Upgrading Each Other

Upgrading Each Other

By Herbdelight or Herbdel101 (also Claricol3)

A few years ago, prolific BE author Trogdor297 put out a collection of snippets and unfinished stories on a website. Trogdor said they'd left the piece unresolved.

The idea behind Upgrade caught my fancy and I've come up with a possible continuation. I've included the original work so my follow-on story has context for readers. My thanks to Trogdor for a fun concept.

Upgrade: word count 5,683

All characters are adults. This story involves consensual encounters leading to a relationship. If you are under 18, go somewhere else

Upgrading Each Other: word count: 32,781

Tags: BE, PE, inflation, magic, growth, impregnation, transformation, mental transformation, unrealistic sizes

Yes, everyone in the stories is over age 18.

"Upgrade" by TROGDOR297

Sylvie stood at the edge of the dark club, leaning against the wall by herself, feeling entirely uncomfortable. Her hand trembled with nerves as it gripped her half empty cocktail, making the ice within clink against the side of the glass. She'd hoped the alcohol would help her feel more at ease, but so far it had failed to achieve that goal.

The lanky brunette had come here tonight because... well she didn't really know why she'd come here tonight. Desperation perhaps? Two weeks ago, she had attended her fourth wedding this year, this one hosted by one of her friends from university, Carol Simpson. It had been a lovely event, very classy and elegant, but the entire experience had left Sylvie feeling dejected. Carol was the last of her friend group besides herself to get married, and though she knew it was catty of her and she felt a little guilty about it, Sylvie had always thought that there was no way that frumpy Carol would find her prince charming before her.

And yet she'd watched her friend walk down the aisle a fortnight ago, while she'd sat alone in the pews. After that night it was like a fire had been lit under her ass. She wasn't old by any means, only 32, but it was time for her to stop thinking that she should just wait for some storybook romance to fall in her lap. If she wanted magic, she'd have to find it herself.

Standing in the nightclub, head pounding from a combination of the music and the dry ice, she had the creeping suspicion that she would find no magic here. In fact, she deeply regretted coming. The drink was overpriced. The music was much too loud and everyone here was at least 5 years younger than her. In hindsight she knew this was a stupid idea and a waste of time.

With a sigh, drowned out by the ambience, she walked over to the bar to return her glass. She leaned over and placed the half full drink on the illuminated countertop, then turned to walk away, when a voice caught her attention.

"Didn't like that one?"

She turned around to see who'd spoken. A man leaned against the bar, wearing all black, smiling at her over his shoulder. He was... handsome? And in his 30's?! Where had this guy been all night!

"It was fine," she said, stepping over to him. "I... I was just leaving."

"Leaving before you finish your drink? Those things are 25 bucks each, that just seems wasteful," he said giving her an impish grin.

Sylvie shrugged. "Maybe. Guess it just wasn't good enough."

"Gin & Tonic?" He asked.

She nodded. "Mmhmm."

"So, what would you prefer?" he said.

Sylvie walked up and leaned on the bar beside him.

"I don't know. Not a Gin & Tonic," she smiled.

"Fair enough," he said and leaned closer to reach out and rest a hand on her hip. Sylvie at first felt shocked at this brazen contact, but at the same time she also felt excited.

"How about... you try this?" he said.

Not breaking eye contact with her, he slid a drink forward along the bar from behind him. It was a glass similar to the one she'd been drinking out of, but it was filled with an amber coloured liquid and had a floating orange peel.

Sylvie raised her eyebrows.

"You're kidding right? Do you think I'm one of those dumb 22-year-olds?" she said with skepticism as she gestured to the dance floor.

"I'm not going to just drink some random drink. I just met you, you could've put something in it!" she said.

The man nodded, pursing his lips slightly. "Fair enough," he said.

Then he lifted the glass and took a sip of it himself before setting it back atop the bar before her. "How about now?"

Sylvie looked from the drink to the handsome stranger. Oh, what the hell, he seemed trustworthy. She reached for the drink and took a sip of the amber liquid.

"Mmm!"

She let out an involuntary hum of delight as she savored the taste.

"That's amazing! What is it?" she said.

The man took the drink from her and took another sip, swishing it about in his mouth.

"Pretty sure it's a Negroni?" he guessed.

"Pretty sure?" Sylvie asked, confused. "Isn't it your drink?"

He smiled at her. "No, it's your drink"

She frowned. "What?"

