The Sculptor Ch 01 1

NOTE: The narrator of this story is not a self-insert. He's a character I came up with in a dream, and he's a very flawed person with too much power. He's pretentious as hell, he's a narcissist, he can't conceive of the idea that other people's opinions matter, he's at least a little sociopathic, he's a creeper, and of course he's a huge perv. I, the author, do not like to think any of those things apply to me. Except the first one and the last one. Just wanted to set the record straight.

*****

PROLOGUE: A BEAUTIFUL MOMENT

Midday Saturday in late July finds me sitting on a bench in Central Park. This is my favorite place to go on a summer day - the weather is impeccable, and I am surrounded by beautiful scenery and happy people. People here are just so more

alive

than anywhere else in the city. I have a book with me, but I am barely paying attention to it - the real reason I'm here is to practice my art. Park benches are a great studio for me, because all I have to do is sit and wait for inspiration to strike.

And here some is now. A pair of pretty girls, probably in their late teens, walks by hand in hand, enjoying the day, giggling conspiratorially together about some teenaged intrigue or other. I smile. Ah, to be young again. Perfect subjects. I wave my hand, the world seems to bend for just a second, and then everything grinds to a stop. My two adorable subjects freeze in their steps, those goofy smiles still plastered on their faces, mid-stride. And they're not the only ones. Everyone else here, everyone else in the world as far as I've ever been able to tell, has stopped right where they are. A pigeon has paused midway through taking flight, its fluttering wings frozen in air. Even the water droplets springing from a nearby fountain have ceased in their trajectory. Everything is perfectly still and silent. This moment is just for me.

I take a moment to enjoy the beauty of this single moment of bustling city life extended for eternity. Even after all this time, even after all these moments I have taken for myself, it never fails to take my breath away. I like to paint when the world is like this, just me. I'm quite pleased with the output I've gotten this way - I'm able to extract an immense amount of detail and meaning from a single frozen moment when I can take as long as I want to observe things. But my abilities have allowed me a truer, deeper art. You see, I'm a sculptor, of sorts. Of clay, yes, but also of women.

This moment will last as long as I want it to. Once, on August 14th, 2014, at 3:35 PM, I decided to simply stay in a moment for as long as I could. I walked around New York, then around Westchester County, then around Connecticut. I got as far north as Maine before turning around and walking home, then walked on toward Philadelphia and Washington. I never got tired, never got hungry. I never do when time isn't moving - I just keep walking as long as I need to get where I'm going. I walked, and I sketched, and I painted, and I sculpted, and then finally when I decided it was time to continue my life as I had known it before, I walked all the way back to the same park bench where I had first frozen that one immortal moment in the first place, and I let the moment go. It had felt like a year or more for me, although it was hard to tell since I never tired and the sun never moved, but as the newspapers and my phone informed me, it was still 3:35 PM, August 14th, 2014. Everyone around me went on just as they had when I'd started, unknowing - or knowing, just a little bit - the changes I had made while they slumbered.

Presently I rise, leisurely, amble over to my two beautiful muses, and begin setting their belongings aside. One stands about 5 foot 6 in her summery wedge sandals and sundress, auburn hair a bit past shoulder length framing a pretty, tastefully-made-up face. Her driver's license, in the small purse I glance through to find it, names her Amber O'Brien, just 18. Pretty girl, pretty name. Her friend, whose state ID card in her shorts pocket identifies her as the 19-year-old Haley Gutierrez, stands a bit shorter at 5 foot 5, though this is probably largely due to the Converse sneakers she is wearing in lieu of heels. Haley is dressed a bit more casually than Amber, although she is still prepared for the heat of the day in a short white T-shirt and high-waisted shorts, leaving just a bit of midriff and most of her legs exposed. Her dark brown hair is short, in the "pixie-cut" style favored by girls of her generation of a particular political stripe. I reluctantly disentangle their interlaced fingers from each other, though it pains me to destroy this beautiful gesture even if only for a moment, and begin pulling Amber's sundress up over her hips and off her body. Time to see what I'm working with.

