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 *
