Transformative
When he came into the power, he felt it would be important to limit himself. Not for moral reasons—he understood that he would be crossing lines, that if Heaven were real he was forfeiting his shot. That wasn’t what bothered him.
He thought of what he was doing as an experiment, and he wanted to restrict himself to one variable.
For a long time, he did little with the power but minor tests to determine its efficacy and workings. Not that he was idle; he spent his time establishing the parameters. Only single women, to reduce psychological tension (and due to an attack of scruples that struck him when he pictured his close friend’s relationship, the only thing keeping her anxiety under control, afflicted by his plans). Only one drastic change, plus the required tag-alongs to manage the change. That alteration would differ subject-to-subject but would in his esteem enhance confidence and sexuality. In addition, the same minor ‘enhancements’ to each subject, to enhance the experiment and the distance their new from their previous lives without creating more variables.
His subjects, like himself, were college students whom he’d known since high school, so the changes he was creating would, he decided, be applied retroactively from mid to late puberty. It would take a lot of power to enact such a change, and he had struggled greatly to find a source, but as his plans final-ed out—seemingly of their own accord they were so natural to him now—he felt more and more confident about the idea he had.
There were many ways to power the magic he had found, metamorphic magic. Like all magics, it was drawn from the world’s natural energies, but the various methods by which these energies were harnessed determined how much power could be taken in at what speed. Tantric practices were one, but they were slow to build. A cataclysmic storm was the ideal, in theory, but hard to predict and hard to take pride in the consequences.
He knelt at last in the middle of the Yellowstone woods, over a spot where a diviner he trusted closely assured him he was nearest the immense power of the subterranean supervolcano. His skin tingled as he felt the powerful churning of the magmatic and hydrothermal energies beneath him. He lay out around him several photographs, half of his subjects and half computer renditions of the changes he intended, to help him focus his spells without getting carried away. On the back of each original photograph was a brief description of the subject, intended modifications, so on. He and the diviner, a man named (probably by his own choice) Haytham, had worked closely on the wording of the spell, intending to limit the scope of the ‘butterfly effect’ that retroactive changes can create to the current time. He wanted change, of course, his entire goal was to examine a before/after of a life sexually empowered, but he didn’t want other lives ruined by alterations to his subjects’ lives. So, a copy of the words they’d chosen lay also before him.
It took him hours to tap into the energy so far below ground, but the instant he did the power rushed through him like a surge of magma up from the mantle into the earth’s crust, filling his spirit with hot magic. He grinned.
A photograph of a curvy, pale woman, thick-legged and -hipped although pudgy around the middle as well. Muscle is easy to see under the fat, but, only if one looks for it. Her hair is brown and tightly curled, dyed pink at the tips, and frames a lovely rose-cheeked face, eyes honey-brown, lips thin and pink, ears pierced in several spots and nose studded.
As fiery magic envelops the image, the ink forming the notes on the back glows:
Alana Landau
5′8″
Roughly 150-160 lbs
AA cup, A when hormones or weight gains are heavy.
Confident with her physical fitness and her intellect, but not her body or social skills. Pre-Med student. Virginal, but with limited sexual experience. Struggles with weight and body image, specifically inability to reach goal weight despite being in excellent muscular and cardiovascular shape. Alluring enough when even near goal weight that as a solution (not the word I should be using, maybe) I’ll be enhancing her breasts to a rather full DD-cup instead of addressing her waist.
Hopefully that confidence boost, as she’s always been insecure about her extraordinarily small (though I always thought they were cute) boobs, will perk up her body image enough that she’ll either rock the curves or have more control over her weight.
Alana
She hated her alarm. And her useless big tits.
Wait, did she? No—she had tiny boobs, didn’t she? What then was pushing up at her chest, keeping her from any comfort in her bed?
She couldn’t think with her alarm blaring—she used to use music but when hungover she tended to sleep through it—so she rolled along and turned it off. As she did, her huge breasts swayed and pulled on the muscles of her chest. It was odd; she was accustomed to the discomfort, but sort of … shocked by her familiarity with it. Didn’t her nipples slip out of her A-cups sometimes when she should’ve worn AAs? Her eyes seemed to blur open, as usually happened on Saturdays. She hated having to set an alarm on weekends, but she’d sleep until late afternoon otherwise.
Burning the candle at both ends? A pre-med student? Never.
When she stumbled at last from bed, her breasts swung heavily in the loose bralette she always slept in.
