The title says it all.

This story is dedicated to r2d2.

Rose Montgomery always thought her love could keep her husband alive. It was one of the reasons why she married him. But looking at the sixty-one year old man dying in his sleep, it was obvious it would take more than love.

Medicine? Machines? The doctors had all given up hope. Nothing seemed to work. And why should it, thought Rose, there's no such thing as a cure for a broken heart.

Especially for my poor Georgie.

Look at him, she told herself. And her body complied�reluctantly. It was getting harder and harder for Rose to look at her dying husband. He never left his bed. He never responded to her voice or touch. He was totally bedridden.

His once vital body and spirit eroded by the day. His physical upkeep, something he used to be so proud of, was forgotten by him and left in Rose's hand. And so, like a nurse or an infant's mother, she made it her job to clean, shave, and dress him. Daily.

It was habitual now. Like brushing her teeth. Just another activity on her to-do list. Look after George. And when that was done: look after self.

Making sure she was one of the living. Doing things that living people do. Like combing and styling her short mane of gray, camouflaging her wrinkles with creams and powders, wearing outfits befitting a woman of her advanced age (classic, yet contemporary), and then having her daily cry at how pointless it all was.

Living when all she knew was death. The one constant in her life. Death. Striking at her loved ones like a sniper�an assassin�taking them from her one by one. Her first husband, her current husband, and her best friend, Maggie.

"Why?" Rose said aloud to the heavens. "Why did you have to take Maggie?"

Rose asked this question everyday. She hoped�prayed�that once, just once, she would receive an answer. Something that could explain why her best friend had to die. Something. A reason why not only Rose had to suffer but George�upstairs in his bed dying George�had to suffer as well. Maggie, after all, had been his wife and soulmate. And when she died...

There was no one.

No one for George at a time when he needed someone. Really needed someone. Something Rose understood�deeply. She had lost her first love�Herbert�and the resulting feelings had left her devastated. Trapped in her empty home, turning her back on a world devoid of love.

She had to spare George that.

The emptiness. The bitterness. The pain. The wasted time spent suffering. Living alone. Friendless. Soulless. Afraid to kill yourself but afraid to live. She couldn't let George become the person she had been when they first entered her life.

She remembered the day they had moved next door. She remembered the knocking. So loud�so incessant�that to this day, she still recalled the exact rhythm and timbre.

"Go away!" the reclusive Rose yelled. Not even caring to know the identity of the manic knocker.

But apparently the knocker couldn't hear Rose, because the pounding continued.

Rose was incensed as she arose from her immobility for the first time in years. She was determined to give whoever was at the door a piece of her mind. And so she stomped to the front door unmindful of her ratty appearance.

"What do you want?" Rose yelled, opening her door. "Can't you see I'm�"

Breasts? The word didn't do what Rose saw justice. Orbs? Mounds? Better. The woman had two globes that seemed to miraculously jut out in defiance of gravity. Rose praised the woman's foundation garment for the superior job it was doing of supporting her now or for the superior job it had done so well in the past. The woman had breasts that would have been the envy of someone half her age. So firm, so round, so big. Rose couldn't take her eyes off them and proceeded to give them the once over�multiple times.

"They're eyes," the woman suddenly said out of the blue.

"Eyes? Wha�what?" Rose said, not understanding the woman.

"I-cups! My breasts," the woman said with a smile. "I wear a 38-I bra."

"Why�why are you telling me?" Rose said, going on the defensive and trying hard to mask her surprise. A 38-I?

"I'm sorry," the woman began, a knowing smile on her face. "It's just that I couldn't help notice you were staring at them."

Rose was about to lie and say she wasn't, but decided against it. There was something about this woman�a special quality�that Rose couldn't quite put her finger on. It made Rose feel a connection, an openness, a bond to this woman. And for the first time in years, Rose found herself with a smile on her face.

"Alright. Alright," Rose said laughing, "I was looking�make that staring�at your breasts. It's just that they're so�they're so BIG!"

The woman laughed at Rose's comment. It was by her reckoning the one-millionth time someone had commented on the enormity of her chest. She was so used to the comments that she was only surprised when people didn't comment on her chest.

