I soon had her back up over the age of majority, then I stopped and took a good look at her. I frowned. She was pretty flat-chested. Her face and hair were all right, but she just didn’t have the sort of curves that would make her attractive to the kind of guys who would be at the party. I considered a moment, then looked at the pump. Maybe we could do something about that.

I set the pump to “size,” and then instead of her mouth, stuck the nozzle onto the auriole of her left breast. “What are you—” she began, then said, “Oh!” as I pumped and her breast swelled like a balloon. I repeated the procedure with the other breast, and she wobbled as she got used to her new center of gravity.

I stuck the pump in a few more places on her body, adding or subtracting until her shape was considerably more pleasing to the eye. When I was done, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror and gaped. “But—that can’t be me, can it?”

I didn’t reply; I was too busy adding a cup size to my own breasts.