Belly Inflation

"Princess fighter tournament 2004" had been the single most profitable enterprise that year. Filled with nothing but women fighters from all over the globe, the stunt had attracted everything from soft-drink endorsements to music CDs. The media cover for it had been astounding.

And Noriko Mune had loved every second of it.

Jamie sighed. It was nearly eight o’clock, and she had begun to regret having accepted Bob’s invitation to meet for dinner. She hadn’t seen him for quite a while, and remembered him as being rather dull. In fact, the only memorable event she recalled with any clarity was the “molotov cocktail” she’d given him. Bored to tears on their first (and only) date, she’d fed him salted peanuts, potato chips and pretzels. Then, she had offered an outrageously thirsty Bob a huge pitcher of a bland concoction consisting of water and the contents of a large box of baking soda.

She was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted. She was rich, and she knew money could get you, eventually albeit, whatever you desired. Unfortunately, what she desired most had been unattainable, that is until now. Her husband, a talented plastic surgeon (actually an artiste -- he was an amazing sculptor of the human body) who had long catered to the extreme end of plastic surgery (Models, and strippers and the what-not who wanted only the very largest in implants, and similar type body-work) had come up with an ingenuous solution to the hazards of the silicon implant.