"Maggie Montgomery," the woman said to Rose, putting a name with the tits.

"Rose Mackenzie," Rose said in kind.

And that began a friendship that ended only because...only because her best friend...

It hurt Rose to think about her best friend's death. Death and Maggie were two words that should never be in the same sentence, she thought to herself. But that damn stroke. It destroyed Maggie. It took the once vital woman and�

"No!" Rose screamed aloud, looking over to Georgie to see if her scream disturbed her dying husband. It didn't.

Forgive me, Maggie, Rose thought to the heavens. You always told me to remember the good times. And I haven't been doing that. But we did have good times, Maggie. Lots of them. I remember...

And Rose's mind went back to Maggie's introduction of her husband, George. He was shorter than Maggie, his height having him directly face those I-cups of hers. Not that George seemed to mind. It was obvious that George was a breast man, who even after the decades of their marriage couldn't believe the wonder that was his wife's chest. Rose was shocked as George, in front of a perfect stranger (herself), grabbed Maggie's mounds. She was stunned that instead of being offended, Maggie was being turned on by her husband's exploits. Maggie's nipples�Maggie's LARGE nipples�could suddenly be seen through her bra and tops.

George and Maggie were acting like two crazed teenagers in search of a hotel room. Their attention was solely on each other as if they had totally forgotten about Rose. The couple seemingly had no inhibitions and Rose was afraid that if she didn't do something, they would start copulating before her very eyes. And at their advanced age, thought Rose, that would be truly shameful.

"Ahem!" Rose yelled in the Montgomerys direction, watching George undo his wife's top.

The couple either didn't hear Rose or chose to ignore her.

"Ahem!" Rose yelled again. And again. Finally, she had gotten the couple's attention.

"Oh, hello there," George said in Rose's direction. "I take it you're our next door neighbor."

Rose looked at the man who had spoke to her. He was handsome, she thought. Quite handsome. His body, lean and tone, indicated that even at his advance age that he was active and vital. His white hair framed a strong face resembling a veteran screen actor�confident, honest, noble. Rose felt tears coming to her eyes. This man, so happy with Maggie, reminded her so much of her Herbert. And the love obviously shared between the two�

It was all too much.

Rose ran back to her home. It had been a mistake for her to leave her sanctuary. What had she been thinking? She had played the game of love and lost. She no longer belonged to this world of light and joy. No, the world belonged to people like Maggie and George�love's winners�whose love unlike Rose's would never leave, never hurt, and never die.

George and Maggie noticed Rose's departure. They had seen her when George first grabbed his wife's tits. They saw her disapproving look, but had expected it. Their past experience had taught them that those most offended by the Montgomerys' overt lovemaking were actually those most desiring of joining in. Many wife-swapping and husband-swapping sessions had resulted just by the Montgomerys doing what they did and enjoyed best�pleasuring one another.

But not this time.

"What just happened?" Maggie asked when Rose took off.

"Don't know," George replied, his attention still focused on his wife's body.

"George, please, this is serious," Maggie said. "Our neighbor, she�she worries me."

George saw the concern on his wife's face. A rare sight. Maggie wasn't the type to get upset or worry. He watched as his wife began doing up her top, realizing the matter was more serious than he had initially thought. Maggie would never stop me from pleasuring her, he thought, as he watched his wife suddenly head off in the direction of their neighbor's house.

George followed her.

At the Mackenzie home, Maggie hammered on her neighbor's door, yelling "Rose!" Occasionally, she would stop assaulting the Mackenzie's front door in hopes of hearing Rose respond, but all Maggie heard was the sound of Rose crying. Maggie, out of options, unconsciously twisted the doorknob of Rose's home, surprised to see the door open. She looked behind her to see her equally surprised husband, George, and then entered the home. George, not exactly sure of his wife's intentions, followed at a distance�an action that allowed him to support Maggie and yet not be in her way.

Maggie followed the sound of Rose's crying. This led her into the living room where Rose was slumped in a chair, her back towards Maggie.

"Herbert...My dear, Herbert," Rose sobbed.

Maggie heard�no, felt�the loss. She thought for a moment about letting the poor woman grieve in private. But decided that no, Rose Mackenzie had grieved long enough.