No, she didn’t. “What the fuck.”
“’Lana,” her roommate asked, “Everything okay?”
She was about to say of course not, she’d grown at least four sizes overnight, when that same other no, real no, false consciousness corrected her, showing her memories of her complaining about having big boobs to Chrissie, her roommate, before. In her confusion all she could think to say was “Mm.”
Back to Chrissie, she took off the bralette and massaged them, reveling in the sensitivity, in how each squeeze gave her shivers, each light brush over a nipple sent chills down her spine. She’d never always been this sensitive.
“Sore?” Chrissie asked, her voice as casual as though she’d witnessed Alana topless rubbing a night’s pain out of her tits a hundred times which she had. No, she hadn’t. Unless—
“Ugh,” Alana said, responding to her own thoughts as much as Chrissie’s concerns. “Yeah, they are.”
The bralette was quite plainly an extra-large. She’d always been heavyset but for her chest medium usually sufficed, at least in the history in which she was an A-cup. It was bizarre, reminding her somewhat of Orwell’s idea of doublethink:
In one part of her mind she’d been like this since the summer after sophomore year of high school—she recalled the intrigued looks from boys, scorn from other women, the difficulties with shopping and athletics (thank God she still had her basketball memories, if perhaps in a far more expensive sports bra), the cleavage she’d been able and happy to show, the—oh—nights with boys many of whom who saw only her looks but whom she forgave after the screaming, writhing pleasure they gave her.
In the other was the small-boobed woman she remembered, who needed a padded bra to rock a low-cut top, who had only been with two guys, although on the other hand who didn’t have to deal with back or chest pain.
Still, the titty-her was confident, proud, as tough and snarky as the other her but more liked for it, no less intelligent but with a lot more fun in her memories.
The pictures on her dresser were different, too. No, they weren’t. Her prom dress, a beautiful deep purple gown of soft satin, exposing a lot of back and shoulder, had a lot more trouble containing her impressive bust than in the old false no, real image. The boys in her group selfies were hotter—not the pictures with her main friend group, they were the same (except that the boys seemed more pleased about being next to her), but with other high-school hangers-on. Looking at some of the boys gave her the rush of pleasant memory, fiery lips on her hipbones and strong hands on her tits. Love-bites to her nipples that made her squirm and moan.
Her weight, which had always given her anxiety, bothered her less in the new real history. Sure, she was curvy, but her hips rocked and her tits drew attention from her stomach, and boys overlooked a lot when that soft midriff was pressed against hard abs, or fluttering from the muscle spasms of a screaming orgasm—God, she was horny. The other real her was a lot more sexually reactive than the smaller her. Noticed more, wore panties less, had hickeys more, leaked wetness at every party, even thought of her dare- and drunk- kisses with girls in a better light. The memory of spunky Cat’s lips, the tongue Cat added even though by the terms of the dare she hadn’t needed to, made her blush.
“’Lana you’re bright red. Are you—” Chrissie chuckled “Has it been a while?”
Alana stopped massaging her breasts. “Mhmm,” she said, chagrinned and if possible turning redder. “Sorry. Distracted lately.”
“You’d best put a shirt on ’fore I get distracted, babe.” It was purely teasing, Chrissie was straight or at the most barsexual, but the thought of it still turned Alana on. Distracting. Commanding attention for her looks. It was a nice feeling. Sexist, maybe, but in these other memories she’d found sexism somewhat more convenient than in her fake no, original memories.
Her head was starting to hurt, too. She decided not to question it too much for at least a little while, and stood to dress. Her wardrobe wasn’t too different, the typical college gamut of comfort to sex appeal with a tendency towards leggings, sweaters, and tight jeans, but (as she’d almost expected) it all fit the new usual—fuck, whatever—her.
She put on a black laced demi bra, emphasis without too much lift, under a cowl-neck sweater with a fairly low neckline, arranging the cowl to give only a hint at her cleavage. She found it odd how easily and habitually she dealt with her new bust, but then it wasn’t new at all. After squeezing into a pair of tight hip-hugging jeans, she went over to the window to check on the temperature. It was a bit chilly, but not bad; she’d be fine in the sweater.
“Hey, Chrissie,” she said, “I’m gonna grab a coffee with a friend. Want me to bring you a cinnamon straw?” Cinnamon straws, for whatever reason, were Chrissie’s weakness.
“Sure. Who’re you seeing?”
