Chapter 7

"Thunk, thunk," went the box. I sat on the toilet thinking. The cable plugged into my body twitched, pumping me full of god-knows-what.

"Thunk, thunk," I barely even thought about it, anymore. Wherever I went, one was always waiting for me. Christ, it was even in our room in Hawaii when we arrived. When will this end? I wondered. At some point, my contract with the Institute must expire and I'll be able to go to the bathroom anywhere in the world. Right?

A box had been installed in Michael's apartment. Then I found one at his parent's house when we went to go visit. I blushed furiously when I saw that one, thinking what Michael and Julia must have said about me to my in-laws when it was installed.

And now, since Michael and I have moved into our new home, there's the damn box again, in the master bathroom, next to the toilet. Someone had come to install it over night, since it was there the morning after we closed on the house, before any furniture arrived.

So I sat on the toilet, waiting for the box to finish with its business so I could then finish with mine. I sat there ... thinking about what Michael had asked me earlier this evening.

"Why don't you wear something that shows a little more cleavage?"

At first I wasn't sure that I had heard him correctly. "I'm sorry, honey. What was that?"

"You are always wearing loose blouses which are buttoned up high. I guess I was wondering if you would wear something tighter, which shows more of your cleavage?"

"I don't know what to say to that," I was incensed, "I'm dressing properly, that's all."

"It's not like you don't have excellent breasts to show off."

"Excuse me?" My breasts were just over a C cup now.

"They're almost perfect. Just another half-inch larger or so and they would be perfect."

"Well, I doubt that will happen. They've stopped growing."

Michael smirked, "I have a feeling that they still have another inch to go..." he took a look at his watch, and fiddled with the dials a bit, " ... over the next month or so."

The way he looked at me sent a chill through my heart. What did he know that I didn't?

"It doesn't matter, I like the way I dress. It's nice. I don't want to look like some slut or bimbo."

"But there are lots of very elegant women who show off their, um ... assets more."

"I don't care about what other women wear."

"Do you care about making your husband happy?"

"Of course I do..." Suddenly, I began to feel a bit queasy about where this conversation was headed.

" ... then I would like you to go out tomorrow and purchase a new wardrobe. Throw out all that old dumpy stuff and buy some new things. Sexier things. I can afford to have you buy 40 or 50 new wardrobes, so money's not a problem."

My queasiness was growing rapidly, "Please," I begged him, "no..."

Michael looked at me hard and suddenly I was overwhelmed with full-blown nausea. I ran into the bathroom and threw up my dinner ... several times. I was in there for a full hour, heaving and sobbing. What was going on here? I had married Michael to escape Julia and what she did to me, but I had somehow landed in the same situation all over again? Why won't my body let me stand up to him? Am I so afraid of confrontation?

Finally, my stomach settled down enough for me to wash up and return to the bedroom.

"Well?" Michael arched his eyes at me.

I stared at the ground, knowing what I had to say, but desperately not wanting to give in to him on this. "Yes, Michael. OK, I'll do it ... for you."

"Good girl," he said, with a smile. "I bet that once you get used to your new look, you'll really like dressing up more!"

And so I meekly did as instructed. It took a couple of tries to get it right, but eventually I ended up with a new set of blouses and shirts which were sufficiently revealing. I learned to search on the internet for 'deep V', 'deep scoop', or 'plunging' necklines. My closet now contained a whole range of tight, clingy, stretchy ribbed T-shirts (with deep scoop necklines), silk charmeuse tops with deep V-necklines, halter tops with 'plunging necklines', and even low-cut suede camisoles with spaghetti straps.

And true to his prediction, my breasts began to grow again, and then stopped about two months later. I was now a rather top-heavy D-cup.

After our honeymoon, where I was so crazed with lust that it seemed I lost my mind completely, and then the craziness of moving both households and tying up all those loose ends, I really had no time to think about me or what the hell was I doing here? Why did I accept him so easily? Was I really that overcome by simple lust?