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M x f Buffy Plastic Surgery bimbofication psychological hypnosis

Description: Buffy is kidnaped by a secret organization and undergoes alot of plastic surgery. The problem is, nobody can see the changes except for her. Is she going crazy? Find out!

Tags: Bimbofication, Plastic Surgery, Medical play, vanilla, no sex, psychological, buffy, the vampire slayer. Hypnosis,

I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know when it happened either. I am used to being in rather tough spots but I have never actually been in this type of tough spot. Never like this. I can feel my ankles bolted with cold metallic rings, my arms similarly secured to my sides. I struggle, but after several failed attempts I realize that I am not going anywhere anytime soon.

They, whoever they are, must have done something to me while I was sleeping. I am in my pajamas, a gift from Willow last Christmas. They are cartoonish and quite Willowy, and while I feel obligated to wear them out of friendship, I have no issue not wearing them regardless, but damn it they are quite comfortable. Their presence, however, makes me feel much more vulnerable now though.

My strength seems lesser. I should be able to bust these contraptions with ease. Whatever sedative they gave me to keep me sleeping remained in my system making me as weak as an ordinary person.

“Doctor, she is awake.” A nurse says on the other side of the gurney that holds my body, she is all scrubbed up as if she was prepped for surgery. To the right of me was the doctor. He looked older, clearly a doctor, a mad scientist if ever I saw one. I would know, I have experience. Mad scientists are dime a dozen and they have a distinctly Mad scientist physical appearance. I can spot them a mile away. This be one of them.

“Impossible. She should be out until morning.” He was helping the pushing, but his attention blazed deep on me like I was some kind of scientific marvel. An oddity.

Damn, right I was.

“Possible, Doc. Better let me go. You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“Buffy Summers. UA student. Cheerleader in highschool. We know everything about you.” The doctor said emotionless as if he were going down a chart after a long day of hard work.

I can’t help but laugh, it was a deep chuckle, but it was also frail, nervous, “I am also the Slayer and I swear to god if you don’t let me out of these … these… stupid metallic… things, I am going to kick your butt.”

The doctor arched an eyebrow, a little tiny smirk, and took a needle from out of his scrubs. The gurney stopped. The sight of the needle squirting liquid froze my heart and I renewed my insignificant and fruitless efforts to liberate myself, my forced casual demeanor devolving into full-throttle panic and squirming.

The bounds started to groan at the assault.

“We would like to see you try.” He smiled now, his happiness was purely sadistic, as if a confirmation of some hypothetical, bet made between mad scientists.

“Should we get Doctor Jackson to give her a work over?” The nurse said, her body stellar, with ravishing massive breasts. I notice that even behind her surgical mask, her body and face were pretty much made of so much plastic that she might as well be a vampire – the sun would melt her quicker than water did for the Wicked Witch.

“Yes, this one seems a fighter. We like fighters. Maybe she will be our first successful candidate.”

Candidate for what!?

I felt the needle press into her neck and she was injected.

There was nothing left from there. Just blissful sleep.

--

I awoke, again. This time strapped to a comfortable chair. My eyes blinked away the groggy overwhelming feeling of forced sleep. I felt sick to my stomach. I am sitting in… a therapist's office. I can't help but feel a sense of calm wash over me. The room is painted in a calming shade of blue, and the lighting is soft, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. The walls are decorated with tasteful pieces of art, adding a touch of sophistication to the space.

In the center of the room, there is a plush, cream-colored sofa that looks incredibly comfortable. I couldn’t believe the difference between what I had just gone through and now, it was night and day. To the left of the sofa, there is a wooden coffee table with a vase of fresh flowers resting on top. The scent of the flowers is powerful, like summer in a field. To the right of the sofa, there is an armchair, also cream, with a matching footstool. As I glance around the room, my eyes fall on the therapist. She is an older woman, with sympathetic eyes and a gentle smile. But there is a scientific exactitude in her demeanor that chilled me to the bone. I am so used to people showing some kind of emotion, given who I am. Fear, anger, rage, anything. From her? Nothing.

Her dashed gray hair is styled in a short bob, and she wears glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She is dressed professionally, in a blazer and slacks, and radiates an air of calm and compassion. But this compassion is for the show, a veil well practiced and honed. It smacked of fakeness. She was not interested in calming me down for my own sake, but calming me down for her own purposes, whatever those might be.

The therapist's office is a serene and welcoming space, tranquil even. My anxiety about such an environment would be diminished and I would be caught off guard had I not been strapped to this damn chair. I tested the bonds, yet again. They aren’t strong, but I am exceptionally weak. I can feel my natural strength diminished, virtually non-existent. I felt, well, I felt small. The word petite was coming to my mind, crystal clear, though I didn’t know why. I didn’t feel helpless, I have been in worse situations. Of course, I continually say this to myself so often and periodically that I am questioning if I am overcompensating for how dismal this situation really actually was.

The therapist was a goddess among mortals, a stunningly beautiful woman whose very presence radiated power and professionalism. Her eyes were pools of stern liquid fire that seemed to burn with passion and intensity, and her full lips were naturally colored, not a trace of lipstick there. Her hair, though tightly bunned, still limped with a wild cascade of tousled curls that fell in waves around her shoulders, and her body was a work of art, sculpted to perfection.

She was aged to perfection in all that could be considered perfection.

She was crossed-legged, a little smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. She looked every bit the age of fifty and held herself exactly as that, not trying to hide anything from me.

“Good evening, Ms. Summers.”

“Doctor,” I said, still collecting myself. I am still dizzy. But this was much more than just a physical response to whatever drugs were still wandering through my veins. I felt lightheaded. My want to strangle this bitch wasn’t as intense, and as I heard her voice, I felt myself slip… Slipping? To what, where, how… I didn’t know, but slipping was the right word, right? Yea.

“Quite the accomplishments we have on file for you. A perfect candidate for our program. We are hoping that you just might very well pass.”

“I don’t know what you are trying to do here but it won’t work.”

“For your sake, I hope you are wrong. Now, it seems that, according to you, our files are incomplete. Something about a Slayer?”

“Buffy… The vampire slayer… You don’t know who I am?” I ask incredulously.

“Vampire slayer?”

“Well, then why the hell am I here then?”

“Because you have been chosen.”

“I have been. To kill demons, witches, vampires, and werewolves. You name it.” I say a little snarky, but the edge of my voice is somehow blunted, I feel that these words are much less passionate, less angry than they should be given the circumstances.

“So, you think that you are a slayer because you slay all of these make-believe things?”

“Make believe? Okay. Now I am confused. Are you telling me that you are kidnapping me not because I am the slayer but because I am Buffy Summers?” I laugh a little – this is a new one for sure. And honestly, I couldn’t help but feel relieved. If they didn’t know I was the slayer and didn’t believe in the slayer, then getting out of here would be a cinch --- eventually, that is. Not now. Even if I had my strength, I just felt like leaving this room wasn’t a pressing concern.

This was a safe space.

“We are not kidnapping you. We are revealing your true self, a self you do not know of just yet because it has been hidden from you by social norms, the trappings of your culture and surroundings. Buffy, you are a strong independent female who has been taught that who you are is a strong independent female. Truth is, you have been deceived to think these false thoughts. From our research, we know you want to be a … what is it? A badass woman. But your very perception of what a bad-ass woman is is skewed and incorrect.”

“No offense, but this is entirely new to me. Back it up. You kidnapped me because you disagree with who and what I am and you want me to be more of who and what you think I should be?”

“Quite astounding that you can formulate such complex thoughts with as much anesthetics as you have currently.”

“Yeah, that’s me, model kidnap victim.”

“Oh, is that so? Good to hear. But you are not here for anything like that. You are here because we see potential in you. And you clearly want to reach that potential. We are just here to, well, enhance you, give you the necessary tools to be the best ‘you’ you can be.”

“Tools? Listen, I don’t know what your game is but the moment you let me out of here---”

“And what, what are you going to do, exactly?” The therapist raised an eyebrow, it would have been condescending if done by any other person but on this ravishing professional therapist, it just looked inquisitive.

I felt myself sink further down, my mind muddying, fuzzy, dazed. And do what indeed?

“That took longer than expected.”

“L...longer? What do you mean…” I said, struggling to piece together the heat and rage that was burning through me, the flames seemed to quench and dissipate.

“Good night, Buffy Summers. The Vampire slayer.”

And like that, my eyes slowly gravitated to shut. I could still hear what was going on around me. I hear people come into the room, I heard the unsnapping of the metallic shackles that confined me and I was lifted up on either side by someone.

“Diagnosis, Doctor?”

“Strong. Very resistant. She might very well be the best candidate because of that.” The clinical nonchalance in her voice grated against my ears. I didn’t feel like a person when she spoke about me, I felt like an object, a test subject, the way one would talk about dissecting a frog. It was dry also, without humor.

“And her mental capacity? She was talking about vampires and stuff. Quite an oddity.”

“She might be a little unhinged, but perhaps it is her mental instability that will make her successful in the program as a whole.”

And with that, I was taken away, placed on what I believe to be the gurney, and rolled through a well-carpeted hallway. That was the last thing I remembered before I drifted off into nothingness once again. The Sandman was yelling for me and I obeyed.

The last thing in my mind wasn’t the concern about being a candidate, a subject, nothing like that. It was the doctor, that therapy room, the way it uncoiled my tense body, the way it relaxed me and lulled me out of my natural snarky defenses. I usually had more quips. I fancy myself one for wordplay. Thank God I wasn’t getting grading on it, or I would have failed utterly and completely.

--

Buffy was laid out on a surgical table. A doctor, the feisty older doctor who was particularly twisted and sadistic, had his chosen weapon in his hand, a scalpal. Next to him was the nurse, her all too wide doey eyes expressive, she was a knockout in any culture and society. She was providing the doctor with the necessary assistance: Tool handlings such as cutting devices, medical suction devices, and other such things.

Buffy lay under the stilled and careful hand of the doctor. They started with her face. The eyes were given a double eyelid surgery, this would crease the eyelid so that it appeared to be much larger, very much so a surgery that the nurse herself had undergone – by the same man who was doing it now.

