© Copyright 2014 - Unknown - Used by permission
Storycodes: F+/f; clinic; surgery; bodymod; latex; catsuit; uniforms; masks; bond; straps; nipple; breasts; torment; mast; cons/reluct; X
Caroline lay still. Below her, the trolley's wheels turned almost without a sound; above, the strip lights slid smoothly past, glowing whiter than the ceiling and walls, though the corridor was utterly clean. Dr Beck marched alongside, not in her usual neat shoes, but in the loose-fitting short white boots that were part of the uniform in an operating theatre. She leaned into Caroline's view.
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine," said Caroline bravely.
It wasn't exactly the truth. All day she'd had nothing to eat or drink, and her bowels had just been washed out with an enema. Dressed in only a thin white hospital gown, lying flat on the trolley, she felt naked and vulnerable, totally in the hands of the people around her. And very soon now she'd be put to sleep, sent into a black void of unconsciousness. Not that her surgery was to be a matter of life and death. In fact, it was purely cosmetic: she was having breast implants.
For one last time, the thought flitted across her mind, why am I doing this? I've got a good fit body. Why can't I be satisfied with nature? But it was soon answered. She needed the implants for her career. She was young, blonde, and pretty, with long legs and a slim waist; she had a bright, bubbly personality, willing to give anything a try, always ready to be a good sport. She had everything a girl needed to make it as a model, a soap-opera actress, a singer, or all of those things combined. But her chest was flat. And in showbiz, breasts - not just normal-sized breasts, but big ones, the kind that call to mind the words 'melons', 'knockers' or 'bazooms' - were an unbeatable asset. Time and again, in auditions and at agencies, she'd seen male eyes glide past her, Caroline, only to become fixed on some girl whose T-shirt bulged, and who all too often would land the job. Oh well: if you can't beat them, what else is there to do but join them? So there she was, a patient in the Moulton Clinic, under the care of Dr Philippa Beck.
The op was private of course, and expensive. But Caroline felt that in coming to the Moulton she'd chosen well. The clinic was a small place out of town, which from the outside looked more like a country hotel than a hospital. She had her own room and bathroom, both as comfortable as anywhere she'd ever stayed, and had only to ask for anything she might want. And she'd had Dr Beck's constant attention.
Caroline had found Dr Beck a little intimidating at first. In a physical sense, the doctor was striking. Caroline was five feet ten, but Dr Beck was taller than her by some three inches: longer-legged and no less slim or physically fit, although her age was thirty-five at the least. Her hair was brunette and she wore it in a bob just past collar length; her face was clear and unlined, with a strong but shapely jaw, full lips, and penetrating dark brown eyes. Lastly she had a magnificent bosom; a doctor's white coat wasn't the tightest or most revealing of garments, but there was no mistaking their size and firmness.
Her personality was forceful, but only when it suited her. The evening before, she'd been in Caroline's room when the mobile chimed from her pocket. Taking the call, she listened in silence for perhaps a minute, then barked out: "Crap!" Another interval of silence, then she barked again: "CRAP! Get your finger out! I'll be down there in half an hour." Caroline was slightly shocked, but Dr Beck rang off and gave her a conspiratorial smile. "Excuse me, dear. I have to keep up my reputation as a queen bitch." Towards her team of staff she was commanding, but always good-humoured; she seemed proud of them. They were all excellent at their jobs - and, Caroline thought, all fabulously pretty. She'd never been in a hospital with so many sexy nurses.
The spotless white ceiling rolled on upwards past her eyes. They were incredibly careful about cleanliness here. Since her arrival, Caroline had seen nobody whose clothing didn't guard them against some kind of contamination; who wasn't sheathed or shielded to some extent. And always, they were covered by the same material: white rubber.
The nurses wore face masks at all times. They were like the hospital masks you usually saw in that they covered just the lower half of the face, from nose to chin, but they were made of rubber, and did not tie on with string, but were strapped and buckled at the back of the head and neck. They must have been much more effective at holding back germs than paper would be, but Caroline wondered that the wearers didn't feel restricted in them. Sometimes you could hardly make out what a nurse was saying. Tight against the skin, the rubber seemed to cling to the mouth and acted almost like a gag.
They also wore more elaborate face masks at times. Caroline had seen the nurses in what appeared to be industrial respirators, masked to the bridge of the nose, with filters projecting from the jawline; and one nurse completely hooded, in a helmet of thick white rubber with a gas mask for a face, and nothing to be seen of her face but two beautiful eyes, looking out from behind a glass visor. In addition, everyone wore skin-tight rubber gloves at all times. Even Dr Beck's hands were always gloved. She'd given Caroline two or three examinations, at length. Even the lightest gloves hinder the fingers, but Dr Beck wrote notes and made rough sketches with a swift, sure touch. In between she ran her hands across Caroline's bare breasts, and in doing that her movements were slow and measured, lingering in places. Sometimes her face would slip into an expression of deep thought, while her fingers and palms stayed resting on Caroline, warm inside the creamy white rubber.
"Here we are."