George, still lingering in the background, watched his wife's actions. He saw her stop and mentally deliberate on whether she should or should not intrude on their crying neighbor. He watched as she made her decision, walking slowly and quietly towards Rose. He didn't know what his wife planned to do, but was confident that if anyone could help their neighbor, she could.

Maggie was operating on instincts. Her heart, her love, her spirit were guiding her actions. She had got close enough to Rose to make physical contact. She placed her hands gently on Rose's sloping shoulders, feeling her stiffen in surprise. The stiffness became resistance as Rose tried to shrug Maggie's hands off. But Maggie held firm, her greater size and strength completely overwhelming the smaller woman. But Rose wasn't willing to surrender. She tried several times after her initial struggle to extricate herself from Maggie's grasp. She screamed. She thrashed. But Maggie refused to let go. Rose was left with no choice but to surrender to Maggie's loving but oh-so strong touch.

"Go away," Rose said to Maggie. But there was no power to the words and so they were easily and quickly ignored.

"No," Maggie replied, suddenly shifting her hands into a hug. It was what Rose needed, she thought, a loving embrace. A physical connection for someone who hadn't known the touch of another for a very long time.

Rose felt Maggie's hands around her. Soft and strong. She wanted to resist this touch�this woman's touch�but she couldn't. She needed this. To be touched. Held. Loved. She needed and wanted someone to love her. It had been so long. So very long...

"Love me, Maggie," Rose said.

And the Montgomerys, upon hearing Rose's words, smiled at each other. This was the moment they had hoped for. Prayed for. Rose's breakthrough.

Maggie walked in front of Rose. She lifted the woman's chin so that she could see her eyes. They had tears which Maggie wiped away, letting her hand linger on Rose's face.

Rose felt Maggie's hand on her face. It felt good. The touch. And Rose lifted her own hand, placing it on top of Maggie's. She wanted Maggie, she thought as her face suddenly reddened in embarrassment. She wanted a woman? The very idea went against everything Rose believed. But the feelings inside her persisted. She wanted Maggie. She wanted Maggie now!

"Make love to me, Maggie," she said, repeating her request a second time. "Make love to me now."

Maggie, a tear running down her face, looked at Rose and nodded her head. She looked at Rose's face and the emotions present. Confusion, lust, desire. It was the latter that resonated the most with Maggie. Rose's desire. Desire, not necessarily for Maggie, but for the love the larger woman would bring.

Rose just stared at Maggie, unmoving. She wouldn't let herself move. She didn't want to move. It was Maggie's show and Rose had surrendered�willing to go along with anything.

Maggie was aware that Rose had surrendered. She was aware of the unconditional trust this woman had in her. She raised her other hand, cradling Rose's face. She stared hard into Rose's eyes. And then she kissed Rose with all the passion she could muster.

Rose felt Maggie's breasts press against her. She found her hands reaching out for them. Grabbing them. Caressing them.

Maggie, driven by Rose's breast ministrations, started undressing her neighbor. She didn't want anything�especially clothing�to interfere with their lovemaking. She wanted skin-to-skin contact.

Rose, noticing that Maggie was undressing her, experienced self-doubt about her body. Her saggy breasts, aged flesh, and wrinkled appearance were not anybody's definition of beauty. Oh, Herbert had loved Rose, but then they were soul mates. Theirs was a love that transcended the physical. Theirs was a love�that was no more. Herbert was dead. And so was Rose's spirit. She had died inside. Stopped caring. Beauty�physical beauty�was the last thing on her mind. At least, it had been the last thing on her mind. Maggie. Buxom, amazonian Maggie was like a mirror. A mirror that Rose was suddenly forced to confront.

And Rose didn't like what she saw.

"Don't," Rose said to Maggie. "My body. Please. Don't undress me. Please, Maggie."

And Maggie stopped her undressing of Rose. She thought of forcing her will on Rose, but decided that would probably do more harm than good. No, Rose and her doubts about her body would have to be handled in the future. This was a moment of love. A moment of freedom. Freedom of inhibitions. Freedom of distractions. Freedom of clothes.