Next, the Rhinoplasty. A fairly common and ordinary cosmetic surgery that would allow a nose to be sculpted into a different shape or size. Buffy had a hawkish bird nose, sharp and beaked, and apparently was too angular for whatever their purposes were for her.

It started with just a light and precise cut between the nostrils, this gave the doctor access to the nose itself, to mold and reshape the dimensions of the nose itself by manipulating the bone and the cartilage. They were going for a more button nose, cute and big, more inviting. The nasal septum and bone were squashed, puffing the nose just so, just right, just like this. Just like the nurse. This procedure was rather quick and painless and didn’t require Buffy to be entirely knocked out, but that was only if she was a willing participant.

She was not.

None of the candidates were. Never would they ever.

Buffy had a very narrow face, much matching her nose, or rather, how her nose once was. They needed to change that, but to change that was not an ordinary run-of-the-mill in our procedure. It was a combination of a Chin Augmentation, Face Lift, Zygomatic Osteotomy, Cheek augmentation.

They started with the Zygomatic Osteotomy, cutting into the cheek and manipulating the bone structure to hollow it out and expand it into a vague apple appearance, when that was done and finished, they went to filling out those apple cheeks to make them extra fruity and succulent by way of implants. Finally, when all was said and done, they polished it all off with a facelift, to tighten the flesh that they had constructed to be more round and less angular. It was a stunning transformation.

The doctor surveyed the body, his attention less scientific and more artistic. Wondering exactly what else he could do for the specimen laid out unconscious on the table.

The nurse fluttered her attention to the vital machine, making sure that the augmentations were taking well. Usually, this was done as a matter of course, but they were really fitting what should be done over the course of months into one go, which was slightly on the dangerous side.

They were both professionals though. Meticulous, astute, and careful.

“Bigger breasts, Doctor?”

He humfed to himself, his eyes lingering on the naked bare breasts before him. He washed his blood-coated gloves in a basin, before placing them against the cold stilled flesh.

“Indeed. What would you recommend?”

“Double D’s?”

“Perhaps.” There was a glimmer in those eyes, as if pondering something other, something else.

But he set to the task as if all the puzzle pieces had finally fallen into place, a complete structure. The picture was easily visualized and now he just had to give it life. Which he could. It was his job.

He took the scalpal and cut it just under each breast. The nurse wiped the incision site clean, repeatedly, before the doctor created a nice pocket under the breast, the submuscular portion of it. Given the size that he would be bloating them out to, he couldn’t do this pocket subglandularly because the sheer size to which he was enhancing would not be supported if he went with that option.

The pocket which he carved into both breasts was rather massive… It was a split-second decision, but he actually widened and deepened the pocket. Double D’s were not good enough, not for this beauty of an art piece. Not by a long shot.

Next, the saline came in. He rolled up the saline implant so that it could be easily guided to the tiny incision that he had made. Once in, he would spread it out so that it nestled into the pocket of flesh that he had carved out for it. This would be the housing for the saline as it ballooned out and turned those breasts into massive water balloons. From there, it was easy to start filling each saline implant with saline.

This was not a long process in and of itself either. All these alterations were a faction of time, but all rolled into one, it was a massive undertaking, taking them far into the night and into the early morning.

The nurse was about to indicate that the size and shape would soon verge on double D’s, but the doctor preemptively strike such a comment, by responding, “I think she can handle a little more, don’t you think?”

And that was that. The tube was taken out, the incision was closed using sutures and medical tape to keep the incision site closed and protected.

“There we go!” The doctor said, “Voila. Picture perfect.”

“Doctor, Did you know that smaller females, in stature, are considered to be more attractive and higher sought after than those that are taller?”

He looked over the charts, these charts were just numbers of precise bodily dimensions.

“Says 5’3 here.”

“But is that a nice round number?” She suggested, “We can always make it a simpler number. Simple is always better.”

The doctor couldn’t agree more. There was a reason that Nurse Betty was his assistant, her mind was very intuitive and very insightful, almost all the time, really. He dismissed her suggestions at his own detriment.

“Alright, but that means it will be a late breakfast today.” The doctor said behind his mask. He had been doing some rather exacting, precise things, especially carefully because this wasn’t just a patient, it was the patient.

Nurse Betty dabbed the sweat away. This was, perhaps, the most intense portion of the surgery.

The Doctor took a new scalpel and made an incision along the upper and lower portion of the leg, around the knee joint, and just above the ankle joint. The cut was spread by the nurse, exposing the bone – first above the ankle. With deft confidence, he took the osteotome, a surgical instrument that bore more than a little resembles a chisel with a sharp, beveled edge. This one was a smaller-sized version of its other brothers, brothers which would be used elsewhere. This osteotome was actually used for the cheek and the nose. Not the very same, but the same type. No matter how sterilized, the doctor would not re-use the same equipment in such rapid succession.

He placed it gently against the raw and exposed bone and with a fluid hammering, the beveled tip drove right on in and shattered the bone without incident. It was a perfect drive backed by the perfect amount of pressure. The controlled break that was resulting from the tool allowed the doctor to remove a small chunk of bone.

He repeated the process by cutting flesh around the knee joint, exposing bone. Nurse Betty, once again, played the recurring support character role of making sure the flesh did not peel back and close the view of the bone.

The doctor took the medium-sized bevel, his favorite osteotome because with just the right amount of care and dedication, it could be used in lieu of the smaller and the bigger variations. It was versatile. He placed it on the significantly larger bone and with a stiffer force, the bone cracked and he removed that as well.

With that done, the bones needed to be stabilized with metallic plates and screws. This process is known as external fixation devices. The issue with this was that it would require an external device / harness that would gradually be screwed and tightened so the bone could reconnect and pair up again. It wasn’t just as easy as gluing bones together or anything. It was an intense and painful process.

But what they were doing here didn’t have the luxury of time, nor could it have any external implications.

So, instead of putting the metal plates and screws to be connected to an external device, instead, the fragments of bone were properly aligned with metal plates, screws, and gadgets to hold the bones but stabilized and properly aligned internally. The pins instead were connected to an internal device that ran the length of the leg --- meaning that the good doctor had to slice a long and paper-thin cut from knee to ankle, placing pins pretty much everywhere.

Now, this wasn’t ideal, and honestly, not many doctors did it this way, as it proved to be, well, it had a lesser success rate, but given that this female seemed to be stronger than a wilder-beast, and with the dashes of magic they would use to height healing, it would definitely do the trick.

After the wounds were sutured up and either side of the grooved cuts were kissing nice and firm together again, he called it a day, or night… or morning?

God, it was morning, wasn’t it?

Buffy Summers had been under anesthetic for several, several hours now.

The pair exited the room, took off their gloves, washed their hands, and chatted about the good job they had done. As if they hadn’t merely just kidnapped a female from her bedroom to conduct an illegal operation against the person's will because her file flagged her as a likely successful candidate.

“Think we missed something?” The Doctor said.

“Butt was alright, she was fit as a fiddle, no need for a tummy tuck or anything. No, everything on her was pretty perfect, to begin with.”

“Now she is just more perfect than, hu?”

“Oh Doctor, is there really such a thing as more perfect?”

“I think we just did that right now, don’t you think?”

“I think you owe me breakfast.”

--

I woke up in my bed. Top room of my house. The sun is bright in my face. I must have overslept, and yet I don’t feel as well rested as someone who overslept. Sometimes this happened, most times really, sometimes sleeping too much made you more tired. Don’t ask me, I got a C in science. And also, don’t blame me either, science is weird alright.

But as I put my feet against the wooden floor, little bolts of pain echo up and down my legs. It crawls to my spine and like lightning, right into my brain. I was halfway to standing but found myself kerplunking right back onto my bed.

I feel a little dizzy. Lightheaded. My eyes blink. The blinking feels weird. In fact, everything feels weird. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel me, like me, or anything in the same galaxy of me. Is this how Oz feels when he transforms back into being human? Or Angel, for that matter? Because that is exactly how I feel, I feel like I am returning from some monstrous transformation.

I shutter my eye and reorient myself. It took a few moments to re-situate myself but I think the worst is over. I didn’t get into a fight last night, I didn’t drink…

Getting old kind of sucks, apparently. I guess it really is all downhill after high school. Hate to see what next year would feel like.

I open my eyes, my hands gently massaging my temples.

I would have screamed if I had two brain cells to cobble together to spark the fire necessary to completely freak the entire fuck out. I was definitely not five by five.

What I saw before me was…

My chest was massive. Each breast the size of a watermelon. One of those genetically modified and freak of nature watermelons. I just looked. Just looked. No screaming. No moving. Nothing.

My pajama top was thread stretched. I couldn’t see that my stomach was exposed, thanks to the gifts on my chest, but I could feel the air brushing and licking against my stomach. My pajama top was way, way, way, WAY too small to smuggle these bad boys anywhere.

It all hit me then and I shot up.

I ignored the little tingles of pain, I ignored the headache, I ignored the dancing prickling, stinging numbness in my face. Nothing mattered. I needed to see.

What the hell was going on?

I bolted to the upstairs bathroom, my room didn’t have a mirror. Before I made it out of my room, I tripped. The trip was the result of two things, one being these massive boulders that were throwing my center of gravity off, and also my pajama bottoms. I stumbled. I tried to fall gracefully, a hard-earned talent learned through many, many cheerleading routines, I got my masters in falling with grace from Giles. He might be old, but the man was spry and knew how to flip you if you weren’t careful.

My graceful descent just made the failure all the more painful and spectacular. My flotation devices did not provide the type of comfort I always imagined they would when I saw them on life-sized plastic barbie wannabes who had daddy issues.

I remained on the floor for a moment. Collecting myself. I hurt. A lot. My hair hurt all the way to the root. My everything hurt.

I stood right on back up to go to the bathroom. This time, I was much, much more careful about my disproportionate rate issue thing going on. I took a few sample steps only to realize that my pajama bottoms were… well, they were pooling below my feet. I must have hooked them in my frantic sprint to the mirror. Odd. I bent over to roll them up but I quickly realized that that wasn’t the best idea I ever had. It took all my strength and effort not to go toppling right on back down as I did just a few moments ago.

I took the waistband of my pajamas and hoisted them up. Problem solved.