The man shook his head, his smile widening.

"Never mind. Do you want to get out of here? The music's hurting my head," he said.

Sylvie reached for the Negroni to take another sip, her fingers brushing against his.

"I thought it was wasteful to not finish a drink?" she flirted.

The man laughed. "Alright, alright, you got me there!"

Sylvie found herself smiling as she sipped the drink. She was surprised at how good it was. She'd never had one before, but she reckoned she'd never had a cocktail that tasted as delicious as this one. She tilted the glass back and drained it, the orange peel bumping against the tip of her nose.

"Alright, let's go" she said, setting the drink back down on the bar.

Together the couple walked aimlessly through the city streets. Sylvie learned his name was Peter, and he'd only recently moved downtown. He'd gone to the club for the same reason she had, to maybe find someone, and like her had been frustrated when the only people present were far too young for him. That was until he'd seen Sylvie.

As they walked through the dark streets, their hands found each other's. Fingers entwined and gripped. They wandered, simply talking and sharing, not caring for anyone else in the world. Peter seemed nervous as he walked, constantly touching his face, and arms. Sylvie found it endearing. Though she had a better grip, she was certainly feeling butterflies in her stomach too.

Every so often a car would drive past, headlights illuminating the pair of them. Each time Sylvie was surprised to find how attractive Peter was. She thought she had a good look at him in the club. Now, every time she caught glimpses of him, he seemed different, better. His hair was better-styled, his chin more defined, his stubble was, well, stubblier. Even his body seemed different. She could've sworn he wasn't this buff before. His biceps stretched the sleeves of his tight black t-shirt.

"Where do you live?" she asked, shivering slightly in the cool night air.

"In an apartment across town" Peter said. "Would you like to see it?"

Sylvie nodded with a smile. "Let me call us an Uber" she said as she reached for her phone.

Peter caught her by the wrist "No need! I drove" Sylvie's eyes raised in surprise. "You have a car?" she exclaimed.

Peter had told her he both lived and worked in the downtown core. Most people she knew with that lifestyle didn't bother owning a car. It was an unnecessary expense.

Peter nodded. "Yeah, I'm just parked down this alley" he said gesturing to the dark gap between a pair of buildings.

"Here? Why here?" she inquired.

With a smile Peter gestured across the street. They were standing on the other side of the road from the club where they'd met. She hadn't noticed but they'd walked one big loop.

"Come on" he said, gently tugging her hand and leading her into the darkness.

"Ah!" she cried as she was pulled into the shadows. "Peter! I can't see anything!"

"Don't worry, I can" he said calmly.

They continued for another twenty feet, before he stopped in front of her.

"Just a second" he said.

For a few moments there was silence in the pitch-black alley.

Sylvie stood nervously in the dark, holding on to Peter's hand. Suddenly the alley filled with light as two bright cones beamed. They were standing in front of a car, but not just any car.

"Oh my god!" Sylvie squealed. "You have a Lamborghini Aventador?"

Peter stared at the car, a look of surprise on his face as well. It disappeared as he turned back to Sylvie.

"Yeah, I guess I do," he said.

"Oh Peter! I love this car! It just looks so sleek and sexy!"

Sylvie ogled the shiny black metal of the supercar, her mouth split in a broad grin.

Peter nodded. "Glad you like it... Hop in!"

Giggling and giddy Sylvie rushed around to the passenger side, pulled open the door, and slid into the low leather seat. Peter got into the driver's seat, staring at the wheel with confusion. The car still wasn't on. Peter didn't seem to know where the ignition button was.

"Is something wrong?" Sylvie asked as she looked at him. From the overhead light it was noticeable that Peter was much more muscular than when she'd first seen him. She figured it just must've been poor lighting in the club.

Peter shook his head. "No, nothing's wrong, I just always forget where the ignition is."

"It's right there" Sylvie said, pointing at the button.

"Aha, right. Duh," Peter said as he pressed it, bringing the engine to life.

Shifting into gear he stepped on the gas, and they shot out of the alley and onto the street.

"Woooooo!" Sylvie whooped with delight as they took off into the night, the engine of the Lamborghini roaring with power.

After an exhilarating joy ride through the streets of the city, they arrived at his apartment building.

