Stefany twirled one finger in her platinum-blonde hair, and used the other to toy with her love-heart-charm necklace, to subtly call attention to her copious cleavage – as if anyone could have failed to notice her giant fake tits.

“It’s called beauty tourism,” she said. “And my organisation, the Cornucopia Group, thinks this country is missing out on a huge opportunity.”

It was unusual for anyone who looked like Stefany to be meeting with a group of senior government ministers – at least, at a formal government appointment, rather than after-hours at a strip club. But the Cornucopia Group was owned by very rich men, and money buys influence, and so Stefany was sitting here, in the halls of government, in her tight tit-hugging white shirt, stripper heels, and tiny skirt, and the ministers were listening.

“Our country has the best plastic surgeons in the world,” said Stefany. “And the best universities to train them, and the best hospitals and clinics for them to practice in. But women who want bigger fuckbags are going overseas to get boobjobs in third-world nations. Why? Because it’s cheaper. They’re risking incompetent doctors and unsafe clinics because they just can’t afford to get their udders upsized in their home country.”

Stefany squeezed and bounced her own tits a little as she said this, for emphasis, blushing a little as she did so. She *hated* her own fake tits. She had been an exceptionally successful lobbyist for progressive feminist causes only a few years ago, doing real work to improve the rights and status of women. She’d had normal, B-cup tits, and sensible brown hair.  

But then one of the male directors of the Cornucopia Group had come to her, and shown her some video. It showed explicit detail of a lesbian encounter between Stefany and a pretty teen girl. The man told her the girl was underage, and that the footage *should* be shown to the police.

Stefany had gone pale. The girl had told her she was 19, and Stefany hadn’t checked further. But of course it had been a honey trap. The Cornucopia Group had sent the girl to seduce Stefany for the explicit purpose of obtaining this footage.

It was blackmail, naturally, and the Cornucopia Group’s terms were simple – albeit horrifying. She was going to come and work for them, lobbying for their misogynistic policies, for a fraction of her previous fee. She was going to get giant fake tits, and dye her hair blonde, to look the part, and start wearing outfits to match.

She had reluctantly agreed, preferring the transformation into a bimbo over the horrors of prosecution and jail. The change of position had included an intensive three month training course, too, that had used drugs, hypnotism, and electric shocks to profoundly alter her behaviour. For instance, she could no longer say “breasts” or “tits” anymore – her preferred language was “fuckbags”, “rapehandles” and “udders”. 

It had also conditioned her to become aroused from rape, which had been handy, as rape by the male directors of Cornucopia had turned out to be a daily feature of her job. As a lesbian, she didn’t enjoy it in any way, and frequently cried, but at least her conditioning made what she now instinctively thought of as her “slutty lesbian cunt” juice up nicely for the men’s cocks, increasing their pleasure and reducing her pain.

“The problem isn’t just limited to women travelling overseas,” Stefany continued, biting her lip sexily as she paused for breath. “We could be a world centre for udder enhancement. We could see women from around the world travel to our nation to have their rapehandles upsized. They’d stay in our hotels, buy food in our restaurants, take their new fake fuckbags to our tourist destinations. That could be a lot of money.”

The Minister for Business was staring in fascination at Stefany’s chest. “How do we get from where we are, to this global leadership position you’re talking about?” he asked. 

Stefany rewarded his question by casually undoing her top button, letting her fake tits spring a little further into view. “Industry support,” she said. “The government puts money and legislative support in, and it gets economic activity back. My masters in the Cornucopia Group have put together a package of measures that I think will give you the opportunity to reap the full potential of our plastic surgery sector.”

She stood up, and used her mobile phone to control a projector, bringing up a series of slides explaining the package. Each slide had a different picture of a naked girl with fake tits as its background. Stefany knew that none of these girls had posed willingly – her masters just enjoyed the idea of humiliating these girls by showing their nudity to their nation’s leaders.

“First, an advertising package,” said Stefany. “Public education. A very simple message – ‘All Women Need Breast Implants’. No explanation. No context. Put it on billboards, the internet, the radio, and accompany it with pictures of pretty, happy women with fake fuckbags. With the official seal of the government below it. We want every woman to see this message every day, for a period of a year.”