Going to the bathroom was an eventful journey. The pain that was echoing and aching throughout my body renewed, like my body was becoming fully awake, the way that sensations returned after getting something numbed, that brief little tingle grew until finally, it disappeared into background noise.

Being a slayer sucked, but it never really hurt. I mean, yeah, okay, hurt when punchy bad guys got punchy, but never after. And hangovers never happened. Pros and cons to everything, I suppose.

My hands rested on the sink as I looked deeply into the mirror. Buffy was not there. What stared back at me, astonished and gawking was not me. It was not me. I placed my trembling hand against the reflection and smeared the mirror. That didn’t change anything. I rubbed my eyes, that didn’t help anything either.

I just looked. My plump marshmallow lips gaped open as realization finally settled in and a cold little fist in my stomach curled and clutched. My stomach felt like it was permanently flexed.

The eyes were more pronounced and wider, more open, and more circular. I could see the vivid and rich detail of my irises. I could see the reflection of my reflection. God, I looked longer, staring, hard, harder than hard, piercing through the outskirts of everything and just focusing on just my eyes. I realized that not only could I see the reflection of the mirror's reflection in my eyes, but I could see even that reflection ad infinitum. It was too much to process.

My nose lost its sharp shape, much more smooth and round. They were like cherries, they even carried their own little hue of crimson. Unnaturally, naturally blushed. My face was definitely not my own.

I found myself slightly lost in the looking. Now, I never thought myself to be ugly, heck, I wasn’t bad looking. I was a cheerleader in high school, and people hit on me even though I was excessively awkward and weird in others' eyes, but I am a female. Sue me. I got body issues. Social is a merciless bitch when it came to that. Even I, a slayer, a badass bitch with a fist that won’t quit and looks that made many females jelly, could find imperfections in my appearance. I could always improve. I often wondered what I would look like if I actually had the time to manically and maddeningly fastidiously work on my looks like Cordelia. I always thought those girls were superficial. Who had time for that? Shouldn’t they be body positive and accept who and what they were?

But between you and me, Miss Mirror Bizarro World Buffy, we know the real truth: I didn’t compete in the game because I knew it was a losing battle. I could never compete with them on their level, not the way that they did. Nowhere close. It would take more than mascara, rouge, and powder to turn this into a socially acceptable honeypot walking daydream.

“God, you are beautiful, aren’t you?” I said softly to myself, my fingers tracing along the soft curve of my chin, just caressing the mirror, slowly but surely. It was then that I realized that this was me. As impossible as it sounded, this was me, at least what the mirror was telling me… Mirror never lied before, right? Kinda hard to, didn’t have a mouth.

With that realization in mind, I took that finger and pushed it against my skin, the apple cheek dipped and dimpled in. It squished awkwardly. They were so full. So plump.

Of course, that was the tip of the iceberg. I didn’t address them because, well, I mean, I didn’t want to recognize them. But there they were. On my chest. Puffed out like peacocks pea-cocking. Just flotation devices. I didn’t touch them. I just looked at them. I couldn’t even look at my feet or the sink. I looked down, without the aid of a mirror, and all I could see was smooth Willow gifted cloth on my chest.

I could see the attire straining, struggling to contain those massive orbs. Jesus. They weren’t just massive, but they were exceptionally round. For something so big, they didn’t point my nipples directly to the ground, not at all.

My hands trembled as I went to my chest. I don’t know what I was more afraid of, that they were real, or that they were fake and touching them would shatter the illusion.

And with one brief touch, just to confirm that they were real, I went out of the bathroom to change.

Spell? Supernatural? What?

Well, Giles would know. This would be embarrassing but surely we can all just laugh it off and once this mystery was solved and I was back to normal, we would never ever… ever...ever mention it again. My friends were goofy people that liked to bring up little wacky incidences that have happened to us over the years, the hell mouth always provided good fun and laughter, a sense of levity when the life-threatening doom was defeated. But they weren’t dumb. They knew never to speak of this again. Never, ever, ever again.

Maybe Cordelia.

… Xander also.

Damn it.

I am never going to live this down.

Nothing fit though. Of course. Why would it? My pants were a way, way too long, and my shirts --- way, way, way too small. I spent two hours trying everything I had. Every-thing. Two hours. I might as well have a dressing montage. Hell, at least if it was a montage it would have saved me time. But nothing about this was funny and couldn’t be made comical or light-hearted. I mean, I wasn’t laughing. I ripped a button-up shirt trying to put it on! And most of my clothing were utterly stretched out just by trying to put it on. Some shirts didn’t want to wrap around my chest. They fell short and looked like awkwardly draped open curtains, broadcasting my chest.

Finally, I just put on a sundress. It is already meant to be wide. The chest lifted the dress so far up that, hey! It wasn’t dragging on the floor so I could trip on it. Excellent. It was a ruby red dress, with straps in the back. And it was snug as a bug. It was crushing me. I could hardly breathe in it. But, it worked, if working meant half working and wildly inappropriate to wear. Sure, everything was covered up, Totally rated G. All ages could see. But the way that it corseted by chest, well, that is when G turned into X real fast.

I bolted out of the house, my mother calling behind me, “Buffy, I made breakfast.”

“Can’t. Slayer stuff.” Always the go-to when I needed to make a quick getaway. I didn’t want my mom to see me like this. Somehow it felt more… well. I didn’t want anybody to see me like this, especially my mother.

I wanted to throw a cloak or blanket over my body to cover everything. I felt like a sexy Quasimoto but I had a hunched front, two hunches really.

I jetted out the door and off to the Magic Box.

Laboriously walking slowly, I felt like an impostor. I wasn’t Buffy, I was some plastic cheap barbie doll. I mean, I could just feel eyes on me, everywhere. They could all see. Thankfully, I didn’t look like me. I wasn’t Buffy, you know? So, all this would go away, hopefully, sooner rather than later.

I assaulted Giles while he was putting away some old dusty books on the shelf.

“Oh, Buffy, there you are. I was reviewing an old text and it seems that there is an impending apoc---”

“Wait. Do you know me? Like, me. Buffy?”

“I.. well, yeah, of course. Who else?”

“You don’t like, see anything different? You know, anything changed about me?”

“No, as a matter of fact. I… Did I… miss something?”

“Nothing at all.” I pressed harder.

After a little squirming by Giles who thought there was something that he missed and felt very guilty about it, I explained my situation.

Of course, I had to repeat my explanation over and over again. By that time, the rest of the Scooby gang arrived.

Xander continually checked me out. I think that he was taking this information as an excuse to look me over with glaring eyes. He was such a guy about it too.

“So, when you say they are bigger, do you mean that they are this big? This big? Or like, this big?” Xander used his hands to give the size differences. His cupped hands arched out with each questioning prompt.

“I really don’t see how that is really relevant to the discussion.”

“Hold on old man, I just want to know, I mean, when we get the right size, maybe it would narrow down what we are looking for. It might also affect her, you know, slaying abilities. These are perfectly professional and totally above-board questions.”

“Well, I can see that that might be a point of interest. But, that isn’t really a… question you would ask… but… I am at a loss.” Giles seemed to be wooed by Xander's line of logic, “So, how… well, how… different are they.”

“I never heard of magic like this. Believe me, I looked” Willow injected.

“You looked?” Xander asked, interested peeked.

“Hm?” Willow blinked at him vapidly, as if she hadn’t really asked anything at all.

I took Xander's hands and pulled them out just a little a lot more.

“Merciful Zeus.”

Giles took off his glasses, cleaning them, giving him something to do besides gawking at the depicted size of my not-so-imaginary breasts.

This lasted the entire day. All day. No matter which way I spelled it out for them, it was just an unmitigated disaster.

Willow did spells.

Xander did measurements of my chest.

Giles poured over books.

I felt like I was an alien. It was terrible.

They thought I was lying. I could tell. The way they looked at me, the way that Willow tried to laugh it off. And I was just standing there, just standing, frustrated, ashamed, afraid. They really couldn’t see it. Nobody could… Except me.

What was wrong with me?

They never said that I was lying. They would never say that. But they believed it. In their hearts, they believed it. It was located on the edge of their eyes. Pity, disbelief. I am not really one to bite my tongue, so I made sure, after the exhaustive ‘interview’ with all of them, that I departed rather quickly. Thankfully, if they couldn’t see the changes, nobody else could, meaning that my… ailment? My alteration? It was a solo adventure, which I cannot say I was disappointed in.

But it was real, right? Right? I mean, I looked in the mirror. I tried on every single outfit I had. None of them fit, not a one. Mostly because of these massive breasts. And my back, it kind of hurt, sore even. I always rolled my eyes when people mentioned breast reduction surgery, I mean, why would they ever do that? Who wouldn’t want mountains on their chest, who wouldn’t thrive under the concept of men trying to climb peaks like these?

But really, what really stuck in my mind wasn’t just that my friends were in disbelief, but the way that they all looked at me, trying to imagine the changes that I outlined for them. Xander just couldn’t keep his feasting eyes off of me.

It was then that the past slowly seeped in my brain. I remembered this morning that I had a nightmare about… about… something… About a doctor, a therapist really. The flowers and that scent truly stood out in my mind, but it went the way of dinosaurs when I… well, when … I had an extra twenty pounds resting on my chest and everything involving that ordeal.

But now, in the haze of disappointment, shame even, it started to become more real, visceral. The moment that I realized that something strange was going on, my mind went into overdrive and I started to peel away the layers of thought after thought until it all came back to me. This didn’t happen immediately, I had a decent amount of time to truly dive deep as I approached my home. Now, I didn’t need to live at home, nor did I need to sleep there, and oftentimes I did not, but my roommate was such a bear to deal with and honestly, Dorthy had it right, there really was no place like home – especially when you know your mother is out doing Mom stuff.

So, by the time I went to the kitchen, I had piecemealed the entirety of last night. I instinctively went to the phone to call up Willow – strange but true. You would think that the first person I wanted to know about my abduction was Giles, he was always the man with the plan, or rather, he was always the person who could make a plan on his feet. But there was just something about the way that I was dismissed, the way they looked at me, I felt like a liar. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t lying.