It didn't look like much from the outside, certainly not the level of elegance she'd expected from someone who owned a Lamborghini. As they pulled into the parking garage, they passed row after row of low-level sedans. Sylvie pushed the oddity from her mind. Peter had said he was new to the city, perhaps this place was just temporary until his real place was ready.

Minutes later they exited an elevator into a musty old hallway. Sylvie followed him to the end, where he stuck his key in the door.

"Sylvie" he said, turning back to her.

"Yes?" she said smiling at him.

"Could, could you close your eyes for me?" he said.

Sylvie chuckled "What? Why?"

Peter's mouth squirmed as he failed to offer a suitable reason. "Please?"

Sylvie looked at him in confusion. After a moment she shrugged, then closed her eyes. Now blind, she felt Peter take her hand as the door before them opened. Then, gently he led her in.

"What's this all about, Peter?" she asked. "Can I open my eyes now?"

"Not... yet" he said, voice strained.

"Peter?" Sylvie said, now feeling a little concerned. "What's going on!"

"Just a second," he said. Peter's hand gripped hers tightly, then with a sigh he released. "Ok, you can open your eyes."

Sylvie did so and was immediately taken aback, a hand coming up to her mouth in shock. The luxury of the apartment he'd brought her to was far above the exterior facade of the building. Marble floors, stainless steel appliances, tasteful art on the walls, plush furniture all in white. It was like something out of her interior design dreams.

"Peter, wow! This is a beautiful apartment. I absolutely love what you've done with it" she said as she walked in, gently setting her purse on the large kitchen island.

Peter nodded, as he followed behind her. "Thanks."

Sylvie walked over to the floor to ceiling windows on the far side of the room, staring out at the dark city. She could get used to visiting a place like this. Or maybe even living in it.

She felt Peter step up behind her and rest his hands on her shoulders. She sighed in contentment and leaned backward into him, enjoying the feeling of broad pecs pressing against her head.

Wait a minute, her head? Peter wasn't that tall! She'd walked with him for almost an hour on the street, and he'd been at most two or three inches taller than her, maybe more, certainly not tall enough to dwarf her.

Feeling scared, Sylvie stepped away and spun around. Peter stood in the middle of the room, a smile on his face. He was huge, easily 6'6" and his body was rippling with muscles. His shoulders had to be at least twice as wide as hers. Images of him from throughout the night flashed into her mind.

This was not the man that she'd met at the club. Or it was, an exaggerated version of him.

Sylvie found herself torn. She felt confused and scared. She didn't understand what was going on or why Peter had changed. At the same time, she felt deeply aroused. The body Peter had grown into ticked all her boxes and she flushed as she stared at his massively muscular body.

"Sylvie?" Peter said, noticing the fear in her eyes.

"What, what the fuck is going on?" Sylvie said.

Peter shook his head "What do you mean?"

"I mean why are you so big?" she demanded. "You weren't this big when I met you" Sylvie said, voice growing more confident.

Peter blushed, giving away his guilt. Despite the tell, he doubled down.

"What? What are you talking about, of course I was!" he blustered.

Sylvie shook her head. "Don't lie to me! You obviously weren't! I don't think you could even fit into a Lamborghini looking like this!"

Peter opened his mouth, but no words came out. His eyes darted back and forth.

"What is it!" Sylvie yelled. "Talk to me!"

Peter said nothing and looked away in shame. Sylvie rolled her eyes.

"Fine. Be a fucking weirdo. I don't need this," she said. She turned and set off for the door, grabbing her purse off the island. She was at the door when he finally spoke.

"I'm sorry! I, I can explain," he got out.

Sylvie turned back to look at him. He did seem deeply apologetic.

"Ok," she said, as she walked back over, sitting down on the couch. "Explain."

Peter sat down on the couch beside her. The cushions sank under his muscular bulk.

"This may be hard to believe... I have magic powers."

Sylvie let out a single loud guffaw before she restrained herself.

"I'm sorry, that was rude. Come on Peter, is that really the best excuse you have?"

"It's true! I have the ability to upgrade things I touch" he said, voice earnest.

Sylvie stared at him but gave him enough grace to not laugh in his face again. "Prove it," she said.

"Hand me your phone" he replied.

Sylvie reached into her purse and pulled out her phone, an iPhone a few generations old with a cracked screen.

Peter took it and held it. His eyes fluttered for a moment and then... nothing. No flash of light. No sound. No indication anything happened at all.

"Was that it?" Sylvie asked, her skepticism growing. "Nothing happened."

