In the months since I found Photoshop Omega, Chantell has changed.
My step sister leaned over my shoulder, pointing to her nude photo on the screen. "See, the problem is right here. Those arms are just a touch too flabby."
I looked at them, frowning. "What? They're curved nicely--any smaller and it'd look off. You don't want a pair of chicken wings."
"No, no, not smaller-- they just need a bit of tone," she said, rolling her eyes. "Just enough to say I take care of myself, but no so much that I look like I spend every night at the gym."
I frowned at the latest mockup of her on the screen. She wasn't quite to the Super Slut version of herself I'd created those months ago. But she was a lot closer to that than her former self, that's for damn sure.
Chantell had been willowy, fillyish, pale, and maybe just a little underdeveloped looking for her age. She'd had an average complexion, and not a bad shape to her tits, even if they weren't huge. Her hair had been a little thin and the average dull brown. A perfect slate for some mustachioed salon guy with a flowing white shirt to transform for the about the same price as a good blow job.
Hell, if you think about the way those salon beefcakes fawn over their female clientele, a trip to the salon is basically a blow job for upper class girls.
Well, Chantell didn't need that now.
The changes had been gradual, and seeing as it was me who 'shopped them, beautifully subtle individually, yet devastatingly powerful in sum. Now Chantell had perfect, even skin, a healthy complexion, larger eyes, thicker lips, and a perfectly toned stomach. Her hair was a dazzle of thick, flowing waves and subtle layers of highlights.
Chantell's "growth spurt" almost halfway through her 18th year had jumped her to a new cup size, and (at her own insistence) she had perfect, round, tiny areola. Her ass was nothing to sneeze at, either--firm, round, curving out smoothly from her waist. The kind of ass that I'd actually witnessed a guy walk off the sidewalk staring at, spilling his latte on his leg from the sudden drop.
All thanks to my prodigious skill, and a magical little program called Photoshop Omega.
Don't think it was an accident that in the intervening months, Chantell had gotten into her preferred college, gotten a cush job as an "executive administrative assistant" (or as I refer to it, Executive Prestige Eye Candy), and changed boyfriends four times.
And don't think any of this was my idea, either. I would have been fine being done after her initial upgrades.
At first, it was just a text, or a quick request every once and awhile for a blemish, or some big pores. But soon she was coming down to my room once or twice a week, perking her boobs up here, sculpting her caves there. I was intimately familiar with every wave and tussle of her hair. And god, how many times did I make tiny changes to her feet? The woman is obsessed with her arches, her heels, her toes.
I mean, she hardly ever even wears sandals. She lives in socks. Does she spend every night just staring at them in horror under her covers or something?
I let her get away with the old "I let you fuck me, so this is the least you can do" line for the first month of requests. But after that, I put my foot down.
"Okay, that toe looks okay for now, I guess," she'd said, bending over to pull a magazine out of her bag. Her white t-shirt was tighter than her previous wardrobe would have called for, and she wore yellow skinny jeans. Blech. "Now, about my hair. I think we should revisit it a little bit. It's not bad, but I was thinking of trying this new look, just like--"
"Okay, that's about enough," I said, folding my aims. "I'm cutting you off."
She froze. "What?"
"You heard me. I'm done. Out. Pressing the eject button. Swiping left."
Her expression darkened. "Oh?"
I leaned toward her, staring into her eyes. "We spend *hours* on your last do, blending and shining, shifting and layering, and now you're already tired of it?" I shook my head. "Well, tough rocks. If you need a new hairstyle that's perfectly the way you want it, you can damn well pony up for an expensive salon and get it done like everybody else. I am not your personal makeover artist."
Chantell straightened. She let a chill glare settle on me. "I let you put your disgusting cock in me, and this--"
"That was WEEKS ago, bitch, and I think I've paid you pretty amply for it." I gave her a look up down. "More than amply. No more. I've got shit to do that actually pays, and I'm low on Mt. Dew money. The door is right there, don't let it hit you." I pointed firmly at the door.
Chantell stared at me a moment. Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, I see how it is."
"Good," I started, turning back to the screens. "Now if you'll just see yourself out, I can--"
"You really are a sick fuck, you know that?"
I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
I turned back, only to see that she was halfway through stripping her top off. She threw it aside to reveal her recently upgraded power boosters pouring lushy between the confines a lacy red bra.
"Seriously, you are the lowest kind of shit. But if that's what it's gonna take, then fine."