Amber surprises me with a beautiful pair of huge youthful breasts under her dress, but the effect is nearly spoiled by her ugly, well-worn underwear. A body like this, and she chooses to disgrace it with this old, ill-fitting bra and these extremely unflattering cotton Hanes panties. Such a shame. I tut disapprovingly as I divest her of this ugly crap. Amber must not have an older sister to instruct her in these things. Once these distasteful garments are off her body, I carry them to a trash can on the other side of the park and deposit them inside. She's better off without them. Haley surprises me a little by having stronger underwear game than Amber, perhaps due to how tight her shorts are. A black thong - no lace, Calvin Klein brand - frames her tight little ass, and her small breasts are not restrained by a bra at all. Though it is fairly basic in style, I am pleased enough with the underwear to place it on top of the pile I make of Haley's clothes on the ground beside her, rather than in the trash. She is putting in at least a little effort with her underwear, so she is allowed to keep it.

Once the girls are naked - Amber's heels remain on her body, but Haley is barefoot - I carefully re-lace their fingers together, with relief. Friendship restored. I pace in circles around the two frozen nude beauties, sketching and taking in their subtleties. Amber's stomach has a bit of potbelly to it, like many girls as blessed as she in the chest department. Amber's breasts, though huge and well-shaped, show a bit more sag than she'd probably prefer. Meanwhile Haley's breasts, though quite firm, are also quite small - a small B or large A, I estimate - and though her butt is firm as well, without any clothing to shape it it appears small, almost squarish. She is lithe and athletic, but not very shapely. I imagine this causes quite some insecurity for her. I know what I have to do.

I close the distance between myself and Haley, pressing myself flush against her front, and snake my arms around her. One hand finds its way to her ass, the other to her hair. As I sway back and forth, slow-dancing with the frozen girl, I begin to caress her firm cheeks and stroke her short hair, and she begins changing. My left hand kneads her buttocks like clay, and as I squeeze and pull, they are reshaped. Sculpted. They become rounder, and they expand a bit further from her body. My right hand strokes and tugs at her hair, and it begins growing. Her chosen hairstyle does not suit her at all. I can only imagine she's trying to repel male attention for some reason. Well, with the changes I'm making she'll be able to live like a queen off male attention. I respect her personal choices enough to stop her hair growth at about collarbone-length, though. I step back and begin styling her hair with nothing but my hands and my powers, and soon enough she has a gorgeous face-framing bobcut. Beautiful. She should have come to me in the first place. I expand Haley's hips just a bit to match her new bigger ass, contour her flanks just a smidge to give her the classic hourglass shape, and this stage of my work is complete.

I step around behind Haley, press myself against her naked back and newly-expanded ass, and reach around her body to cup and fondle her small breasts. I breathe some of my power into her, and they grow. I'm not going to give her huge melon tits like Amber has. Every beautiful woman has her own unique

type

of beauty which I do my best to bring out, and Haley is a wiry athlete, not a bouncy bombshell. She needs something to work with, that's all. I stop when her boobs are manageable C-cups. They look beautiful, but even thinking the word "C-cups" makes me frown anyway. Haley did not need to wear a bra over her small, perky pre-sculpting boobs; I need to make sure that my gift of larger breasts is not also a curse of additional necessary underwear.

I hate bras, honestly. Women don't like wearing them; men don't like dealing with them. Really, when it comes down to it, everyone would prefer if they weren't necessary. When I sculpt a woman, I make a habit of freeing her from the tyranny of the brassiere for good. I make no exceptions. Every outfit, from the most casual to the most elegant and elaborate, is only improved by removing the bra from the equation. I step around in front of Haley, and work some more at her breasts. Shifting them, pulling them, shaping them more firmly, supporting them with her chest and back muscles. Improving them. When I am done, her breasts are still soft and pillowy and will still bounce fetchingly when she jumps or runs, but they naturally hold their own impossibly-round perky shape and their bouncing will cause her no pain or even discomfort. They, and she, are a work of art. I astonish myself sometimes.