"Here you go," Peter said handing back her phone.

Sylvie took it and her mouth fell open as she looked. In her hand was a brand-new iPhone of the current generation.

"What?!" she cried out in surprise. She looked over at Peter, eyes narrowing. "Ok, very funny. Nice sleight of hand. Now where is my actual phone?"

"That's it" he said pointing at the device in her hand.

"This is not my phone," she said. "My phone is old and..." she paused when she clicked the button to unlock it. It had her wallpaper already set. Staring in bewilderment, her fingers entered her password. Sure enough the phone unlocked. Under notifications she saw a text waiting. It was confirmation from Amazon her package had shipped.

"This is my phone?" she said quietly.

Peter nodded.

"Yes, I upgraded it," he said matter of fact.

Sylvie stared at it in shock. "But how?"

"I told you. Magic," he said.

Sylvie gaped. The events of the night echoed in her head. Things that had been oddities before now seemed glaring foreshadows. The drink he'd said was "hers." The fancy car he didn't know how to turn on. The apartment he wouldn't let her see until they'd been inside for a few silent moments.

"Oh my god!" Sylvie said slumping back against the couch cushions. "You upgraded yourself?"

Peter nodded.

"How... how did you know this is what I'd like?"

The unspoken statement that she did indeed like this hung in the air.

Peter smiled "It's a little quirk of my magic. Upgrades will either be generic, or they'll be along my preferences unless someone is touching me. Then I can adjust to suit their preferences instead."

Sylvie nodded slowly, remembering she had held his hand all night as they walked as he'd slowly changed, becoming taller and buffer to suit her desires.

"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you." Peter offered. "Usually, the changes are subtle enough they aren't obviously noticeable. This time I just pushed it too far."

Sylvie laughed at the understatement. "Yeah, definitely. Weren't you concerned eventually I'd find out?"

Peter shook his head. "Not really. I... forgive me but I actually didn't have any intention of seeing you after tonight."

Sylvie turned to look at him, surprised at the bald declaration.

"Oh. Huh. I see. Well, thank you for your honesty. Wait! You said 'usually.' Does that mean you've done this before?"

Peter shrugged. "Yeah, quite a few times. Cards on the table. I made up the story I just moved here and went to the club to try and meet someone. I've actually been to that club every Saturday for the past three months."

Sylvie shook her head. "Wow. And you sleep with a girl every time?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, it's not hard when you can morph yourself into their dream guy. Then you woo them with their favorite drink, show off with their dream car, and take them back to an apartment they absolutely adore. Admit it, before you figured me out, you were 100% going to sleep with me, right?" he challenged her.

Sylvie opened her mouth to protest and stopped. "Alright. Fine. Yes I was," she admitted

Peter nodded "Figured as much."

Sylvie turned to look at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

Peter stared straight ahead as he talked. "I don't know," he hesitated. I guess it's nice to have someone to share this with? No one else in my life knows."

"No one?" Sylvie said. "Not your friends? Not your work?"

Peter laughed. "Oh, I don't work. I just go to the bank, buy a roll of pennies, and then upgrade each one into a $100 bill."

Sylvie laughed "That is ingenious."

Peter smiled. "Thanks. Anyway, it's late. Let me call you an Uber to take you home."

Sylvie frowned. "What, why?"

Peter looked at her in confusion. "What do you mean why? Why would you stay?"

Sylvie smirked at him. "Because we were going to have sex?"

Peter shook his head. "Wait, really? I thought you'd no longer want to sleep with me? You know, because of the lying and all that."

Sylvie sat up. "Ah yes, that." Bracing a hand on his shoulder, she swung her far leg across to straddle his lap. Her hands slid down his trunk, savoring the feel of thick muscles under his tight shirt.

"You are a liar Peter," Sylvie purred as her hands reached the hem of his shirt, grabbing on and then reversing their journey, dragging the fabric up.

"And while that would make you a bad boyfriend, you have no interest in being my boyfriend. So that really doesn't matter. What does matter is..." she breathed out slowly and lifted his shirt up over his head, revealing chiseled abs covered with a thin layer of curly brown hair.

"You did change yourself into my exact type. You are without a doubt the hottest man I've ever laid my hands upon, and I'm not about to pass up this opportunity," she thirsted.