As Dr Beck spoke, the trolley rolled through a pair of doors. This was the 'prep room'. Caroline felt her heart beat harder, but found reassurance in the thought that she knew what was coming. Dr Beck had talked her through the procedure in detail. The incisions that were to be made would be tiny ones, mere slits at the very bottom of her breasts' lower curve. What followed would be a matter of sucking and sliding: first sucking away the subcutaneous fat that gave a breast its natural shape, then sliding in the bag of silicone to replace it. A certain amount of massage to manipulate the implants into proper position, then the slits would be sewn up and the op done.
Nothing mysterious or unforeseen would happen. Dr Beck had even invited Caroline to sit in an observation room which adjoined the theatre and watch a woman having collagen extracted from her thighs. Caroline had taken a glimpse in at the surgical team getting ready, all in masks, rubber caps like swimcaps, scrubs (loose-fitting shirts and pants, like tracksuits made of white rubber), and short white boots, but hadn't stayed to see them at work. 'That was so squeamish!' she thought. 'Why didn't I stay? They'd only been doing them what they were doing now: preparing for a simple, routine, brief piece of surgery'.
Yes, an implant was only a short business. And for Caroline, even the little while it took would pass by in a second. The nurses' eyes looked down at her reassuringly. Something wet was being rubbed on to her right wrist. Through a mask came words that sounded like "Comfortable? Good. Just count down from twenty to one."
Twenty, nineteen, eighteen... A pain ran through her wrist, sharp enough to make her wince a little, though she knew it was dulled by the anaesthetic that had been rubbed into the spot. Long before she could finish the countdown, the injection took effect and Caroline was out.
Her eyes were open, but she didn't remember them opening. She was dazzled, unable to see, or to make sense of what she was seeing. White light shone down on her, not in strips now, but in a wide, brilliant circle. Everything around her smelt powerfully of antiseptic, and rubber, and another smell, that took Caroline a moment to recognise. When she did her bewilderment was only increased, because the air was heavy with perfume.
"Here she comes," said a voice.
"Yes, indeed," said another. "Now for our fun."
Caroline knew them. One was a nurse, Nurse Bennett. The other was Dr Beck.
"Doctor?" Her tongue was numb and her voice seemed slurred. "What's happening?"
"Nothing to worry about," said Dr Beck. "The implant went off without a hitch. This is just a small extra procedure."
Caroline reared her head, and with the effort her eyesight seemed to snap back to normal. She was in the operating theatre, on the table, surrounded by Dr Beck and her surgical team. But everyone had changed.
They were still dressed in rubber, but their outfits were no longer loose-fitting functional scrubs. Instead, the nurses were all clothed in tight white dresses, which left their shoulders bare but for belt-like straps with big buckles, and which were styled with bodices that pushed the bosom upwards into two jutting cones. The skirts were pencil slim and rippled between their thighs as they moved. On their arms were skin-tight white gloves which reached up to the armpits; on their legs, seamed black stockings, and on their feet, patent leather court shoes with heels at least five inches high. Of their other uniforms, only the white face masks remained, strapped over their mouths. Above the masks, eyes gleamed with mischief and delight. One or two were stroking themselves with gloved fingers, out of Dr Beck's view.
The doctor herself was clad from head to foot in a white catsuit, tailored to the exact shape of her magnificent body. White rubber clung like a second skin to her waist, her hips and thighs. It revealed the full shape of her breasts - huge, perfectly rounded, studded at the tips with large protuberant nipples. From mid-thigh downwards her legs were clad in white leather, in close-hugging boots that zipped all the way up from the insteps. Like the nurses she was gloved and masked. She looked down at Caroline with an air of calm satisfaction.
"We did an excellent job," she said. "You can see, can't you?"
Caroline had already discovered that she was naked. Dr Beck had told her that once anaesthetised a patient was undressed, but that except for the area that was being operated on the body was completely covered up in 'sterile sheets'. If the sheets had been used, they were gone. She was fully awake now, but unable to move beyond lifting her head from the table, because she was strapped down. Her ankles and knees, wrists and elbows and waist, were all bound with huge thick straps of white leather. Down below were a pair of breasts that she knew to be her own, but that didn't look like hers. They were big and rounded, like Dr Beck's; even at that moment, they had a look of voluptuousness.
"Now, dear, don't be alarmed," said the doctor. "This procedure is completely safe. I've undergone it myself. It's a test for your new appendages - checking their sensitivity. If I were you I'd lie back and enjoy it."
"Help!" cried Caroline. "Help!"
"Sssh," said Dr Beck, then she rapped out an order to the nurses: "O2, seventy percent."
Shiny-gloved hands took hold of Caroline's head at either side to keep her still. A black rubber breathing mask was clamped on to her nose and mouth, and held there. With a soft hiss, gas flowed from a cylinder. Above the table, a black rubber bag - the peak flow meter, as Dr Beck had named it to Caroline - began to expand and contract.
"Pure oxygen," said Dr Beck. "See what it does to your nipples."
