When you wake, you're no longer in the operating theater. You're home again, laid out on the bed with your arms folded neatly over your chest. The dry taste of anaesthetic still lingers in your mouth and your head feels full of fog. Slowly you sit up, feeling the strange new sway of your body, the weakness of your muscles that even the effects of sedatives cant account for, the slight tightness in the joints. You are dressed in a long white dressing gown, the swell of your chest beneath it unmistakable even beneath the thick fluffy material.
The sun is beaming through the window. How long have you been asleep? A night? Two? Weeks? The surgeon said that you would be kept sedated for as long as the plastic surgery took to heal so that you slip more easily into your new life without a lengthy recovery. You wonder if Rebecca is awake yet. It's possible she's been awake days, or she might be another week healing before they wake her to her new life.
Stiffly you swing off the edge of the bed on to your feet. As you do so, the front of the gown falls open. You find yourself staring down at yourself. A mature woman's body, that is all you see. Well-maintained, sure, but undeniably on the wrong side of forty. Heavy breasts just beginning to sag, a slim waist broadening into wide hips that look like they might have seen a baby or two, a thick pubic bush nestled between juicy thighs.
In the en suite you seek out a mirror and find a face startling similar to Rebecca's staring back at you. They really have made you into her mother. The face, like the body, is mature but attractive. "I'm kind of a milf," you chuckle to yourself, running a hand through the long hair.
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