She reached back and unclipped the bra, pulled it aside, and let her fun bags bounce free. My mouth fell a little bit open. Before I could react more, she reached down and undid my pants button, and then the zipper. With ease that spoke of experience, she yanked them down at the waist, and my enhanced member sprang out, as large and in charge as ever.
"Wait, I didn't--" I started, but then she spat a bit loogy on the head, and working the shaft, sucked one of my balls into her mouth.
What was I going to say after that? Stop, you fiend?
She proceeded to give me a magnificent blow job. I came profusely all over her pristine face.
After that, things sort of just worked themselves into a rhythm.
"I dunno," I said finally. "Wouldn't more tone make you look make you look kinda like a gym rat by default? I mean, your abs are already pretty tight."
"No, they wouldn't," Chantell said, shaking her head. Without a trace of embarrassment, she pulled off her top. She hadn't even bothered to wear a bra. The perfect rounds of her breasts bounced as her shirt, a pink one with an S-shield in rhinestones, pulled away. She held up one of her arms next to her body, and flexed it a little.
"See? I want it to look like that, but without having to hold it that way."
I eyed the sight for a moment longer. I heaved a sigh. "Alright," I said, mouse and pen tablet already moving, "Give me a few minutes, and I can tone them up."
I got to work. She resumed her spot leaning over me. She hadn't bothered to put her shirt back on. She was just close enough that my arm touched the bare skin of her left boob when I made a larger mouse movement.
"There," said, finishing the changes. I half turned to her. Her face was really close to mine. "Good for you?"
She stared it it intently for a moment, then nodded. "Do it."
I turned, and exported the changes to reality. Because basically, that's what the program did. Overwrote right over whoever I had a picture of. Let me edit over the physical forms of people like the fucking God of Photoshop.
Well, maybe not that far. I couldn't alter minds--hell, I couldn't even change clothes. All the changes had to be inside the skin somehow, or the hair. And I couldn't just copy paste a giant pair of tits on someone--the program would reject it with an error. I had to blend it, and blend it masterfully, so that whatever edits I did were gradual, and looked like they were supposed to be there.
So maybe just Photoshop demigod? Or fairy godfather, maybe?
No, that title gives me an image of a Mafioso with a stern face and sparkling white wings conjuring horse heads into beds. I'll work on the name.
The changes took, and Chantell let out a little shiver, and straightened. She looked down, admiring her newly toned arms, flexing them a little to see how much bigger they'd get, relaxing them to see how they looked against her body. "Good enough," she said with a shrug.
She turned, and gave me a tired look. "Well, let's get this over with," she said, and started to undo her pants. "God, you're such a bastard. I can't believe you still make me pay you this way."
I rolled my eyes. "I would accept money, you know."
"Yeah, sorry, I don't have the ten grand per change you'd fuck me over with." Her black yoga pants came down, revealing bright orange, stretchy panties. "Fucking me this way is bad enough. Hurry up and get your clothes off. At least your body is hot enough now I can just stare at it and picture somebody else's face."
I gave her a thin-lipped look. Yes, I'd upgraded my cock to put me in the shock-and-awe club. But that wasn't the only change I'd made to myself. Would you?
I mean, that's always the *first* thing to do. Unless you've ever inspired people to shout "the bells! The bells! Sanctuary!" at you, or have a burn scar for a face. But with some time and reflection, mostly in the bathroom mirror, I decided to be conservative. No need to suddenly go Brad Pitting around.
So I just trimmed away the fat, evened out the skin and the hair. No Schwarzenegger muscles, just some nice athletic ones that I'd never in my life spent an instant in a gym to earn. Nothing I couldn't have actually done if I weren't as lazy as shit.
And I made my dick a bit bigger again. Again, wouldn't you?
"Holy shit, you made it bigger, didn't you?" she said, staring down at it as I lost my pants. "As if you don't stretch my pussy enough."
Chantel's expression set in her usual glower, but she didn't stop staring at the meat. "Well, at least get me off first once with your tongue," she said, lying back on my bed and spreading her legs. "I'm going to need it to be wet enough to get that monster in me."
My mouth twitched, but I shrugged. In truth, I didn't have anything against eating her pussy. I actually like it---it was sweet, and her moans made my member nice and hard. So I got down on my knees, and putting a hand on each of her inner thighs, buried my face in her hairless twat, and just as I suspected:
She was already soaking.
If her bottoms hadn't have been the water-wicking kind--does Nike make Dri-FIT panties?--it would have been running down her legs.