She squeezed her fuckmelons and bounced them. Saying the word “breasts” had been hard for her, even though it was the slogan her masters wanted. She also got anxious if she could see men weren’t looking at her funbags, and she was feeling extremely jealous of the naked slut on her slideshow, because the government men were looking at the slide instead of at her. The slutty little bounce brought the men’s eyes back, giving her a warm glow of relief – even as she hated herself for wanting the attention, and for enjoying it.

“Second,” she said, “we want a media environment that’s more plastic-positive. At the moment, if a company puts a woman with fake fuckbags in an advertisement or on a TV show, they get deluged with complaints that it’s misogynistic, or offensive. What we want is a general exemption from censorship and pornography laws for women with fake tits, to go with the general message ‘Get Plastic-Positive’. We want it to be legal to show a woman with plastic udders *anywhere*, clothed or naked, even being fucked or covered in cum, as long as it’s in a context which is aspirational for women. We want to send the clear message to women that society *wants* them to have plastic sex-melons.”

The slide showed a mock-up of a “Plastic Positive” ad. A nude blonde woman with giant fake tits was depicted on all fours, wearing a dog collar and leash. In front of her was a dog bowl filled with dog food. The woman was smiling and happy. The text read, “SLUT FOOD – FOR PETS”.

The men were looking at the slide instead of Stefany’s tits again, so she undid another button, and then squeezed her tits so hard it hurt. Her moan of pain got their attention.

“Third,” she said, “there’s far too much discrimination against women with fake udders, and we want to fix that. We recommend the government make it legal to discriminate in employment based on the size and artificiality of a woman’s fuckbags – but only in favour of large, fake udders. It should be legal for a company to specify it will only hire or promote women with fake funbags. It should be legal to require women to expose their udders to be squeezed and measured at interviews. Once women know they need big, fake fuckmelons to get ahead in their careers, it should create significant new demand for plastic surgery.”

The slide showed a picture of a blonde secretary with big fake tits sitting at her desk and pouting as she brainlessly squeezed her sex-balloons. It was distracting the men again, so Stefany started to bounce vigorously up and down, setting her own tits to jiggling violently. So vigorous was her movement that her left breast actually bounced free of her bra, springing into full view – to the obvious interest of the men at the table. Stefany giggled, and left it exposed.

“Fourth,” Stefany continued. “Role models. Teachers, actresses, models – and politicians. We’ve compiled a list of professions where we feel it should be mandatory to have fake rapebags, to provide a good role model for young women.”

She had the full attention of the men now, and she squeezed her bare tit, and then pulled the other one into view for good measure.

“And lastly,” she went on, “we feel the government should leverage its power in favour of the industry. How about compulsory boob-jobs for all female prisoners in our nation’s jails? Or maybe schools can schedule girls in their final years to take a field trip to get state-sponsored udder upgrades, and girls who choose not to come would have to spend the time collecting litter on highways in a skimpy outfit instead? Authorise hospitals to just include a fuckbag-enhancement on any woman who’s under sedation for non-urgent surgery? Make a sex-balloon expansion mandatory for any woman receiving government handouts?”

The room was silent, filled with the chemistry of intense lust. All eyes were on Stefany. Slowly, she raised her skirt. She wasn’t wearing panties. Her pussy was shaved, cute and wet.

“And, as a special incentive from the Cornucopia Group to you,” she finished, “if you commit to enacting the full package of laws today, every man in this room gets to use me for any sexual fantasy you can imagine – right now, here in this room, and then wherever you want me for the rest of the month.”

She didn’t want them to agree. The package was horrifying, and demeaning to women – and further, she knew that if a law like this could pass, then the Cornucopia Group could get government to do *anything* to women.

And maybe if someone less sexy and slutty had proposed it, the government would have said no. But it was Stefany’s tits and cunt which sold out the women of her country. The men simply had to sample her – so they agreed, and bent Stefany over the meeting room table and took turns raping her, and the entire industry stimulus package was passed.

They called it “Stefany’s Law”, in her honour, so she would always remember what she had done…


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