This left two options, either it happened or it didn’t. If it didn’t and this whole barbie doll plastic thing I had going on was all in my brain … I wasn’t crazy, right? No… No…

But it was that that resulted in me instinctively dialing Willow. But doubt caused me to stop and hang up the phone.

No. Not again. I am not going to get looked at the way that I was looked at. I can still feel the way their eyes were on me. They weren’t looking at me, not me me, they were looking at the picture I was painting for them. Trying to see what I saw.

But it felt nice though, even though to them my breasts hadn’t taken on the titanic size that they had for me, they all surveyed my chest with such focused intensity, as if they hoped that them looking hard enough would allow them to see what I saw. They wanted to see the body that I had told them about.

I mean, how could I blame them? Since my nightmarish inspection in the bathroom, I found myself stealing glances here and there of my newfound shape and dimensions. I thought about all this while I was home alone, all the while thinking about the circumstances that lead to this … this… whatever this was. The therapist, the doctor, the … I was a candidate or something or other.

I didn’t realize it at the time but I found myself gravitating my widened doey eyes to mirrors and reflective surfaces at the time. But it was true… Hell, I was periodically styling my hair to make it just a little wavier, flashy, fluttering, and expressive. Voluminous.

Nobody could see it, I couldn’t even see it. But I felt it. I took comfort in just the action alone. Ideally toying with my lush hair, my hand running through it. The comfort of it, the way it swallowed my fingers. The thickening. My hair was ravishing.

My mind was being twisted in competing and very imposing directions. My body wasn’t my own. My friends thought I was lying. Nobody could see what type of mutilation my body had suffered. And for some reason, some type of… thing… people? Chose me to be a candidate for some type of… whatever thing thing.

And it was all hitting me all at once. It was vexing. I didn’t know how to respond or react. Thankfully, I was the Slayer. Capital S. People try to fuck me, true, but in the end, I come out ahead and the bad guys get their comeuppance. And it was this deep truth that guided most of my actions instinctively, that I realized that if I wanted to put this all to bed, I would need to do it myself.

Of course, I tried not to think about WHY I needed to do it myself. It was still a tough pill to swallow.

The doctor's name alluded me. The office was actually pretty commonplace. The flower. That flower, it was, they were normal, right, but something about it… I was just hyper-fixated on it. It was weird. You would think I would have a crystal clear memory of the incident, kidnapping, all that, but no. No. But that flower stood out like a sore thumb.

Whenever this happened, whenever I was at a loss for words, lost for direction, usually I went to my friends. This was not the case though. I decided that I should take a walk, just to clear my head a little bit.

The ache in my back was amazingly harsh. Thankfully, I heal pretty well for my size so the aching was always light and low and barely a thing. It was amazing, under this sundress was no bra, no support. And yet that beautiful outrageous flesh bags supported themselves, nice and firm. That didn’t mean that I couldn’t feel them throb, and bounce with each step. And when I put just a little more pep in that step, oh boy, did I feel them puppies lurch.

Nobody could see them. But still, I felt eyes on me. I felt them looking at me. Why were so many people …

Was I smiling?

Holy shit.

I was whistling.

Well, never done that before. Never will again.

Happiness was like a little tiny peek on the cheek or mouth for lovers. Totally innocent, totally okay. But gratuitous happiness was like full-on mouth-to-mouth PDA. Not cool. Totally not cool at all. PDAs also give me PTSD, I always assume one of them is going to vamp out and just start draining the neck.

Either way, I blushed red. Very red. I felt extremely awkward. And confused. I was mad determined kick-ass Buffy, not happy-go-lucky Buffy.

It …

It had been a long time since I was happy-go-lucky Buffy. And frankly, I was never that much of a happy-go-lucky Buffy to go whistle.

Whatever. Didn’t matter. Not an issue. I was definitely repressing a lot of thoughts and realizations.

I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. I found myself in downtown Sunnydale. I had been walking for quite some time, wrapped up in my own little sordid thoughts. I didn’t like it. When the fugue dissipated, I was left with a nasty taste in my mouth --- metaphorically speaking.

They didn’t believe me.

That was exactly the same as thinking I was lying.

I felt wounded, injured. It was wrong. And… were they right? Was this just… Was I…

No, it was real. Real, damn it.

And that was when I noticed it. A nice little clinic wedged between a dollar general, and a Mystery Spot. God, Sunnydale was weird but, know what? A Mystery Spot, where they did tours of all the wacky zany things this town had to offer, well, they were onto something, and by the look of the business that they were doing, well, they were making a mint.

Good ole capitalism.

But this clinic, it just… It drew me in. I don’t know why, but at that moment I made the snap decision. I needed to see someone, someone impartial. Someone that would believe me. They better fucking believe me if I was paying them. Honestly, if I couldn’t get organic run-of-mill actual honest to god belief, at least I would have someone who would ‘believe that I believe it’, and that just might be the time.

The door rang, and a bell wobbled above my head as I walked into the store. Thank god, I needed to rest anyway.

The process was actually exceptionally streamlined. Odd though, there were two other females in there. They looked, I don’t know, they glanced at me, inspected me, and looked right on back to their magazines. I mean, I didn’t expect anything different, I doubted that they would be bubbling to talk about their own problems. I mean, look at me, I wasn’t going to pick a person off the street, much less from a therapy clinic, and regurgitate my zany adventure about how I am a plastic barbie trapped in a rather taut athletic teenage body.

No, not a teenager. Not anymore. I was past that part of my life.

Jesus. Was this a mid-life crisis? It didn’t happen in the twenties, that was for sure, wasn’t even that myself, but you know, Slayer, impending doom, and death around every corner. I mean, I was probably way passed my mid-life. I mean, I actually died once. Well, twice if you count that one other time. I don’t. So, once.

And the life expectancy of a Slayer wasn’t, let's just say that gray hair was not in my future. Hell, not much was. Why was I thinking about this stuff? Damn it.

Oh hell.

Giles said something about an apocalypse. Know what? I am glad I don’t have a day planner. If I did, I would look through it and spot and count how many times that word was used. Could you imagine? Apoloypse at 9 o clock on Tuesday. Dinner date with boyfriend at 10 o clock. Yeah, no thank you. Not even going to bother counting. Why bother?

And so, I waited, silently. I was called up to fill out a form.

Nature of the problem? Yeah, no thank you. I am just going to put ‘I got issues’

Sounds snarky enough. Pretty Slayer-y if I do say so myself. I mean, I had issues.

And so, I had an appointment in thirty minutes, so I waited. Why not. What else was I going to do?

People watch.

These other females probably had some major issues. I wonder. I started to conjure up my imagination as I casually glanced at each of the girls, just two, not more than twenty themselves. Holly was from Sunnydale High School actually. But then I started to notice, well, something odd. Different.

You know how you have a magazine in your lap as you read it, or vaguely held up to mid-chest to read it if you were feeling spunky and trying to use it like a newspaper in a bad spy movie to cloak your identity? Well, they each were doing just that.

Leafed out, spread, right on up to their face. Not weird. Not at all. But one of the girls faltered, placed it on their lap, and tried to read it.

And she was having a very, very hard time with that. She shifted this way and that, trying to, well, it seemed like she was trying to look past something. I didn’t see anything that was blocking her view though. After a few moments of what seemed fruitless effort, she sighed and brought it right up to parallel her face.

The other female? She grew tired and tried to mount it on her breasts. Sure, alright, why not. But she was tiny, a stick really. Her breasts were the same size as my B’s … Well, I mean, not B’s anymore. No, damn it, they were B’s. I had pert yet tiny breasts. It was true. Whatever the fuck this was wasn’t me. But there was no way anyone with those types of breasts would try to, what, mount them on the breasts like it was a book stand.

The magazine flopped on down to the ground. All of this was odd, but the way she bent was more revealing. She was extremely ginger about it. Something was in her way. She tried to stretch but something was just preventing her from doing it. It was wild. It would be comical if I didn’t notice just how frustrated she was becoming. She opted to finally teeter to the side and reached awkwardly to snatch the magazine.

Weird.

And the magazine, which I hadn’t noticed before.

Breast-Friends was the title. Each word fit snugly and tight inside a vague picture of suggestive breasts. Under it, ‘The Ultimate Guide to All Things Breasts.’.

Only in Sunnydale.

You can’t make this shit up.

And this is exactly how you know you are desensitized. Mummy, sure, why not. Mantis teacher, okay. Vampire with a soul, yeah, totally get that. Magazine about boob enthusiasts and plastic surgery augmentation? What the hell, you know?

“Summers, Buffy?” A little twig of a female, narrow-faced that looked more like a rat than a mouse, called out.

I stood up, and smiled wide, “You girls have been great. Loved the chat.” And I walked away. We hadn’t said a single solitary thing to each other. We barely looked at each other.

I stepped into a long narrow carpeted hallway. There were two doors on either side of me. I passed them, but before I cleared them completely I turned to the one on my right side, my hand reaching and resting on the door frame.

Memories were floating in. I… remembered this place… Right?

I didn’t care where I was. I started to apply pressure to my splayed hand, to shove the door in. Was there a table back there? A metallic table, complete and ready for … for… They operated on me, here, through this door. I was certain.

I was absolutely positive. This place was no longer vaguely familiar, it grew life before my eyes. I had been here. I was strapped on a fucking gurney with some sick fuck doctor and a dumb-ass nurse. And through that door.

I was certain. I knew it. It was a fact. But even then, somewhere deep inside of me, that certainty was masked with confusion and horror. I wanted to see what was behind the door because of that crystal-clear clarity, but I was also terrified. What if there was nothing behind it, what if…

No! I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t. I don’t want to be some plastic-dolled out barbie. That wasn’t me. This wasn’t me. This was real.

“Buffy Summers?” A tall elegant and sternly dressed woman said to me. My attention wavered. I looked at her.

My heart was racing. I would have felt it, but my chest was so big that I am sure that those water balloon pouches just soaked up the vibrations of my heartbeat. I could feel the silicon mixing like a cement mixer.

I looked to the side, my entire body positioned directly to the door.

There she stood. She was professional, no nonsense, that gray rustic hair bunned up tight and snug, locks that slipped out and framed her face, waved to her shoulders. It was carefree and yet the very essence of this psychologist was prim and proper. It made order out of whatever chaotic conceptions one brought to the mind of this person.