Rose watched as Maggie began taken off her clothes. The woman did it without any self-consciousness. Without any awkwardness. She was graceful and natural, beginning by kicking off her shoes. She removed her socks, slacks and panties, standing naked below the waist. Her pubic hair, drawing Rose's attention, had a sheen of wetness. It was soon followed by an erotic smell of sex that caused Rose to get wet in kind.

Maggie let Rose examine her exposed body before continuing on. Her long, shapely legs. Her curvaceous hips. They were a feast for Rose's hungry eyes. Maggie did a slow, model-like turn exposing her backside. This resulted in Rose emitting a low, pleasurable squeal of delight. With a response like that, Maggie couldn't help but continue.

She began removing her top, working her way down to what she believed�and others confirmed�were her best attributes. Her incredible I-cups. She removed her top, revealing what Rose would've sworn was the biggest bra in existence. It was pale-white in color. Functional, not sexy. Its job was to support and cradle Maggie's pulchritude. A job that it did with Herculean effort. Rose could see that despite the many hooks and straps of its design, Maggie's bra was losing the battle of her I-cup bulge and would soon need to be replaced.

But not today.

Maggie removed her bra like she did the rest of her clothes�naturally, gracefully, and sexually. She had bent over into a 90 degree position, displaying her cleavage for maximum impact. She shook her breasts causing the jiggling masses to rise upward and outward from her bra cups. It made the breasts look as if they would either escape from the bra or simply overwhelm it. But Maggie, not wanting to replace her bra just yet, soon stopped her chest from shaking. And in a moment, her quivering mounds of breastflesh soon came to a stand still. Maggie then began undoing the hooks joining her bra, ultimately letting the foundational garment drop with an audible plop.

Rose blinked in astonishment. The bra. The tits. The plop. They all combined to overwhelm her senses. Rendering her immobile.

Maggie just looked at the woman. She recognized the look and actions (or rather the lack of actions). It was a typical response to someone seeing her I-cups revealed for the first time. Past boyfriends. George. They all seemed to become paralyzed seeing her nude.

Maggie walked towards Rose, her breasts swinging with each step. Side to side, they swung like a pendulum, holding Rose in a hypnotic-like trance. And Maggie got closer. Step by step. Inch by inch. Maggie continued to walk. Closer and closer, until Maggie�

Smooshed Rose's face into her mountainous mams.

Rose was instantly shocked out of her trance-like state. Unable to breathe and thrashing in a state of panic, she allowed fear to grip her in a field of darkness. She thought she was going to die.

But then she heard Maggie singing a lullaby. She didn't recognize the words nor the tune, but it relaxed her. Calmed her spirit. And she realized that what was dark and scary was, in reality, soft and gentle. Maggie's breasts. They surrounded Rose's head like a mother's womb�protecting her, nourishing her, loving her. Her world was Maggie's breasts. All else had disappeared.

Maggie allowed Rose all the time she wanted with her breasts. With her body. Nothing was taboo. Nothing was forbidden. She watched as Rose sucked her nipples drawing them out to their maximum length. Felt Rose's tongue licking every droplet of sweat from every inch of her body. Smelt the aroma of sex as her scent united with Rose's. And heard the screams and moans of ecstasy�over and over again.

It was too good for two. It had to be shared.

George got in on the action dick-first. His member rose like a periscope, witnessing the sight of his wife and their new neighbor in action. It was restricted by his pants and underwear and so, in a matter of minutes, George was nude from the waist down. His dick, now free, pointed in the direction of the women. It drew George to them like a magnet. And rested on Rose's shoulder.

Rose, still engrossed in Maggie's mounds of titflesh, didn't notice George's dick at first. But soon she felt a slight weight on her shoulder. Turning towards it, she saw George's dick in all its glory. And to Rose, it was a glorious thing indeed. Huge. Thick. And long. It was bigger�much bigger�than her Herbert's (she admitted to herself reluctantly). And for a woman like herself, who hadn't seen many dicks recently nor many in her lifetime, to see one like George's was something bordering on the miraculous. And in an instant, Rose had it in her mouth. Sucking on it, trying to drain it.

A ménage à trois had officially begun.