“Isabella. Just need to catch up” and talk about how fucking weird her morning’s been.
“See ya.”
Alana pulled out her phone and fired off a text to Isabella.
—Miss you—coffee?
—Sure! Now?
—ish, just leaving
—Usual place, half-hour?
—ye :)
Alana left.
Isabella was an old friend of Alana’s from high school, a brilliant legal mind attending Columbia who also happened to be open to the … she hated thinking ‘paranormal’ but what other explanation was there? There wasn’t a psychological condition that would implant a full set of false memories like this, at least not without other symptoms.
At any rate, Isabella was or claimed to be an ‘empath,’ someone preternaturally attuned to the emotions of others.
She felt the eyes on the street and in the subway, mostly of men but then it was New York, roving along her figure, and found herself swaying her hips a bit more as she walked. Sometimes the looks bothered her, of course, but with the thirst she felt today it was fine. Almost pleasant.
Half an hour’s riding and walking, give or take, found her settling down in a family-owned coffee shop not far from Columbia across from a gorgeous dark-brunette with big, amber eyes, pink lips, and an easy smile. Isabella had a soft midriff indicative of her ethnic love of sweets and pastries but, an avid climber, also a wide-hipped hourglass figure, arms and long legs and ass beautifully muscled.
She apparently noticed Alana’s distress; it couldn’t have been hard. “You okay, babe?”
“I … have I always been this, um … big?” She gestured to her tits breasts.
“Wh—uh—yeah. Are you—yeah. Since maybe sophomore year. Why do you ask?”
“I just, like …” She couldn’t find the words, and sipped her latte. “I think I’m having an identity … thing. This morning I woke up, and I had … these. And I always have, but I also haven’t.”
As Alana paused, trying to find words, Isabella’s eyes widened slightly over her cup. “Explain?”
“I … I have two sets of memories. In one, I’ve had them for ages. In the other I haven’t, and that’s the one that feels more real to me, only …” She nodded assertively to her cleavage.
Isabella nodded. For a moment she thought, full lips parted slightly, before she answered. “I don’t have a heavy psych background, but I’ve never heard of anything that could cause that.”
“Me neither.”
“Well … I … I can tell you’re really stressed about this. I get it. Let me, um … ugh.” She sighed, posture deflating. “I don’t really wanna talk about it unless I’m sure it’ll help you. It’s a bit weird, even for me. Just … I’ll get back to you.”
“Um … sure.”
Isabella got up, hips swaying alluringly as she left—Alana found her eyes drawn to the half-Argentine’s firm, pert ass. She felt her thong—she’d barely even noticed that it was a thong she’d put on—rubbing against her clit as her labia swelled with lust. God, she needed some good head.
As she returned to NYU by subway, she saw a gaggle of the school douches heading the other direction, taking up most of the narrow hallway to the stairs up. The fake old her would’ve ignored them, but she found herself meeting eyes with one or two of the more chiseled ones—until she noticed that one of them was Brent … Something-or-other, a jock from her Intro to Biochemistry course. She’d some weeks prior hooked up with his best friend, and he was giving her shit for it.
At first, the new memory didn’t jibe for her, but she blinked, and saw in her mind’s eye Johnny—the friend—with his head buried between her legs, pulling back now and then to smack her pussy and keep her on the moaning, wailing edge, while she groped her own tits and almost cut her nipples with her nails.
He grinned. “‘A-la-naa,” he said, trying to sound sexy. “Heading back to my place? I’ll see you get a real dicking.”
She regretted taking the time to flirt with the others of his pack. At least the new her had some standards yet. “I’d sooner put razor wire in my own asshole,” she replied.
The jocks ooh-ed, but Brent naturally failed to heed them. “Kinky, eh? You’ll come around.”
“I doubt it.”
“Come on, I’m twice the looker Johnny is. Big, thick dick—that’s what you want, right?”
Realizing that Brent was serious, the other jocks started to shuffle, embarrassed. One—Matt, maybe it was—gave her an apologetic grimace.
Alana felt her face flush with anger. “Just because I wanted dick once, Brent, maybe a few times, doesn’t mean I do now. I’m sure mommy spoiled you, but you’re not entitled to whatever you want out here in the real world.”
“Slut,” he shot back.
