The light pouring through the window was strange, Margaret thought sleepily, then realised why: surely it was too yellow, to bright to be natural? It trickled through the blinds like liquid gold and pooled lazily on the tiled floor. Who would melt so much gold, just so they could pour it into her room? Would it burn her if she tried to get out of bed? On the other hand, the thought of climbing from her warm, comfortable bed was so unappealing that the thought of being trapped in bed was almost welcome. Perhaps I'll just stay here. Perhaps I'll just sleep...

"How do you feel, Miss Carter?" The voice seemed, all at once, to be very far away and right against her ear, rich and deep and heavy with authority.

"Fine," she murmured, then smiled sleepily. "Better. I feel great."

"Excellent. That's the effect of the hypnosis, Miss Carter."

"Hypnosis?" Margaret frowned slightly, though the expression felt alien and uncomfortable.

"Conventional anesthetics would have left you bruised and uncomfortable, but this technique reduces the physical trauma and leaves you with a pleasant post-hypnotic glow."

Slowly, Margaret raised her head. A man was leaning over her, a distinguished-looking man in his mid-fifties. A name swam into her mind. "Doctor Calvin. That's who he is. He's going to fix me..."

"Pleasant," she murmured aloud. "Yeah."

"Now, what do you think of your new breasts?"

"Oh... oh my God." Realisation burst through Margaret's befuddled mind like a tidal wave. She had gone to a cosmetic surgery clinic to have her breasts enlarged. Not by any measure unattractive, Margaret had always felt let down by her small, shapeless breasts. She knew she would feel better by having them enlarged, she could finally be the woman she always wanted to be, confident, attractive, sexy. She had been prepared for surgery, even booking her appointment at the clinic, but Doctor Calvin had taken a personal interest in her case, and had explained the details of an exciting new procedure. Injections of a genetically-engineered growth hormone into the breast tissue would lead to sudden and pronounced growth - and, to counteract the pain of the procedure, Doctor Calvin would place the patient in a deep hypnotic trance. No ugly scars, no sacks of silicon gel waiting to burst or leak, and no pain. Margaret had wrestled with the decision for ten long, lonely minutes, but her fear of the surgeon's knife had outweighed her caution at this relatively untested medical procedure, and she had finally agreed to Doctor Calvin's offer with a great feeling of relief and excitement.

Margaret struggled to sit upright, took a deep, cleansing breath, looked down, and blinked. Her loose robe was open to the waist, given her a clear view of two mountainous breasts. Where once there had been two sad little bulges, topped with a miserly nipples that could be mistaken for teenage zits, now there were titanic beauties, rounded masses of soft, smooth flesh, adorned with generous red nipples that stood proudly erect. Their weight was strangely comforting, and, distantly, a strange tingle of excitement ran through her body.

Forcing herself to raise her gaze, Margaret blinked at Doctor Calvin. "But, I thought -"

"What?"

As if unaware of the movement, Margaret raised her hands and began to touch and caress the generous globes. "I thought I was going to a D-cup, Doctor. These are - are these really mine?"

"Of course they are, Miss Carter. We took advantage of your hypnotic state to take you a little larger, that's all. You are now the proud owner of F-cup tits, perfect for the slut-about-town."

Margaret blinked again, and looked up at the grey-haired doctor uncertainly. "But I -"

Doctor Calvin sighed. "Think of it this way, Miss Carter. We live, as I'm sure you are aware, in a sexualised society. What would the media do without an ample supply of generously-endowed young women who were willing to take their clothes off at the slightest provocation? What would the advertising industry do without? What would the sex industry do without porn stars and strippers? Not to mention, of course, the oldest profession in the world: men who are brought up on a regular diet of pneumatically-enhanced beauties aren't going to be satisfied with a whore who would struggle to fill an A-cup?"

The euphoric glow had completely faded. "W-what does that have to do with me?" Margaret stammered.

Doctor Calvin sat on the edge of the bed and began to remove his latex gloves. "Economics, Miss Carter. When there is a demand, there must be a supply. The world wants sluts with big, bouncing tits, and we are in the prefect position to supply them. You were a receptionist, I believe, before your procedure?"

"I still am," whispered Margaret, but Doctor Calvin shook his head firmly.

"No. No, that's quite impossible. Answering telephones would be a waste of your wonderful new body, dear girl. Considering how well you've turned out..." He frowned reflectively, and tapped the end of his silver fountain pen against his chin. "I dare say we can start you with some soft-porn shoots, maybe some live appearances, before moving on to a full-length hardcore feature by Christmas. How does that sound?"

Margaret struggled to sit up, blinking away tears. "I don't want to," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I won't do it. You can't - God, you can't make me do it!"

"Well, that's the key phrase, isn't it, Miss Carter? 'Make' you. You came here, unhappy with your body, and I made you into something new. Something beautiful. Something wonderful."

"I won't be a whore," Margaret whispered, a single hot tear running down her face.

"Of course not. You're far too attractive. No, I dare say you'll be an international celebrity, the fuck-toy of the rich and famous, the wet dream of a million adolescents. And the best part is, Miss Carter, that you'll enjoy every moment - you'll love it."

"Never."

"Oh, come now. Do you think I would set you on this new path without seeing to your ongoing well-being?" He smiled and shook his head, then suddenly reached out and squeezed Margaret's left breast. She gasped at the feeling, though the sensation that rushed through her body was not the anger she suspected. It was...

"Oh, no," she breathed.

It was pleasure: burning, tingling, aching pleasure. Under his firm touch, her nipple hardened immediately, and a hot surge of desire swept through her.

"A post-hypnotic suggestion, dear girl. From now on, your sexual responses are not yours to control. You will rebuff no advance; you will be open and accessible." This was followed by a soft chuckle. "In every sense of the word," he added with a smile.