I turn my attention to Amber. She is a bit closer to my aesthetic feminine ideal to begin with, but I still have gifts to give her. I run off to the closest cafe, borrow a chair, and sit in front of her to turn my full attention to her midsection. I really take my time with this. Beautiful stomachs are underrated. Slowly and with much concentration, I reshape her body subtly to direct some of her belly fat to more suitable locations (meaning, of course, her tits and ass) and burn off the excess, then repeat the process with her thighs and upper arms. I contour her abdominal muscles so that just a tiny hint of them shows through, leaving her with a toned, flat stomach. As long as she continues taking care of herself to the extent she already does, her body should keep the shape I'm giving it with a surprising amount of resilience. Just to see if I could, I once spent hours sculpting a 250-pound woman down to a very bouncy and generous 145 pounds, and kept checking in on her periodically to see how long the effects lasted. Her body took to my changes to some extent, but her personal habits were still bad enough that she ended up gaining about 30 pounds back over the next several months. I'm not a miracle worker.

Once I'm done with this process, Amber has already transformed from a pretty, busty girl into an absolute knockout. I could stop right here, but why would I do that? I stroke at her pretty red hair, growing it down to her waist but also increasing its luster and body and strength - I understand that the downside of long pretty hair is the amount of upkeep it requires to stay pretty, and it'd be irresponsible of me not to help her out with this. I firm up her nice round ass just a little, and reshape her big tits into beautiful, perky, supernaturally-round orbs, so that she need never even think about that awful bra she'd been wearing ever again. I even shade her lips and eyes a bit so that she doesn't need to spend as much time on makeup as she does.

Now, it is time to consider the question of body hair. Both girls have full, untamed bushes of pubic hair covering their crotches - Haley has shaped hers a bit to allow her to wear the underwear she does, but that's all. I understand fully - proper pubic-hair maintenance can be tedious and arduous, and if you're the kind of girl who'd, say, hack all the hair off her head to spite men, it can feel like an insult to have to repeat this process so often for the sake of others. That's why I'm here. I rub my hand slowly along Haley's groin and mound, and the hair falls away. I work meticulously, getting my fingers everywhere hair can grow, and it is gone. When I'm done, Haley's crotch is as smooth and soft as anywhere on her body. It will never grow hair again. No muss, no fuss. That curse is lifted from her as well. I repeat the process with Amber, leaving her just a tiny patch of close-cropped red hair directly above her smooth slit as proof of her natural hair color - the carpet can't match the drapes if there's no carpet, after all. I allow myself the slight whimsy of shaping it into a little heart. Adorable.

I'm not worried about how the girls will react to their changed bodies when time resumes, because women's minds actually go out of their way to accept the changes I make. My changes just sort of slide off of their brains. They'll invent their own rationalizations for me if they have to.

I could say pretty certainly, for example, that Amber and Haley will probably accept their new completely hairless pussies without consciously even noticing anything has changed. If they do notice, or if someone else points it out, they'll just conclude that they themselves must have decided to shave, and that they like it. They'll probably never notice that they don't need to

keep

shaving to maintain them, but if they do, they'll just conclude that they must have just shaved already at some point in the recent past. Haley probably won't cut her hair short again, for a while at least. She'll think that she herself decided to grow it out. Amber will probably realize she doesn't need to wear a bra anymore and just stop doing it, but I can't really say with certainty how her mind will accept my decision to remove her panties. She might grasp my intended message that old, ugly panties are beneath her and make a habit of only wearing nicer, more flattering ones; she might interpret it more bluntly and stop wearing panties altogether; there's a small chance she'll get nothing out of it and just go home and put on another pair of old worn french-cut Hanes without a second thought. It varies on a case-by-case basis. But she definitely won't suspect that someone else has been supernaturally meddling with her underwear preferences or pubic-hair status. I once healed a horrible burn victim, and nobody questioned it. When someone eventually did ask, she said "I got better," and everyone was satisfied.

