleavage. In short, she looked incredible, and my cock leapt up to express its approval.

It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn she she noticed the sudden stiffness inside my pants, and smirked at the sight of it. However, she said nothing, but carried on with her preparations for work as if I were not even in the room.

That morning marked the beginning of a whole new kind of misery, for me. From then on, Gillian dressed in the most painfully provocative way, taunting me with her unavailability. It was more than I could endure. Just the sight of her left me paralyzed with lust, even as her continued silence and anger kept me at a distance. As soon as I was alone, I would jerk off compulsively, running images of her through my mind, but it gave me little satisfaction.

So it continued, for several weeks. Each day, Gillian seemed to become sexier and more self-confident. She started working late, and occasionally went out in the evenings without telling me where she was going. Through her bedroom door, I would overhear her chatting merrily with someone, but could never make out what she was saying. My physical longing for her was almost painful. When we were in the house together I felt like a walking erection.

Meanwhile, as she was brimming over with new vitality, I was feeling weak and tired all the time. I began to lose weight, too, and my work suits felt loose and baggy. I thought some exercise might help, so I took out a membership at the gym, and rode the stationary bike as long as I could bear it, and even tried lifting weights, though I seemed to lack both strength and endurance. In the locker room, I looked around at the other guys, and marvelled at how robust and healthy looking they seemed. And then one day, on the way to the shower, I stopped to look in the locker room mirror and was shocked at what I saw. I knew I had lost some weight and some muscle-an effect, I presumed, of my chronic anxiety-but that was not all.

In the reflection, I could see three men showering in the open stalls behind me, and I could also see myself in the foreground, looking curiously small, as if my body were reverting to its adolescent shape, before I had filled out into manhood. Worst of all, I could barely recognize my own cock. Was that skinny little thing really mine? The three guys behind me looked so much more manly, with bushy black tufts of hair over their thick cocks and big leathery ball-sacks. There I was in the foreground looking sort of puny, which was a new feeling, for me. Until then, to tell the truth, looking around the locker room had always made me feel a little smug.