Maggie's breasts. George's dick. Those were the main courses, as Rose feasted on the Montgomerys. Sucking. Licking. Touching. Everywhere she turned there was flesh. Sensual, erotic, wonderful flesh. And soon she lost herself in the experience. She didn't care about her body, her shyness, her self-consciousness. All she cared about was the moment.

She allowed the Montgomerys to undress her. Roughly. They ripped her nude, discarding her clothing like so much trash. They sandwiched her between them � Maggie in the front; George in the back. Maggie, on her knees, licked and sucked Rose. George, standing, pushed and pulled with his flesh rod.

The result? Rose climaxed repeatedly and endlessly.

That day was the first of many. Rose and the Montgomerys had become a threesome�all for one and one for all. Sharing their hearts, love, and sex. Daily. Anywhere and at anytime, the three would stop what they were doing and have sex. It was spontaneous. It was fulfilling. It was wonderful. It was the best time since her Herbert's death that Rose ever had.

And then death played the ultimate party-pooper and took Maggie. The fun and games were over. The threesome had become two. A very unhappy two.

George and Rose went through the motions. Initially. They said they were doing it for Maggie. To keep her memory alive. They had gotten married. Lived together. Loved together. And for a while all was fine.

And then reality set in.

George missed Maggie. That was the bottom line. Rose missed Maggie, also, but it was George missing her that seemed to sour the very air they breathed. He had lost his soulmate�something no man should ever experience. He had lost her and tried to go on living. And couldn't. He knew it and, in time, Rose knew it.

She had tried to pretend otherwise. At first. She had tried to be Maggie's replacement. Imitating her outgoing personality, sexuality, and spirit. Trying hard to channel all her best friend was. Doing whatever it took to convince George that Maggie was still alive�in Rose. And for a time it worked. George and Rose Montgomery were the same as George and Maggie Montgomery.

And, at first, Rose didn't have a problem with that. She didn't mind being compared to Maggie. Maggie was her friend and a finer person she didn't know. She didn't mind those awkward moments when George would call her Maggie instead of her own name. She didn't mind because she knew he was in mourning. He needed time. Understanding. She figured eventually George could let Maggie go. That he would realize he had a new wife. And her name was Rose.

But George couldn't let go. And he was getting worse. His calling Rose 'Maggie' was becoming a regular habit. He began buying Maggie-like outfits in Rose's size. His suggestions of hair style, make-up, and high-heeled shoes made Rose look like a Maggie-wannabe. And despite her inner voice screaming in protest, Rose went along. George's mourning period was all the rationalization she needed.

But then George started talking breast size. He started making suggestions that Rose get her B-cups surgically altered to I-cups. At first, Rose thought he was joking. I-cups? On her frame? She'd fall over. But she soon saw George was serious. How serious, she didn't know, until he told her he had scheduled her an appointment with a plastic surgeon.

"Gotta get you back your old figure," he said.

And Rose snapped. The illusions were gone. "I'm NOT Maggie!" she yelled. "She's dead. My name is Rose. I'm your wife, Rose Montgomery. Your living wife, Rose Montgomery. I'm not Maggie. Do you understand?"

And for a second, he understood. Rose could see it in his eyes. But then he said, "Maggie, you practical joker, you. What are you talking about? Who the hell is Rose?"

And she slapped him. She slapped him hard and she slapped him repeatedly. Screaming with each blow: "My name is Rose! My name is Rose! My�Name�Is�ROSE!"

And that did the trick. George knew who his wife was. It wasn't the woman he wanted. But he now knew who she was. He didn't love her. But he knew who the hell she was.

Not Maggie.

Rose, tears running down her face, looked at the husband she slapped. He was different. Older. Weaker. Did her slaps hurt him that bad, she wondered. No, she concluded. His was a spiritual hurt, not a physical one. The damage was internal, not external.

"George, are you..." she said, trying to reach out to him. But he rejected her. He literally turned his back on her and walked away.

Rose followed him into their bedroom. His bearing became less erect as his posture disappeared. She watched as each step he took became slower and slower. She saw him remove his clothes like they were a suit of armor�each article seeming to weigh ten times what it should. Dropping his underwear like it was chainmail, he stood nakedly before the bed�

And collapsed.

He was now bed-ridden. Permanently. His bed�Maggie's bed�was now a death-bed.