Peter's perfect face broke into a hungry grin. His hands lifted to grip her slim body and pulled her into him. Their lips met and Sylvie moaned from her chest as she pressed herself against him. Without interrupting their make out session, she reached down and scrabbled to undo his belt. She pulled away for a moment as Peter pulled her dress over her head and tossed it away. She sat upon him clad only in her underwear.

Biting her lip with a grin, she lifted her hips so he could slide his jeans off, exposing his groin. Peter watched. His hands still gently held her slim frame as she excitedly reached forward and tucked a finger into the top of his underwear and pulled. His cock wasn't quite hard it pulsed each second as blood filled and lifted it upright.

"Mmm, not bad," she purred as she reached forward and wrapped a hand around his member. He was decently thick, though average in length. It twitched in her hands as she slid her grip up and down, thumb teasing his head with each pass.

"Ahh! That feels good," he grunted. "You know, you don't have to settle for 'not bad.'"

Sylvie looked up. It dawned on her. "Oh? Oh!"

Peter held out a hand, as his other reached forward to grasp his cock around the base. Sylvie grabbed the offered hand and settled in to watch.

Peter closed his eyes and focused, as Sylvie stared at his erect shaft. Before her eyes his cock grew, extending longer and the head swelling bigger.

Sylvie felt her pussy tingle as she watched Peter's cock grow to an eight-inch monster. It was perfect, well almost.

"How's that?" he asked, opening his eyes.

Sylvie smiled "Good, just missing one detail."

Peter closed his eyes again and focused, gripping her hand tightly.

Sylvie watched with growing excitement as his cock began to curve, the head sloping back toward his waist. Once it stopped changing, she pulled her hand away and clapped excitedly. "Bravo, sir. It's absolutely perfect."

Peter laughed at her approval. "Glad you appreciate my handiwork. Although I think maybe there's a better way you could appreciate it," he suggested.

"Absolutely!" Sylvie said as she lifted her body up. She used a hand to guide his erect cock into her. She shuddered as she slid down his shaft, eyes rolling back into her skull. His dick was literally perfect. It was deliciously thick, stretching her amazingly, though not enough to cause her pain. Fully sheathed, his tip stopped just short of her cervix, filling her completely. The curve rubbed his tip against her G-spot with every bounce. It was heaven.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" she exclaimed each time she slid fully down on him. This was without a doubt the best sex she'd ever had, and they were just getting started.

"Goddamn," she muttered when she paused to take a break, body tingling as she felt his cock twitch inside her. "You, you're amazing. You're so fucking hot!"

Peter leaned forward and kissed her, before her pulled back and said "thanks."

Sylvie waited as she caught her breath, frowning when she realized he wasn't going to say anything more.

"What?" he said, noticing her angry expression.

"I'd appreciate a little reciprocation!" She lightly slapped his chest. "Don't you think I'm hot?"

Peter shrugged. "I mean, you're alright."

Sylvie gasped. "What? Rude! So Rude!" She reached out to hit him and he caught her wrists easily.

"Sylvie, come on," he said. "We've been pretty open with each other so far. I think you should be honest with yourself, too. You know you're not a supermodel."

He wasn't wrong. She knew she wasn't the prettiest girl, but she thought she was at least a six. It's not that there was anything wrong with her, she was just plain. "Maybe not, but you could've just lied," she pouted.

"Why lie? I'm never going to see you after tonight," he reasoned.

"Maybe not, but you still come off as pretty shallow," Sylvie said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Peter laughed. "Me! Sylvie, you're only fucking me because I literally transformed myself into your idea of a sex god."

Sylvie blushed. He had her on that point. Still, it wasn't her fault she couldn't magically make herself hot. Wait.

Sylvie reached forward and pressed a hand over Peter's lips, to silence his laugh. "Could, could you upgrade me?"

Peter nodded and gently removed her fingers from his mouth.

"Of course. I can upgrade anything I can touch. Are you sure you want me to do that? I was and still am down to have sex with you as you are, you don't need to change yourself for me," he said in earnest.

Sylvie shrugged. "Well, maybe I want to anyway."

"Alright, sure. Just let me know when you're ready?" Peter said giving her a reassuring smile.

Sylvie took a deep breath in and out, taking a moment. Was she sure this was what she wanted to do? "Ok. I'm ready."

"Alright, here we go. I'll warn you, this may feel odd" Peter said as his hands came forward and gripped her waist.

Sylvie waited with bated breath as before her Peter closed his eyes. A few seconds of nothing happened.