I didn’t say a word. The flower. The table. The chair. The manacles that contained me. The very scent that permeated the room, confirmed without a doubt that I had been here last night. I had been operated on. And that some spell was cast on me, or others, or something. I don’t know! I don’t do magic. This is a Willow thing. Or… Magic is not my forte.

The taller woman walked toward me. Carpet or not, the fashionable high heels still managed a clap against the floor. Announcing her presence, announcing her arrival. The clanks stilled me. I didn’t say a word. Blood lust and anger and hatred and rage were flowing through me.

The only thing that stopped me was that she didn’t seem to recognize me. She didn’t show, well, anything. No real emotion. She wasn’t in fear, didn’t hold animosity. She was just her. Whoever she was. It was odd. And it should be unsettling, but something about her was calming.

She approached the door and placed her hand on the knob and turned it, springing it open to reveal a bathroom inside, “The session is an hour long. I do suggest that if you need to use the loo you do it before or after. Never during. Understood.”

My entire world crumbled as I saw the bathroom. Porcelain sink. Toilet. The fan whizzed on and the lights flickered the moment that the room detected movement.

“No, no… I am… I… I am fine.” I said, struggling to string words together. I wasn’t embarrassed, humiliated, ashamed, or anything like that. I was crestfallen.

Even looking at the bathroom, I couldn’t shake the feeling of how right I felt. I was going to bust a door down just to see, what, a bathroom? Not some super uber secret little surgical medical… thing.

--

She crossed her legs. Just up and over and there she was, tall as day, sitting, back exactly straight, glasses strategically placed, behind their eyes that could peel back reality, this was Doctor Anderson.

“You have problems,” She said, glancing at her pad of paper before looking at me.

I glanced at the flower, it was exactly how I remembered it. Or how I thought I remembered it. Or how I… imagined it?

“Well, I mean, we all got problems, doc.”

“Doctor Anderson, please.”

“Doctor Anderson. I am sorry. But, you know, just, I have problems and I was hoping you could fix them.” I said vaguely. Honestly, at this moment, I didn’t want to be here anymore. I felt confused, lost, and betrayed. Not by my friends, but by myself, by reality. I was cracking at the seams. Usually, I just put on a flashy smile, and snarky comment and nobody was the wiser. But this woman was looking right into my soul. I feel fragile and naked like never before.

“I would love to fix them for you. But I cannot. Not in my pay grade, I suppose. No, only you can fix these issues. The only way to do that is to expose your issues, speak about them, let them out, and realize that they are issues and not just a butt of a joke or some throwaway comment. You are an adult, after all, are you not, Ms. Summers? It seems that maybe you don’t seem to realize that.”

I would be offended if what she said wasn’t true, “It's just difficult to explain.”

“We have fifty-five minutes. Think you can manage the tip of the iceberg by then?”

“There really isn’t much to say,” I said softly, under my breath. My eyes, my all too wide eyes, glanced at my chest. There were massive things to say.

“You clearly have something on your chest. Just talk. Talk. This is a safe place. I am bound by California law to keep everything here completely confidential. If you threaten to kill, harm someone or yourself, or plan to break the law, this is where such rules end. Do you plan to do any of these things?”

“Nope.” In a matter of speaking. Monsters weren’t people.

“Excellent. So talk.”

“Until today, I never thought… I mean. I am a female, okay? So, people look at me like a female. But I am not, not really. I do things that … It is hard to explain. I just don’t feel very feminine, honestly. I think I am attractive. And a female. So, you know? An attractive female. Right? I always felt that way, and I do other things that make me more than just all of that. Which is also good. I am happy like that. But today…”

I pause, waiting for the doctor to prompt me.

She does not. She leans back into the chair and patiently awaits for me to fill in the blanks.

“Something happened. And now I don’t feel… very attractive, not anymore. I mean, I dreamed of being more, to be seen for who and what I really am. But that is normal, we all dream, the little girl wants to be the princess, and the boy wants to go to the moon. Normal stuff. Reality checks are needed by all. But me not aspiring to some illusionary, fake gender norm outlined by society doesn’t mean that I am not living up to my potential.”

I sigh, frustrated. There wasn’t enough time to really, actually outline the whole thing. I mean, I was glazing over some pretty important things here.

“But today was the first day that I realized that I actually wasn’t good enough. I… realized that others enjoyed this fantastical concept of me…” I couldn’t help but notice those eyes as Xander looked at my breasts, Giles was especially stuttery and awkward as well. It was flattering, actually. The way that just me talking about my improved body just wilted them, melted their everything into a ball of putty for me to sculpt as I saw fit. They couldn’t even see! I was just telling them… and it was more than enough to…

“I have been thinking about it a lot lately, and it is just weird. I don’t want to change. I am happy the way that I am. I don’t want to be different. That difference isn’t me. I never wanted it. I don’t want it. But…”

I stopped. I had been talking pretty much nonstop, saying and resaying things I had already said. My thoughts were confusing.

“I was wrong.”

“Hm?”

“I was wrong. You are still a little girl. But you are growing up now. You are seeing the potential possibilities of being your own person. You are an adult. You are liberated, free. You can do whatever you want, within reason. I don’t expect you to fly or anything like that. You are now just beginning to realize that you are completely free to make your own decisions. Culture, society, your family, your friends, they have shaped you, molded you, and created you into who you are today. You think that you are Buffy because of your decisions. But you are Buffy because of the rules, stipulations, and encouragements that they have exacted onto you. You are not Buffy.

You are the Buffy through their eyes. You have become privy to something that many young women don’t for many, many more years. This fracture of self is called Individuation. Good on you. Very mature. You realize that what they want and what you want might not strictly be the same. This is a scary realization. You are afraid. Your mind is running wild right now. You are going through a process of seeing your looking-glass self. You see yourself through others. But, when you look in the mirror now, you aren’t seeing what they have crafted, but what you actually are, or what you strive to become.”

Esh. She ain’t wrong. The looking-glass thing, sounded pretty spot on, honestly. But I doubted that she really meant it as literally as I am experiencing it. But no way, there was more to it than just this psycho-babble which all sounded and rang pretty true to me. Frighteningly so. There was more to it than just that. I was literally… God, was this all just in my head? Were these changes just not real? Did I want these changes? No way. But did I secretly want them so bad that when I looked in the mirror…

No.

No.

Just no.

Either way, the first meeting went by rather pleasant enough. I felt, well, I will say one thing for the good doctor, she really calmed me down. Honest, I mean, I might be losing my mind and going crazy but damn it, she made it seem alright. How weird is that?

And so, we scheduled another appointment and I was off to the graveyard. Nothing clears my mind like a little vampire dust. But first, I wasn’t going to go fighting in a sundress. And these make-believe balloons were really fake killing my back.

Shopping trip.

But I wasn’t going to go shopping in Sunnydale. I took a twenty-minute detour a town over. New nicer clothing. Clothing that fit. I even got my measurements.

I was unimpressed. I even had someone measure me, someone, that wasn’t me.

32 B for my breasts. Yeah, right, maybe yesterday.

34-23-34.

My skinny ass.

So, I smiled, thanked her, snatched that fucking measuring tape, and went right into the dressing room.

The numbers were just slightly different.

34 DDD… or F. Whichever one you prefer.

And 22-25. Apparently, I was shorter. Which didn’t make sense, but fucking two massive watermelons on my chest begged to differ.

I brought the appropriate bra, just big enough to cut in half and have a hat for rainy weather, and new pants and a breezy shirt.

The teller gave me an awkward look, knowing that these bras would never fit me. Yeah, yeah, eat it up. I am so used to that dancing look of confusion as of late, this was definitely nothing new. Still pissed me off though, pissed me off because of the embarrassment I felt.

I went to the car and drove to the graveyard. Mr. Pointy took point and I was there to kick ass and chew bubble gum.

Simple patrol.

But simple didn’t mean that it was easy.

The night was uneventful, as expected. I did what a slayer does best, make funny quips, dusted a vampire or two, and called it a night. But the night was uneventful until it became eventful. I did however notice some things being, well, slightly off.

My breasts were too big. Blatantly too big. Ginormous. I don’t care what people say, I don’t care if they believe me or not. They were real. You would think after the experience I had in the morning, nearly tripping over my pajamas, the ache in my back, the entire weird circumstances surrounding, well, everything, that perhaps I would remember that I was still suffering from whatever this was.

This, however, was not the case. I am the Slayer. It is who I am, it is my job, it is my life. Whenever things get out of hand, I go kill something. Always something to kill. It is as reflective and refreshing as painting your nails or brushing and styling your hair. Which never was my thing, trying to dress myself up and look pretty wasn’t a normal pastime activity, but now, as I thought about it, it shared the same comforting domain within me that Slaying did. I went to the graveyard to forget my problems, only to have them thrust right back into my face.

I saw one vampire crawling out of his grave, hand right out of the fresh shoveled earth, very cliché. I waited for him too. I wanted to burn off some steam. He came right on out, put on his vampire mask, and said, “Care to grab a bite?”

It is like vampires have some kind of built-in pun thing. I don’t know, but they are usually spot-on about this.

Luckily, as a Slayer, I got my own built-in puns, and with a smirk, I casually shrugged, “Players gunna play, and Slayers gunna slay.”

And we met on the battlefield. Usually, I dodge and roll with the punches, but not so when it is one on one. Don’t need to. Giles would weep if he heard me think this, but on a one-on-one fight with a new vampire, who needs dodging? And honestly, I want to see a little fear in a vampire when they hit me full-on and I am practically unmoved.

The pervert went right for my breast. Who does that? But, when it landed, when it hit, it hit hard. I felt it throughout my body. It didn’t just hurt, it sent me completely off balance. Those water balloons swayed and swashed like overgrown pendulums. It took me completely unawares. So unaware that the vampire leaped on me, sensing I was vulnerable.

So, you know, Dodging. Muscle memory. All that stuff. So, I batted his attack away with ease. Pain or not, Hello, Slayer, you know. I have fought some pretty badass monsters, this was nothing. Until it was something. So, he lunged at me, I tried to sidestep it, but in my haste, I stumbled. I stepped so quickly that my body compensated, swinging my weighty breasts with me. I couldn’t find proper footing and so the shift of my body continued to follow through until I was down on the ground, on my side.