He didn't plan on leaving it. It was his new home. And he planned on dying in it.

And that started Rose's death-bed vigil. She would watch over George until the day he died. It was her duty as his wife. In sickness and in health. Til death do them part. It wasn't like this was the first time she had to watch a husband die.

And she thought of her Herbert and the car accident that took him away from her.

"Damn alcohol and the fools who abuse it!" she yelled, thinking about the punk kid who nearly ran them off the road so many years in the past. Both he and Herbert had died that day. He in a ball of flames mirroring what Rose hoped his soul would experience for an eternity; and Herbert in a river of blood caused by his colliding with the steering column. If only his airbag had opened like mine did, she thought, crying.

"Why does Death haunt me so?" she said between sobs. "Everything�everyone�I love...Dies."

And the lights went out.

"What the�" Rose began. "Must be a blackout."

She began feeling her way in the darkness. Trying to make her way into the kitchen where they kept a flashlight and candles. It should have been easy getting to the kitchen, but it wasn't. Rose found herself stumbling, repeatedly tripping over things she knew shouldn't have been in her way. But they were. And her body was feeling the pain.

"Ow," she said, massaging her leg. "What's going on?"

She continued on. Slowly. More careful than before. When she heard her name spoken by the wind�

"Rose."

It had literally come out of nowhere. Loud but soft. Faint but clear. And it caused the already disoriented Rose to stumble again.

Righting herself, Rose chose to ignore the ethereal name caller. She rationalized it away, saying it was just her imagination. And resumed her walk to the kitchen.

It was easier now, she noticed. She wasn't stumbling. She approached the kitchen without any further problems and was about to enter the room when�

The lights came on.

Rose blinked, her eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness. Good, she thought, the lights are back on. But she was still going to get the flashlight and candles. Just because they came on, doesn't mean they're going to stay on.

"Rose."

The voice was louder this time. But not so loud that it couldn't be ignored.

Rose approached the cabinet she believed contained the flashlight and candles and began rummaging. Where did this all this junk come from, she thought, trying to focus her attention on the job at hand and away from�

Crash!

Rose jumped visibly. Behind her, the entire contents of her silverware drawer had hit the floor.

That�that's impossible, she thought as she went to investigate. She looked at the silverware littering the floor. She checked the drawer, expecting�hoping�that the drawer's bottom had somehow given way. It was still intact and Rose began sweating. Heavily. What's going on?

She started picking up the silverware, depositing the items in the sink. She would wash them later. She tried to focus all her attention on picking up the silverware. Something she could understand. Something normal. Unlike�

No, she had to focus her mind on the silverware. As simple-minded a task as it was, she had to focus on the silverware. The clanking of the metal hitting metal. The smoothness of the Sterling Silver. The contoured�

"Rose!"

There was no denying the voice this time. It was too loud. Too near. And a panicking Rose, without even realizing what she was doing, grabbed her sharpest and biggest knife.

"Who are you?" she yelled. "What do you want?"

"Rose!" the voice, even louder and nearer, yelled in response.

And Rose freaked. Running out of the kitchen�slashing empty air with her knife�screaming. Anything to escape the voice. Anything to kill the voice.

But Rose was killed instead.

She was running with a knife. A deadly, stupid, and fatal combination. And tripped, falling forward. The knife, its blade angled skyward, impaled itself in her flesh and into her heart.

Her prone form lying in a pool of her own blood�dying�was the result.

Rose, her breathing shallow, felt no pain. She felt a sort of comfort, knowing this was the end. Soon she would be reunited with her Herbert. Reunited with Maggie. She wished she could say goodbye to George, but couldn't. Her voice wasn't strong enough to yell the words. She took comfort, as perverse as it sounded, in the fact that George, dying himself, wasn't long for this world either.

"Rose."

It was the voice, again. No longer loud. No longer unfamiliar. Rose now knew who the owner of the voice was and the knowing caused tears of joy to run down her face.

"Maggie," Rose said in a whispery croak.

And the voice, nearer than Rose had ever experienced it, seemed to answer in her head. "Yes, Rose, it's me. I'm inside you now. You don't have to talk. Think. Spare your body these last moments. Think."