Some of Caroline's panic had already faded, as the oxygen filled her lungs and travelled swiftly to her brain. She became light-headed. The thought that she was tied down and helpless somehow lost its note of alarm. And she saw what the doctor meant about her nipples. In less than a minute they became hard as horns and startlingly erect, thrusting outwards from Caroline's chest further than they'd ever before reached even in the wildest sexual thrills. The dark brown areolae stood up like twin high-arched domes, topped by teats like bells.
"Excellent," said Dr Beck. "Now for the second stage."
It must have been a cue, for at once a machine was set running. Caroline couldn't see it yet, but she could hear its motor. It made a thin piercing whine, like something small but powerful and very fast.
"Magnifiers," rapped Dr Beck.
A nurse placed something like a cross between a pair of glasses and binoculars deftly on to her face. With the mask, she was completely hidden.
The machine was put into her hands. It was smaller than an ordinary domestic drill, and tapered to an end thinner than a pencil, with a bit that was lighter than a sewing needle.
"We penetrate each nipple on either side." Dr Beck's voice came calmly through her mask. "The exact point and depth of entry are of course precisely judged. Can you feel?"
As she spoke her final words, Caroline gave a shriek, muffled by rubber. The micro drill was burrowing into her left nipple. It was a tiny, tiny thing, less than a pinprick, and yet her whole body seemed to explode with feeling. A blow from a spear could hardly have made more impact. And the explosions went on, and on, as Dr Beck pushed the drill onwards by fractions of an inch. It stopped still, then began to withdraw. Caroline felt she was going to faint with relief; but the feeling was short-lived, as Dr Beck did not pause, but right away began drilling into her nipple from the opposite side.
Then her right nipple was subjected to the same careful, unhurried, agonising procedure. Or was it agony? Even with pure oxygen in her lungs, she panted for breath. Sweat ran from everywhere, from her shoulders, back, belly, crotch and thighs. But as the second hole was drilled, then the third, her emotions were changing. Sheer pain became violent passion. It was only another step to pleasure.
The drill stopped, and she was relieved, but at the same time felt cheated, denied. Then it resumed for the final time. Yes, now she wanted it. She groaned under the mask. Her new breasts tingled with electrifying sensuality. The rubber-coated table beneath her seemed to be wet, running with her moisture, and though all she could smell was rubber, she seemed to taste the flavour of female excitement. The nurses were gathered close round, and in their eyes she read her own changing reactions to this bizarre procedure. As they watched they were touching, feeling, stroking one another. Here a nurse's shoulders shook slightly up and down; there, a white rubber mask parted from the lips to which it clung, blown loose by a gasp.
Meanwhile Dr Beck stood perfectly still as she handled the micro drill. An observer might have thought she was unaware that the body she worked on was vibrating under its restraining straps, or that the naked skin shone with sweat. But her own breasts were distended into a shape the same as Caroline's, as the cups of her rubber suit showed clearly. And when she brought the drill to a stop at exactly the same moment Caroline let out a scream of mingled agony and delight, the doctor released a quiet sigh of satisfaction.
Caroline came round. She realised that she was in her room, being welcomed back to consciousness by Nurse Bennett. The nurse was smiling and had no mask on.
"How do you feel? A little bit strange?" she asked, with a touch of friendly concern. "Everything's all right. It went off without a hitch."
"I had a dream," said Caroline haltingly. "It was so vivid."
"I was... it was... " Caroline broke off. "It was awful. Weird. And it felt really real."
"It's the anaesthetic. People tell us their dreams all the time. If it was a bad one it's best forgotten. Dr Beck will be in to see you soon."
She left the room. Alone in the quiet, Caroline recalled her dream. She could hardly have told Nurse Bennett that she'd dreamed of her and her colleagues masturbating while clad in rubber fetish wear, but every detail was clear in her memory: the straps, the oxygen, the drill... a shudder of feeling ran through her, uncomfortable but at least half pleasant. It was like watching herself as the star of a horror film; but the images were exciting, erotic even. When finally she put it out of her mind, it was with the reflection that anaesthetic could turn you kinky.
Dr Beck arrived, and Caroline opened her gown for an examination. She still hadn't got quite used to her breasts as they were now; their new size and weight made them feel odd to carry. But she was very pleased. A look in the mirror told her that she now had a chest that could compete with anyone's. Dr Beck was in a thoughtful mood; she examined Caroline slowly, as usual, but almost without speaking. That wasn't like her. But she seemed satisfied.
"Yes," she said as if thinking aloud. "The shaping, cutting and suturing are all exactly right. Ten out of ten."
"You never know," said Caroline cheerfully. "You might see them in GQ or Loaded one of these days."
Dr Beck took a moment to answer. Her surgical-gloved hand paused in its progress across Caroline's right breast. A fingertip rested on the areola, and just touched the nipple. There were marks there, and on its companion: four holes, made by a microscopic drill. The girl would never find out. Dr Beck had sharp eyes, but couldn't see them. No need: she knew they were there, souvenirs of a secret pleasure.
She laughed. "They're things of beauty, anyhow," she said. "You know, you have lovely nipples..."