I literally tripped. In a fight.

I avoided being tackled by the vampire, only to tackle myself. I am not sure which one was worse, but I knew which one was more embarrassing.

I tried to roll from ground to standing, but that didn’t work at all. My breasts caught my roll and ended up face-planting completely on the ground. I literally had to put my palms on the ground to steady myself as I stood.

“Not so spry, are you?” The vampire laughed. They always laughed.

I did not jump right back into a fighting posture though, not by a long shot. I took the precious time to dust myself off. I mean, I just brought these clothing. They fit like a glove. And I will be damned if they got dirt or strains on them because of this.

I lurched forward, moving to the side as I punched at his face. He missed me. I hit him. All good and well, but my hit was definitely not full force. You can always tell a solid strike. Always. There is something satisfying about it. This wasn’t that. My distance was right, the strike was true, it was completely mine.

And yet, nothing. It fell so short that when I realized it was short, I pushed just a little more forward, throwing myself at him. I connected the blow, of course, but not without turning a punch into a tackle.

On the ground, it was easy as pie. Can’t fuck that up, you know, all power.

I promptly slayed him.

It took a long time for me to recover. I was truly shaken. I performed laughably.

The rest of the night was uneventful. Thankfully. I spent more than my fair share of time running through the fight in my head though. My massive breasts could only do so much damage to my performance. There was something else different…

It took me literally an hour before I realized what it was.

I was shorter. I was shorter! I tripped on my pajamas, all my pants didn’t fit, and I literally bought outfits tailored to my new and smaller height. God! And you know what, when I drove home, I was acutely aware of the gas pedal and how far it was, or that my mirrors were just that much out of skew. And the wheel was much more in my way than it used to be when I drove my car.

When I got home, I didn’t show up at my dorm. I was outside my house. I needed to be there. Usually, I went home to get away from my awful roommate, Kathy. Hand of God, she is a demon. Gotta be. Got-to-be. But I returned home tonight because I needed a place of comfort. I needed to feel like me again. Not… not this.

I couldn’t help myself. Parked outside my house, I broke down crying. Ugly crying too. Just completely broke down sobbing. Was I going crazy!? Was everybody else going crazy? Were we all crazy?

...Oh god. Was I going crazy? Is all this … all this… If it is real … it has got to be a demon or something. But at the therapy appointment today, I swore behind that door was a lab or something, some type of surgical procedure room. It was a bathroom though, a fucking bathroom.

The next morning, I woke up. I felt right as rain. A good cry always did that. I blinked my eyes, stared at the ceiling, and flipped my covers right on off my body. I was hoping… Well, you know what I was hoping. And of course, I saw exactly what I didn’t want to see. I mean, I could feel them, resting on my chest, pushing me down, I could feel their jiggle as I moved. But I hoped against hope. And here we are.

I had big fucking breasts. Boulders. A paralyzing fear rolled throughout my body. It was panic. Absolute sheer panic. Yesterday happened --- I mean, I knew it did, of course. No dream is that vivid, but maybe my addled mind would have repaired itself.

It did not.

I looked at them then. I dared to look at them. Instead of covering them up like some dirty little secret, or running away from them, ignoring them… I looked at them then. The cups of my bra were like those gigantic glass serving dishes you put Halloween candy for trick-or-treaters. I could see them raise and fall with my breath.

My trembling hands cupped the bra, tender and fragile as if the illusion would break, or shatter. It did not. Warm, wobbling, malleable flesh rested under. As real as real could be. I groped them. I sucked in some breath in response, the air gushing through my teeth, it was a sharp inhale. These puppies were not just real, they were sensitive. Overtly so!

I was horrified. My existential crisis, however, was short-lived. I found myself inspecting them, their perfection, their roundness, their shape, and the way they fit on my chest just so. It was…

I found myself fondling myself then, squishing the flesh between my fingers. My tiny little hands were nothing compared to the mountains of flesh that absorbed them. All doubt was gone then. Replaced with … Well, replaced, is all.

This, however, was short-lived. I needed to talk to Willow. She was my best friend. She knew things. She did all she could do at the Magic Box, she was pretty adamant about this not being a spell thing. I believed her. I did. Maybe it wasn’t a spell. Maybe it was me, but maybe it wasn’t. At the end of the day, I just needed a friend. I needed someone to… I don’t know what I needed but I can tell you one thing, the Scooby Gang did not give it to me yesterday.

But maybe, alone, Willow could see reason.

I really just wanted her to… I needed someone in my corner, even if they were lying to me, I didn’t care. I just needed that solid foundation, a rock. And Willow, well, Willow has been my best friend for so long. She has been amazing in every aspect and I needed her more than ever, I needed her as the very earth I stood on cracked and shattered underneath my feet.

---

“You kind of scared us yesterday.”

“Scared you? Imagine how I feel.”

“So, you are still… well, feeling, filled out?” Her hands cupped her chest and moved away, away, away… God, I couldn’t imagine Willow with such massive breasts of her own. They were extraordinary on myself, but Willow was willow in stature, and it would just consume her every single feature.

“Don’t look at me like that. I am not crazy.”

A pause.

“What!? I am not. Have you been thinking about it after I told you?”

“Well, yeah, how could I not, Buffy.”

“And?”

“And?”

“Did anything, I don’t know, pop up in your head? Any spell? Anything? Demons… Anything.”

“Oh, think about it. I was, well, I thought a lot about it but I really tried when you were talking about it and we came up with nothing.”

“So what were you thinking about last night then?” I couldn’t believe it. Nothing?

“Well, how you would look, really.” She smiled weakly, frail, guilty.

“Willow. This isn’t a joke! When I look at myself in the mirror I don’t see myself, I see some kind of Barbie. I am not a barbie.” I said bitterly, angry even. No, frantic.

“I am not saying it is a joke. I just, I am lost.”

“You believe me though, right?”

“I mean, I believe that you believe it.”

I shut my mouth. That is the exact words that someone would say to a crazy person.

“Shit, you think I am crazy.”

“Do… do you think your crazy?”

“You gotta believe me. I… I… I am so scared. Willow, I am not making this up, I am not seeing things. I had to buy new clothing because my old clothing wouldn’t fit. I fought a vampire last night I almost lost.”

I went quickly to my drawer with the new bras that were fitted to sling Mickey Mouses' ears and tossed them to Willow.

“See!”

Willow blushed a little and looked at the bra, “I know you are a B cup.” Willow got a little more blushing now, it was outstripping her ginger hair.

Buffy snatched the bra away, read the label, and felt the heft. This was obviously not a B cup, even if the label was wrong, and it was definitely not wrong. She read it clearly as day!

“Are you hitting on me, Buffy? I mean, I like you as a friend.” Willow whispered, stuttering every syllable.

I was so near tears, almost broken down, about to just crumble to the ground, that her comment caught me completely unaware. Crying is like hiccups, if you surprise someone, they stop.

“No! Willow… Just tell me you see it, lie to me, I need you to just… Lie. Please.”

--

“Nothing?”

I pretty much awoke from my mental anguish, reliving the past days in full vividness. I had been so on the go with everything, trying to run from reality, and my imagination. I don’t know. But I tried to just will this illusion away. But in the quiet quaint office setting, I found the stillness and safety to just comb through the events.

“I am sorry, what were you saying Doctor?”

“Anderson. Doctor Anderson.”

This office seemed to inspire me, to give me the safety to just think for myself. Unobstructed. I couldn’t ignore what was going on, especially here. Not in front of Doctor Anderson.

The rose. The smell. The setting. The way she looked at me. The way she assured me of safety and privacy.

“I must have been… somewhere else, what did you say?”

“We have been here for thirty minutes and you haven’t really said much. Let us go back to this Slayer business. Yesterday you mentioned it and you never really elaborated.”

I froze. Did I? No, no. I didn’t say that to her. Did I? I mean, I was seeing myself as a walking Barbie, why not forgetting what I said? But still. No. The panic, the suspicion, and the accusations that swirled in my mind, it wanted to culminate into a central point, into action, into something of substance, but it was like vapor. Like cupping water with a hand. It didn’t work. But indeed of being frustrated, I felt a sense of calm wash over me, that truth was, perhaps, setting me free.

And so, I did exactly that. Instead of spazzing out on the good doctor, I relented and confessed and elaborated on what I alluded to.

Doctor Anderson took sparse if not any notes at all, but as I explained what it was I did, she was quite thorough in her questions and notes.

“Now, doesn’t that feel better?”

“Well, actually…”

I smiled the first honest and genuine smile I had since this whole nightmare began.

She did not match my smile. Her face was stoic and stone and solid like granite. But her reaction didn’t change the relief I had.

The session was a success. I felt a little better. Almost like my F breasts were back to good ole beautiful bouncy B.

I didn’t talk to my friends after that. That night I went hunting, like always. The struggle was getting more real. I fought one on one yesterday, but tonight, I had to square off with two vampires. They were playing the part of dark and brooding emo kids seducing females to the graveyard to feast on them. I stopped them, but not without getting a little banged up in the process.

I thought I was getting used to my body, wearing better clothing, my pants suitable size, and my bra was a special brand, meant to really, really squash them to my body so their swinging would be an issue. But I wasn’t well adapted to the situation. I almost died, again! And it was these damn breasts, these short little legs… and my hair was getting in the way. It was practically blinding me.

The hair was a new development. It seemed to be growing rapidly. I hadn’t really noticed it, not really, but in the middle of fighting when it flailed and swayed in the wind as I jerked and jolted my body in the fight, well, it was hard not to notice it.

I didn’t complete Patrol. After that incident, I went back to my car and sobbed uncontrollably. It took the rest of the night for me to compose myself.

I didn’t realize the oddity or the peculiarity of having daily sessions with Doctor Anderson, nor did it stick with me as odd that I wasn’t shelling out any money for these appointments. In truth, never occurred to me. And when and if it did, it never seemed unreasonable. It seemed perfectly natural.