Why are you back? Rose thought.

"I came back for you and George. To give you both a gift," Maggie said.

A gift? thought Rose. What kind of gift?

"Of love that will never die," Maggie answered. "A gift long overdue in your relationship with George."

And with those words, Rose felt the knife being removed. She saw her blood form into a single pool that ran magically back into her body. The knife wound disappeared as her flesh reformed itself. She was back to her old self.

"Thank you, Maggie, thank you," Rose said aloud, happy to speak again. "Your gift�it's wonderful!"

"That wasn't my gift," said Maggie's voice still residing in Rose's head. "This is."

Rose, standing up, saw her clothes start to glow. She closed her eyes to shield them from the brightness. And when she opened them later, she discovered that both the glow and her clothes were gone.

A naked Rose reflexively tried to cover her nakedness.

"What are you doing, Rose?" a laughing Maggie asked. "I've seen you naked more times than I could count. Remember?"

And since she did, Rose removed her hands and tried to stand proudly the way Maggie had taught her.

"Good for you, Rose," Maggie said. "You didn't forget what I taught you. 'You're only as beautiful as you believe yourself to be'."

And Rose felt beautiful. It was a feeling she hadn't experienced in a long time. But for the moment she felt more beautiful than she ever did before. Inside and�

Rose saw her body glowing. Just like her clothing had done. But this time she didn't close her eyes. She knew that something wonderful�miraculous�like recovering from her knife stabbing was about to happen and she didn't want to miss a moment of it.

She saw the glow's effect on her skin. It was cleaning, rejuvenating, and erasing every wrinkle and blemish from her sight. Her flesh, once loose, instantly became taut. It was as if Rose had sampled the Fountain of Youth, receiving the skin of a twenty-year old in return.

Rose was ecstatic with her transformation. She was young again. Her body radiated with a youthfulness she hadn't felt for decades. "I'm young, Maggie!" she yelled. "Thank you! Thank you!"

"There's more," Maggie's voice said.

And Rose still glowing watched as her body continued to change. She saw her legs�short and stubby�transform into long, straight columns of feminine perfection. She watched as the glow caused her hips to widen, ass to firm, waist to narrow, and hair to grow. She was beautiful. More beautiful than she had ever been in her life. And so tall � from 5' 1" to 6' 1". She was now taller than Maggie had been. But Maggie wasn't just tall, she was also extremely buxom. And a quick peek at her chest showed Rose greatly lagged Maggie's I-cups.

"Not for long," Maggie's voice suddenly said.

And Rose felt the glow suddenly coalesce on her breasts, making them tingle. Making them hot. She felt as if her breasts had caught on fire. But instead of pain, she felt nothing but pleasure. Waves and waves of pleasure.

Her B-cups, no longer sagging, a gift from Maggie's earlier 'Fountain of Youth' treatment, began growing. From small mounds that fit easily in her hands, Rose's breasts were becoming some of the largest on the planet. They seemed to be collecting flesh from some unknown dimension. Getting bigger and bigger. Two spheres running through the letters of the alphabet at an alarming rate.

When they finally stopped, Rose couldn't believe their size. They looked twice as big as Maggie's I-cups.

"They are," Maggie's voice said.

"How�how big are they?" Rose asked, her hands unconsciously caressing her new bounty.

"Well, I was a 38-I. You used to be a 34-B," Maggie's voice summarized and then paused.

"And," an impatient Rose said. "How big am I?"

"Well, you're both taller and bigger now, so the 34 is history. You're now a 38 like I was. And your cup size..."

"Yeah?"

"An R-cup," Maggie's voice said matter-of-factly. "Twice the size my I-cup used to be."

"Wow!" Rose yelled in amazement. "Just wait until George sees..." And then she stopped, remembering her husband�Maggie's husband�was dying in his bedroom.

Rose started crying. It didn't seem fair her being transformed the way she was and George�poor George continuing to die.

"He's not dying," Maggie's voice said. "I told you, 'My gift was for both of you'. While you were being transformed, George was being transformed."

"Does that mean, he's�"

"Yes, Rose, he's young again."

"And his�"

"Enormous!" Maggie's voice said. "It's even bigger than before."