She flipped him the bird, and strode off, comforted that even as a bit more promiscuous she could hold her own.. Matt’s eyes stayed on her the whole time she left, eyebrows raised, one side of his lips twisted up, sort of a ‘not bad’ gesture she guessed. Though Brent was right that he was a looker, she was more for Matt. Maybe not as handsome but just a substantially better person. She caught Matt’s eyes on her thick rear just as she started up the stairs to the street. He looked chagrined, but she gave him a sly grin.
But as she got back to her dorm, something occurred to her—she’d taken dick. New-her, that was. She’d lost her V and had no memory to—but no. She would did have the memory. Smiling, she opened the door praying for an empty room to greet her,
It did. Chrissie was out, which was fine as Alana had forgotten the straw. The door had barely shut when she popped the button on her jeans and peeled them off of her, taking her sweater and bra off in one go, tits spilling free with an erotic tug at her chest. Her nipples were already hard, and the cool air made her squirm. She made it over to her bed, rubbing her legs together as she walked which worked her thong deeper between her lips, but didn’t even have the energy to topple onto the bed—
She’d been first taken just where she was now, leaning against the foot of her bed. The guy was just a guy, something like Dean or Danny, a hot basketball player from a wild party that had gotten her simply too aroused to not take a guy home. He had spent so delightfully long on her body, raking fingers across her hipbones, teasing and biting her breasts, nipping hickeys into her collarbone, that by the time he spun her to face away from him and shoved her torso down onto the bed, her pussy could’ve handled a wine bottle comfortably.
She leaned over her bed the same way, rubbing her tits hard into the soft fabric of her blanket, flicking fingers across her clit before jamming them deep into herself, hard and fast, over and over, yet not as hard or deep as Dean had gone.
He’d yanked her thong and tights down around her knees and flipped up her microskirt, ran the length of his long, throbbing-hard cock between the cheeks of her smooth, thick ass, teased her opening with his tip—she’d screamed—and then bottomed out in her with one slow, firm motion.
She tried to use her thumb on her clit and keep her fingers in her pussy, but she was too wet and slid off, so she used her other hand’s forefinger. The pressure made her scream, legs quivering, huge tits pressing against the velvety fabric.
He had fucked her for just five-odd minutes, but by the time he came she was a shaking mess of orgasm along his cock. He would reach around and knead her soft tits, or bite her neck, and she would come again. Every vein of his cock seemed to stand out inside of her, pressing against another nerve—she felt impaled, like her body was helpless and immobile under the power of this incredible feeling between her legs. The sheets and her thighs were drenched with her wetness. Gasping, speeding up his rhythm inside of her, he stuttered out the word “pill?”
“Mmmmmmm yesyesyes go ahead YES,” she had whimpered, and he sped up even further. He fucked her hard, so hard that she writhed under him, legs lifted off the floor, ass shaking, screaming in joy. She felt his cock seize up to come, and just as it did so she felt also his hand along her abdomen. Another orgasm, stronger even than her last ones, began to build, locking the muscles in her legs—then his hand found her clit, one finger pressing hard against it, and she felt herself contract and spasm with an orgasm so powerful that her legs and abdomen kept vibrating for nearly a minute as her paroxysms drew Dean to orgasm as well.
He came deep into her, and slid out, sinking exhaustedly onto the floor. She tried to balance on her legs and fell beside him; he leaned over and kissed her fiercely on the lips, then again on her nipple, making her tremble.
Her orgasm came like a dam bursting, and she collapsed against the bed, legs buckling, still rubbing her clit furiously while her other hand slick with juice pinched at her nipple and squeezed her breast.
As she slunk to the floor, calming down, she saw on her wall clock that she’d gotten off for twenty minutes. Her legs couldn’t handle walking just yet, so she crawled over to her phone to check for messages, dripping with sweat and sex, pussy still out. The cool air after such a strong session felt amazing.
Chrissie had texted her that she’d be out for a bit, but more interesting was one from Isabella:
—Meet me tonight at 11:30 at Grand Central Station. Don’t wear jewelry unless it’s pure—silver, gold, copper, that kind of thing. No synthetic fabrics. No cell phone.
She fired off a reply.
—what in the fuck
—It’s super hard to explain but please trust me
—Isabella what
—We’re going to meet someone
—what, a sewer person?
—Umm …
—Jesus, Izz. no one else
—Mm?
—I wouldn’t do this for anyone else
Expecting gratitude from Isabella was always a dicey proposition, so Alana wasn’t surprised when her friend’s reply was simply
—Probably smart
—see ya
‘I was just thinking my life wasn’t quite hard enough,” Alana muttered.