“So, your strength is the same but you have reduced agility and dexterity?” The clinical rundown of what was happening escaped the doctor's lips emotionless. It felt like I was undergoing a physical in a doctor's office more than a psychology appointment.

“No, I… I am still… I am still pretty light on my feet. I don’t think anything has really changed in that department, you know, but like, I am just not used to this whole… change. Everything about me is completely different. The weight, my height. It is just hard, is all.”

She paused then, her words more precise, exacting. I realized what I had unintentionally let on and knew all too well that my therapist was acutely aware of it now, “Why do you think that you are having a harder time with your coordination? You are the perfect example of an exemplary youth. A perfect candidate. It says that you were a cheerleader, and they are known for their nimbleness. Yet, you say these things are reducing and causing your Slaying abilities to be lesser?”

I bit my lip. I bit it, deeply. I could taste the blood. I had been holding out, all this time, I had been holding out. Once bitten twice shy, they say. I confessed what was going on with my ‘friends’, and I knew that if they couldn't be made to understand, a stranger wouldn’t understand. Something about being around Doctor Anderson urged me to be forthcoming about a lot of things, things I never even knew that I was keeping buried in the pit of my stomach, like a rock. But what was going on, right now? Definitely didn’t want to say anything about that.

My silence ratted me out though. That knowing look washed over Doctor Anderson’s face.

“Would you like to share anything with me? I cannot help you if you are unwilling to help yourself. And in order to help yourself, you need to be honest with me.”

And it came out like a dam broken. Just spilling out. I fumbled. I started at erratic points, not the beginning. In fact, after I went over and re-over the entire nightmare, I summed it all up from point A to Z.

To my genuine surprise, everything I told her didn’t seem to phase her one little bit. I wondered just then what I would need to do or say to get some type of reaction from her that might be considered even loosely not professional.

“Had you shared this from the beginning, we wouldn’t have wasted valuable time on these other minor issues.” Her admonishment was in word only, her voice always this biting, “So…” She paused, crossed her legs, her creamy long skirt that dangled just below her ankles flooded upward. She situated herself, ever one to be prim, proper, professional, and comfortable, “Why do you think that you are seeing yourself as you are? With big breasts, short in height, with longer than normal hair?”

She cut right to the point. It was rather comforting to know that she wasn’t playing games. But what hit me the most was that she passed no judgment, not a lick, not an ounce. Say what you will about stiff-upper-lip professionalism, but in this regard, totes appreciated it and it lulled my defenses just by that much more.

“I am not seeing it, Doctor. Ser----”

“Doctor Anderson.”

“Doctor Anderson. I am not seeing it. I mean, well, no, that is the problem. I am seeing it and nobody else is! It is for real though.” I hope… I knew the futility of it, I had done this numerous times, but my hands went right under my breast and with great willed strength I prompted them upward, jiggling them, indicating that THEY were the problem, how could ANYBODY miss them? Nobody saw. There was no point… but it was so real to me that the expression was absolutely instinctual.

“I do not occupy the unique position you are in. Perhaps this is a common thing given your unique job description. Let us address things that we can reasonably address, shall we?”

I don’t know why but it felt so very comforting here, with her, in this office. This is the first time I talked about this without breaking down and questioning my sanity. I mean, I questioned it, sure, but it didn’t seem so all-encompassing at this moment.

“Much of what you said in our first session is making sense. How does having this body make you feel?”

“Like I am crazy.”

“Perfectly reasonable. But how else does it make you feel? When you look at the mirror, you see a different person. Do you want to be that person? You spoke, in length in our first session, about a disconnect with your looks. And now, you have put more pieces of the puzzle on the table. Originally, I thought you were going through various other psychological existential crises of your core being. Now, I see that perhaps this crisis of yours is more. Much more.”

I was quiet, thinking about how to phrase my answer, and in order to do that, I had to phrase my understanding of the situation. I hadn’t concluded anything, not consciously. I was still processing.

Doctor Anderson reached to the table between us and produced a mirror. A little compact mirror, opened it, and put it before me, “Is she attractive to you?”

I nodded.

“But you aren’t her, are you?”

I shook my head.

“Only you can see her and nobody else. You see her because, perhaps, deep down, you want to be her, isn’t that right?”

I couldn’t help myself. Each short answer of truth seemed to snowball into another response of honesty. This whole time, I had the answers buried in me, and I was covering them up, blinding myself from the truth.

But, it was still a lot to take in. I felt lost, I felt found. I felt confused, I felt certain and clear-headed.

“I do find that your occupation is rather dangerous though. Whether or not these changes are real or not is irrelevant. The outcome, however, is dangerous to your well-being. Of that we are of the same mind, I am sure. Your strength is the same,” She glanced at her notepad, “And so is everything else, apparently, nothing has changed physically per se, just your proportions and it is in them that your issues arise, but because of your breasts, your lacking size, and your hair, you are finding fighting to be a difficult task. Do you believe you can do what you do without fighting?”

“What? No! I am the Slayer. I slay things. It implies fighting.”

“Does it? There is a long list of predators that do not kill as we would expect. Think about how society has molded and shaped you into who you are. But you are evolving, changing. What they want of you is no longer what you want of yourself. Wouldn’t it be wiser to embrace who you are becoming, who you want to be, instead of playing by the social norms dictated by those around you? Cuddle fish blend into their environment. Same with the cone snail, some species of mantis’, and Anglerfish. They hide their true intention behind deceit, vibrant colors, and trickery.”

“First, not sure if I want to be … this…” I paused then, when I said that, it felt so ethereal, weak, weakly fighting against a tide you know is going to steep you away. You might deny it, or you might fight against it, but in your heart, you know that you are powerless against the facts. I let that denial wash away. Even my refusal was light, a mere whisper, a mousy thing. “You want me to be a ninja? An assassin? That isn’t… I don’t know about that. I don’t see myself sneaking up and dusting a vampire. I would probably trip over my own feet if I tried to do anything like that. Then we would be back to square one, now wouldn’t we?”

“Who said anything about sneaking up on anybody? Tell me, when you see something you need to slay, you announce yourself and launch head first into fighting, correct?”

“I usually say something witty.”

“Of course you do. But that isn’t working out anymore, now is it?”

I was silent. I was stiff. No matter how relaxed and at ease I was, touching on truth, the reality of having something so instinctual and natural as slaying being robbed from me was a tough pill to swallow. I knew it, I didn’t want to admit it.

I thought about training with my new body… Figuring it out… but that would take some time and I certainly wasn’t going to train with Giles with my new body in mind. I didn’t want to admit to any of my friends about my body. Not again. Honestly, the next time I saw them, I was going to laugh it off as a joke or something. So, I definitely wasn’t going to train with Giles and comment on how my breasts got in the way, or that I was too short to do this or that.

And a vacation for training just didn’t seem in the cards either.

Reality or not, crazy or sane… My failing abilities were a certainty. I still have the grass stains to prove it.

“Correct?”

“Yes, Doctor Anderson.” The truth was stolen from my mouth. Every word and admission I said in this room felt like a kind of robbery, but it was in that robbery that I was able to find some what peace of mind. With all the heavy burdens being stolen, I felt lighter.

“When you announce yourself, you put them immediately on guard. They are ready for you. Which is fine, you can outpower and outmaneuver them. At least, you used to. Simply isn’t feasible anymore, wouldn’t you agree?”

I nodded.

“These alterations. You wanting to be this woman in the mirror---”

“I don’t know if I want to be her. I just said she looked beautiful.” I bat back against this very thought. In truth, I realized that I was lying. Lying to her as much as myself.

I did want to be the woman in the mirror, didn’t I? Maybe not exactly her, but … well, more. Better. Sexier. With more to show, reveal, flash, and flaunt.

“Buffy, I do not interrupt you. Please show me the same kindness.”

I lowered my head a little.

“Go on.”

“I just find her beautiful. She is everything I am not. Her breasts are so mesmerizing. The face, I look like an adorable mouse, but like, a sexy mouse. My hair has grown too. I have to put it back now, I literally have to or I cannot see. I find myself… she is a perfect Hollywood ten. No doubt about it.”

“Quite an impressive description for someone you say you do not want to be.”

I was snapped out of the passionate description that I saw before me in the mirror. I realized since I was given the mirror, I hadn’t looked away from it. Not once. I was studying it so obsessively that I realized that no matter how perfect it was, it accentuated all my lesser qualities. Even that perfect sex pot of a heart-stopper that stared all too wide-eyed back at me could use improvement.

Beforehand, I wanted to be different in small ways. But the alterations, the differences I saw before I conjured up imperfections where I never really saw imperfections ever before.

“So, what should I do then?”

“Not for me to say. You are a smart girl, I am sure you will figure something out. You need to stop living this double life that you find yourself in though. It is taking its toll, isn’t it? You need to accept what you cannot control. Accept who you are. Embrace it.”

Throughout the appointment, I didn’t feel crazy or broken. I felt liberated even. Crazy, probably, but I felt free. Truly free. Empowered and emboldened.

So, I spent the rest of the day letting those words set in. They marinated in my mind. They were sharp-edged words meant to be thought about. I picked those sharp shards up so often that they wore dull. But at the end of my deep contemplation, I had a plan.

Because there was no fucking way I was going out to hunt again like this. Just wasn’t going to happen. I mean, I’ve died, I have almost died, but I haven’t almost died two days in a row. There’s gotta be a rule against that.

I strutted through the graveyard that night. I wasn’t afraid. I was empowered in a way that being a slayer could never accomplish. My silky long dishwater blonde hair flagged behind me as I spirited forward bold and proud. The tresses that framed my face were curled like a pig’s tail, limply unfurrowing and bouncing back with each shimmy of my bombastic body. I went shopping today, again and found an eye-catching skin-tight dress, hooker red, that hugged my curves like gloves two sizes too small. Looking at it, it would be impossible to imagine me fitting into this, I had to be poured into it. The dress had a plunging neckline that revealed my ample cleavage, and even with the generous amount of air I allowed my pretty little puppies to have, they still desperately tried to pop out.