Hearing that announcement, Rose ran towards the bedroom and stopped. She was suddenly immobilized. Her legs no longer functioned.

"Wha�what's going on?" she asked, suddenly fearful.

"Don't be afraid, Rose," Maggie's voice said. "I have some departing words I have to say to George. Words best said between him and me alone."

And Rose still immobilized felt Maggie's presence leave her body. She understood what Maggie had to do and gave her blessing. "Goodbye, Maggie," she said to the departing presence, knowing these would be the last words shared between them for some time to come. She wished they had more time to share�to talk�but Maggie was back for a reason. And that reason, unfortunately, didn't include time for old friends to socialize.

Maggie's presence heard Rose's goodbye. She, like her friend, wished there was more time for them to be together. But there wasn't. She had time for one more act. One more person. And she hoped he would listen.

Maggie's presence entered the bedroom and saw the transformed George lying in bed. The sight was ridiculous to say the least. He had, like Rose, grown in height and now at almost seven feet in height, had legs that extended way beyond the end of the bed. His body, young and athletic, looked out of place being immobile and bedridden.

"George!" screamed Maggie's voice, directed and resonating in his head.

The man instantly shot up as if dashed by a cold bucket of water.

"Maggie?" he said, looking for his wife.

Maggie in that moment appeared before his eyes in her ghostly splendor.

"Maggie, you�you came back," George said, rising from the bed. He stopped, noticing his new younger, muscular physique. "What the...?"

"George," Maggie began, "I've come back for you and Rose."

"Rose?"

"Your wife," Maggie said, "Rose."

"No," George said approaching Maggie,"you're my wife."

"I'm dead, George," Maggie said. "You have to accept that."

George listened to what Maggie's spirit said. He heard the words, but it took a while for them to register. And even then, he wouldn't accept them as true. He ran towards Maggie, his arms outstretched. He was going to hug her, love her, and convince her to stay. He reached for Maggie�

And went right through her. He tried repeatedly to touch her. To hold her. But he couldn't. And for the first time since her death he realized that Maggie wasn't coming back. She was really dead.

"You have to let me go," Maggie said.

But George didn't hear her. He was crying too much. He had fallen to his knees, staring up at Maggie's ghost. His mind trying to come up with some way he could touch her. But he couldn't.

"George, I don't have much time," Maggie said. "You have to let me go. I'm dead."

"But I love you, Maggie."

"I know, George," Maggie said. "But you're alive and I'm not. I was sent back because you won't let me go. And it's hurting you. It's hurting Rose. The love that should be going to her, you want give�you can't give�because you won't let me go. Let me go, George."

"I can't, Maggie," George said. "I love you too much."

"George," Maggie began, her form starting to fade, "I have to leave. I hope you give Rose a chance. That's why I came back. That's why I gave you the gifts I did. To give you two time. Time needed to solidify your marriage. I know you love me. I love you."

"Then why can't you stay?"

"I can't, George. I just can't." Maggie's ghostly form was now transparent. "You will always have my love. But you're married to Rose and she needs your love, too. Let me go, George and love Rose."

And with that, Maggie was gone.

George, remained on the ground, crying. He couldn't move. Seeing Maggie had been too much for him. He was lost in thought, trying to come to some sort of resolution�some sort of closure�with what Maggie said. He wasn't doing too well. Then he felt someone touch him on the shoulder.

He turned around, expecting to see Maggie�hoping to see Maggie. But instead he saw a giant of a woman possessing the biggest tits he had ever seen. They were even bigger than Maggie's. The giantess had the body of the goddess and yet her face looked like a younger version of Rose's. George knew logically that Rose must have experienced a transformation similar to his own. But he still had to ask the woman's identity.

"Rose?" he asked. "Is that you?"

"Yes, George, it's me."

And George looked at this woman � this beautiful, sexy woman � and felt love. Not the love he felt for Maggie. That would come later. But for the first time in their marriage, Rose wasn't existing in Maggie's shadow. And for the first time, George felt he could truly say to Rose the words she wanted to hear.

"I love you, Rose."

And with those words, George and Rose embraced each other. Happy to be alive. Joyous to have the chance to grow old together. And confident in this world and the next that true love never dies.