I taught her she could have her cake and eat it too. Guys love a girl with a healthy appetite. If she’s thin.

She took to it rough at first—the godawful mess she made—but I told her it gets more dainty with practice. Ladylike.

She shed a few pounds, but not many. She tried to steal my jeans but put them back, with the ass cut out, when they didn’t fit her.

I told her she’d have to stop drinking her red wine—empty calories—if she wanted to turn heads again.

“Besides,” I said, “it isn’t healthy.”

She said she needed the buzz.

So I brought her some speed.

Three weeks of that and we had progress, and her eyes lit up just like I like them. But she couldn’t fit into her birthday present—that pretty camp-girl uniform—the polo and pleated skirt I’d taken from her trunk and saved, for a special occasion.

Two weeks ago, her boyfriend left her. He said it was because she was acting crazy, but we know better. We know what they like.

She said she’d try anything.

You can get anything online these days. To any company, a sale is a sale, and medical equipment is no different. Hell, we even got free two-day shipping.

The curved injectors and cannulas arrived last Friday. My ex hooked us up with a cocktail of painkillers and antibiotics. I stayed up all night on YouTube, becoming an expert.

On Saturday, I told her to get naked and lie down in the bathtub.

The drugs made her eyes dull and she puked in her hair, but she didn’t seem to feel the small incision. Or the narrow wand sliding in beneath her creamy skin.

I scraped at the layer of fibrous fat.

She went rigid—damn near bit her tongue in half—and passed out cold.

I took one of the clean towels from the stack on the toilet seat and tucked it under the corner of her mouth, to catch the mess. And I worked quickly.

Those tight little strands of cellulose that hold your layers together—stitching them like quilting—they’re what pull in the dimples. If you snap those like elastic, separate the layers, they’ll hang smooth.

It will all grow back, eventually—stitch itself back together. A small miracle. But, in the meantime, you suck out all the fat, every swollen cell, and the skin lies smooth as the surface of a lake.

I ripped every stitch under her skin. All over her stomach and butt and thighs. A few extra incisions, to get those hard-to-reach places. Bruises blossomed purple in the wake of my wand as I waved it through her, making her shame vanish into the bag at my knees.

Magic.

The bag swirled with fat and blood, rose gold.