…

And because I eschewed a bra and the dress was suffocating, sometimes my breasts did force themselves free. I got pretty good at proficiently stuffing them back in their home without it looking unnatural. Just one swift precise movement. My dress was already small, but it was short as well, it stopped where my thighs ended, and at a good angle, my neon pink thong could be seen in all its glory. That wasn’t to say you couldn’t see it through my dress… Anything I wore under this second skin could be seen, its impressions, its design, its color. Down to the last little detail. The shape of my nether region was gratuitously outlined.

If you think I stopped there, you haven’t been paying attention. I wore hooped golden earrings and bracelets. Now, my face was as cute as a cherub, as sexy as an orgasm, but my real weapon were my breasts, and though they didn’t need anything more to accentuate or draw eyes to it, it didn’t stop me from wearing a necklace tasseled a few more inches from the ending of the loop. The tassel went right into the exposed cleavage. A corset had nothing on me.

You see, I am smart. And I answered all the questions forced on me as of late. But I was tiny, damn right downright tiny.

High-heels, three inches --- they accommodated my height loss.

I was the Slayer and damn did I look good.

Natural blazing, brazen crimson lipstick painted my pillowy lips and mascara was a woman's best friend. My facial features might have been made soft, like a mouse, or a chipmunk, with hypnotically wide eyes where you could see my soul dancing around my iris’, but mascara gave me a smokey bedroom nighttime look.

I looked amazing. I didn’t know what I was doing with make-up, but my actions were motivated by instinct, I just knew what to do and how to do it. And then I added more, expanded more, and changed my appeareance by way of cosmetics. It was a temporary solution to a permanent problem, I knew. But the array of alterations that I could do myself were so vast that I couldn’t help but explore the options so pregnant before me.

This is how I started a patrol. Not with loose fitting clothing that allowed me mobility to fight, throw away clothing that when ripped or torn or grass stained, I could discard without concern of feeling it in my wallet --- because believe me, Slayers don’t get paid--- but with expensive clothing that enhanced my every feature.

I noticed a vampire fighting with a guy. The guy was tossed to the ground. He struggled, tried to run, desperate, seeing his life flash before his eyes, I am sure. I strummed my long nails against a gravestone. Oh yes, everything about me was different. I had manicured nails, painted to perfection. My entire essence was eye catching. Eyes would be so mesmerizing, trying to make heads or tails of which asset of mine was the main focal point. Everything about me was dynamic. Brief little clicks from the gradated sounds of my nails pierced the laughing and screaming both without hesitation.

The vampire looked at me. Anger melted to curiosity to… well… Where else do you think his mind would devolve?

The man looked at me also, his mouth opened, and his eyes widened. He was fucking my body in just a few seconds flat.

“Hey there big boy, you don’t want to sink your teeth into something like that scrawny thing,” I cradled the under side of my breasts, like I had done so often in the past few days, and up they went, hefting upward, presenting them as the perfect midnight snack, “You need a real meal.”

I shit you not, the vampire advanced, a little cautious but his brains were working overdrive just accepting my beauty to know any better, but even the guy – the victim – stood up and leered at me. As if I had offered myself to him also. Normally they ran, thankful to have a new lease on life. And yet, even he failed to recognize his freedom, he completely forgot that not seconds before he was going to be vampire chowder.

I shook my head, adding a little bob to my curling tresses, before tilting my head, and looking at the guy, “Seriously? You were just screaming for your mommy. I need a real man, you definitely aren’t it. Go, get out of here. Enjoy your life.” The guy didn’t move until after feeling his rejection more acutely, realizing my attention was fully invested on the vampire and he was a nothingness to me.

The man ran, more out of shame of being dismissed and discarded, I think, than his impending doom.

“Your welcome.” I said, honey, laced my smokey words, but there was a tinge of annoyance in it. I even rolled my eyes.

And that was how I got my first kill.

No grass stains are necessary.

And it felt good.

---

“I am quite proud of you.”

I smiled widely, “Well, like that one superhero said, with great breasts come great responsibility.”

“I see you kept the same dress on too.”

“Oh, this, no. Definitely not.” I looked down at my neon green slip of clothing that was more sumptuous. Pink emboldened the patterns to garnish attention even in the crowd in the Bronx.

“How do you feel about it? It seems like you are happy, a completely different person. Any struggles with this polar opposite way of killing demons? I mean, you came into my office a couple of days completely broken up that you couldn’t square off with them one on one, you couldn’t fight them the way you’ve been trained to fight them. And now this, what are your thoughts on that?”

“Dead is dead.” I shrugged.

“But does it feel different?”

A tiny knowing secret smile played on my lips. I could feel them peeling back, slapping against flesh. They were so vast, thick, and puffed out, I loved the way they smacked every time I moved them. It sounded like success. Like beauty, “Very much so.”

“Better?”

“Oh, oh yes.”

“What a remarkable transformation. New clothing and some lipstick and sharp mascara will definitely do that to you. I am surprised you don’t have some blush on.”

I froze, my eyebrows shooting up in surprise, “I don’t need any. My cheeks are always rosy red.”

“Oh, right, the transformation…” The doctor said it in such a way that made me think that perhaps she was playing coy. She delivered the blow she meant to land and even with me prepared for it, her words were just that much more impactful, “Well, at any rate. I cannot see the blush. Shame, I think it would really bring out those eyes of yours and your angular features. It would add a rounder quality to them.”

Nothing about me was angular. Nothing was sharp. I was soft as a cloud. I actually fought a biting comment back. She might as well have called me ugly.

She couldn’t see me, could she? Not in all my glory. Nobody could. Only me. And even when I looked at myself in the mirror I felt lesser still. Even in all my perfection, I was realizing that there was still room for improvement.

---

That meeting went, well, not as I expected.

I had done many changes and renovations in my room at home as well as in my dorm room. Primarily, A full body mirror. I needed to see everything. Mirrors only have you fractions of the whole, but I wanted to see everything and how it all looked put together.

I also got a lot of make-up and other such things. Just little nick knacks, is all.

I was prepping for patrol today. My routine, however, was significantly different than normal. It might even be considered the opposite. I wasn’t stretching or psyching myself up about it. Instead, I was taking an eye pencil to sharpen my all to round eyes to make them dangerous… ly sexy.

The worst part was that the revelation with the doctor today really was shattering my sense of calm. What I was doing to my face was meant for the face as I saw it, not the face that everybody else saw. Now, of course, I would look attractive regardless, and it seemed to do the trick to lure those brain dumb vampires into my clutches. They went to dust with a big ole smile on their face. But really, I was doing this as much for myself as I was for them. Nobody could see the real and true and wonderful me. And what was worse was that my alterations were made with make-up to my already altered face. Who fucking knew what they were actually seeing, really. It worked though.

What the doctor said really cut me deep though.

It stung. So, here I am, sitting in my room doing my nails, my toenails, my face, lining my eyes, blush – everything. I looked in the mirror to see how these alterations added vibrant depth to my already spectacular and stunning form, but I had to keep in my that what I saw and what others saw were two different things. There was a disconnect.

So, I was doing all this while also looking at a picture of myself. Mid-way through, I got so confused, that I had to take pictures of myself on my phone, hoping that I could see each alteration as to how others would see me. This, however, did not work. I only saw the Buffy that I saw even in snapped pictures.

So, I used my high school photos.

Good grief. It was a disaster. But, it got the job done, or so I thought. But, almost really only worked in horse shoes and hand grenades, as they say.

Patrol was an astounding success. It was much more thrilling too. It was easy to tempt a guy into falling upon me while leaving themselves helplessly, hopelessly defenseless. It was another to have a female vampire do the same. Surely there were straight vampires out there, a weakness in my new found strengths. But I would address that so I would be undeniable to all creatures known.

It was then that I conjured up Willow’s dismissal. Her rejection. I am not interested in Willow like that, not my type, I wasn’t really into females, but her ability to withstand me, to reject me, to cast me aside as if I wasn’t her type. Well, it made as much of a lasting impression on me as any appointment I had with Doctor Anderson.

It is odd, I can look back at this transformation, this metamorphosis I was undergoing, cocooned into a butterfly through vague eyes and ears. There was just so much that had happened that it kind of melted into each other. But my meetings with Doctor Anderson were as crystal clear as if it had just happened moments ago. Burned and singed into my mind.

After dusting a female vampire, a prize to be sure, I went to my appointment scheduled bright and early in the morning, right after patrol, right when everything was right as rain. The enthusiasm and the glow still radiating off of me.

---

“I have been thinking…about what you said the other day. Maybe I should… change what I look like. I mean, it seems to have done wonders so far, but there is just so much more I can do. What and who I am isn’t quite … to use your phrase, actualized. Not yet.”

“Oh, I am glad to hear you say that. You know, I actually have a colleague that does plastic surgery. You might want to make an appointment with him, perhaps you both can work out something that might sculpt you into who and what you truly believe yourself to be. Does that sound like something you would be interested in.”

I didn’t even have to respond. The agreement was bright in my all too present eyes.

“I will set something up then.”

---

And that was that. I met with the Doctor. I didn’t agonize over the perceived me and that me I see anymore. It wasn’t even an issue, not a thing. A nothing. Crazy or not, eventually, they would align.

The doctor occupied a small building just a little distance away from the therapist office and looked quite the same. Almost downright identical. Odd how that was, but when all commercial buildings are just made out of cookie cutter designs, well, what could you do? That was why I liked my body, my temple so much, nothing cookie-cutter about it. I didn’t strive to be a plastic barbie, but something unique, better, unprecedented. I was the Slayer after all, and I damn well might as well look the part.

The doctor was quite familiar to me though. As if I had seen him before. We spent many hours, him me, and his nurse, outlining new features that I wanted. I wanted to keep all the changes I could see, but I wanted to highlight other areas that I felt were diminished or cast to the wayside because of the outrageous alterations to my body. I didn’t want any aspect of me to overshadow, and honestly, those breasts were a hard contender to compete against.

The main changes were as such, of course, but I wanted to make my soft-featured face even softer, more unassuming, velvety quality to it. I wanted deeper more prominent dimples as well. And I definitely wanted to keep my height the way that it was … a meager five feet.

Together, we conjured something fantastic.

“This will take about a month or two of intensive work. You will need substantial time to heal as well.” The doctor informed me.

I smiled, “Just do it all at once. I am sure my body could take it.”