Back to Amber and Haley. I rub my hands along their legs and armpits to permanently stop hair growth there as well - you're welcome, ladies - and then step back to peruse my finished work. It's breathtaking. The two nudes, beautiful beyond belief, strolling in the park, holding hands, smiling conspiratorially to each other. I simply MUST paint this. I walk all the way back to my apartment, retrieve a canvas, easel, and paint set, return to the park, and set to work. As I produce my artistic tribute to female beauty, I reflect that mental changes are so much harder to direct than physical ones. I could give a flat-chested woman H-cup tits and her only reaction would be to go shopping for new clothes the next day, but if I were to, say, start the world moving again with Amber and Haley naked and embracing in one of their beds, I can't say exactly what would happen. They would accept that nothing supernatural had occurred, but without more context that's all I really know. They might finish having the passionate mind-blowing sex their minds assumed they were in the middle of, or they might simply giggle at how silly they were being before getting dressed again in a few seconds. Maybe Haley would be really into it but Amber would be horrified she had apparently gone this far with her platonic friend and run away. Part of me wants to try it on the off-chance they'll stay in bed together and I can paint that moment, too, but in the end I decide that's not for me today.

Soon enough, I am satisfied with my painting of the two beautiful naked girls. I'm sure I'll be able to sell this. If anyone asks me about the models, I'll just say I found them in Central Park. It's true, after all. I carefully carry the canvas home so that it will start drying when I start the world up again, return to the park once more, and begin reluctantly dressing the girls.

Goodbye, my beauties. You'll never know what gifts I have given you.

I step back when they are again fully dressed. I have left Haley barefoot - it is such a hot day in the park, after all, and her sneakers must be much more comfortable dangling from the fingers of her free hand, the yellow striped socks balled up inside. I find myself staring at their clasped hands again. It's beautiful, and yet I can improve this too. I shift them a bit closer together, crook Haley's arm around the small of Amber's back to rest her hand on Amber's far hip, and tuck Amber's hand into the far back pocket of Haley's shorts, subtly cupping her new, juicier ass. I tilt Haley's head a bit to rest on Amber's shoulder: the final touch. That'll do it. I settle back onto my bench, and the world begins again.

The two girls finish their giggle, finally, but their conversation lulls for a second as they walk toward me. They both appear lost in thought - trying to figure out what's different. It's not an unpleasant expression, because my changes are never unpleasant. They feel a little different, a little more liberated, a little more confident. Sexier. They can't say how. Haley's top and Amber's dress cover their breasts a little less thoroughly, but they don't notice, at least not consciously. Amber has a new appreciation for the day's slight breeze, wafting under her skirt to caress her in a way she's never felt before. But the moment passes as their minds accept my changes, and by the time they pass directly in front of me they are giggling again. I watch them walk off, snuggled together the way I left them. Haley's free hand snakes around Amber's front to meet its mate, and Amber's hand delves just a bit deeper into Haley's pocket. I knew they'd love that. I raise my water bottle to them in salute, and sit back to await the next beautiful moment I can prolong and improve. If only true artists weren't always so unappreciated in their own time.

PART 1: A HORRIBLE MOMENT

It's Wednesday evening in late September, and I am strolling through a Central Park that is frozen in time. Sometimes I let my muses come to me, and sometimes I choose a moment at random, take it for myself, and see what stories it has to tell me.

The story I see right now is not a happy one. A young woman, perhaps in her mid-20s with pale blonde hair, sits crumpled on a bench, her face in her hands, sobbing, a suitcase on the ground beside her. This can't be good. I sit down next to her and, though I know she can't feel it, I rub her shoulders soothingly as I shuffle through her purse to find her ID. Erika Larsen, age 24.

What on Earth happened to you, Erika?

I brush her hair back behind her ear and lean in, resting my forehead against hers, and recall.

Sometimes I can judge a moment entirely on its own merits, but even for the most gifted of artists some additional context is sometimes necessary. For this, I have the power of Recall. I replay the last five minutes of Erika's life, through her eyes.

I am waiting on this park bench. A tall woman with short black hair arrives, and my insides clench up with despair. This woman has wronged me. I trusted her, and she took everything from me. Her face betrays no emotion other than a vague discomfort with having to be here at all, like she just wants to get this over with. She approaches me and hands me the suitcase. "Katie -" I begin, but she just mumbles an insincere apology, turns, and stalks off. I drop the suitcase on the ground, tear at my hair, and weep.