"Peter, I don't feel anything, are you sure this is-Whoa!" she gasped.

A pleasant tingling ran all over her body. She felt it at her waist, her legs, her head, her face, her chest. The effect was overwhelming, and it took her a few seconds to realize she was changing.

Her waist narrowed slightly. Her stomach became more toned. Her hips flared out. Her ass thickened a bit. Her face began to shift, her features becoming more refined, more elegant. Her breasts swelled, bulging out over her bra as they grew from B-cups up to full Double-Ds. Her hair lengthened, sliding over her shoulders and down her chest. Looking down, she saw it grow inch by inch. Then shockingly, in a single wave that started at her roots, her hair morphed from her normal dark brown to blonde.

"Hey! What the fuck!" she said angrily.

Peter let go and the tingling all over her body stopped at once. "What? What is it?" he said.

Sylvie grabbed the ends of her now long golden hair and held them up. "This! I didn't say you could change my hair color! Me and blonde don't mix!"

Peter held up his hands defensively "Sorry, I did tell you the changes follow my own preferences."

"Well change it back!" Sylvie demanded, jabbing a finger into his chest.

"Uh, I can't really. That wouldn't be an upgrade for me," Peter said sheepishly.

Sylvie rolled her eyes. "For someone with magic powers, you sure are dumb. Just use my preferences, duh! I want my hair back to brown so changing from blonde will obviously be an upgrade."

"Oh right... that makes sense" Peter said as he reached out and took her hand. "Ok, just one second."

Once again, he closed his eyes and placed his free hand on her exposed waist. Soon the tingles began once more. They felt different this time, warmer, almost happier. Sylvie let out a sigh of relief as her hair immediately switched back to brown and began to slide back up her chest to shoulder length. She'd always loved her hair that length.

"Alright, thank you, that's en-oh, Oooo." She moaned as the intensity of the tingling grew. A wave of tingles passed over her skin. She instantly tanned. A warmth flowed into her face. Her features shifted. Her lips grew plumper and juicier. And her breasts! Her breasts began to grow larger and larger and larger. They flowed over the edge of her bra, bigger and rounder.

"Fuck that feels good" Sylvie moaned as she began to move her hips again, resuming their lovemaking while Peter morphed her body. Her legs pumped as she bounce again on his perfect cock. She felt a new sensation. Two fleshy masses slapped against her rib cage with each motion. Soon the tingling stopped. The fucking didn't. Peter took over, holding her body up with his arms and thrust up into her. Sylvie leaned forward resting her upper body against him, suddenly feeling the large masses in between him and her. How big had she grown?

With a grunt Peter thrust a final time. His cock surged as he came. Together they collapsed on the couch breathing heavily. As she felt him go soft inside her, Sylvie pushed herself off and sat down beside him. It was then that she finally took a look at herself.

"Oh my god! What, what did you do to me?" she breathed.

"Only what you wanted," he panted.

"I, I need to look at myself. Do you have a full-length mirror?" she asked.

Peter shrugged. "It's your dream apartment, you tell me?"

Sylvie nodded and pushed herself upright. Her legs were still weak. He was right, he'd created this apartment to completely match how she would've liked it which meant there would be a mirror, right by the front door. Hurriedly she padded over to stand in front of the mirror exactly where she thought it would be.

"Holy shit!" she exclaimed as she stared at herself. She couldn't believe the reflection belonged to her.

Her face was hers. But it wasn't. It had similarities, but altered, refined. Her eyes had gone from brown to a bright blue and featured long luscious lashes. Her nose had narrowed, into a petite nub, turned up slightly at the end. Her cheeks were fuller and more defined, her chin sleeker and more elegant. And her lips, most dramatically of all, were incredibly thick and painted ruby red.

Her hair was still the same color as it had always been. Everything else about it was better. It was shinier, thicker, and more voluminous. Her waist was slightly narrower, her hips slightly wider. Turning to the side she could see she actually had a decent ass now. Not that anyone would notice her behind with her breasts in their current state.

Each one was a large smooth round mass of flesh, sitting high on her chest, firm and perky. They were like a pair of skin-colored cantaloupes. Her nipples pointed slightly up. Her old bra underneath lifted them slightly. Eyes fixed on her chest, she reached behind and undid the clasp, removing the brassiere that didn't come close to fitting her now. She pulled it away and her breasts dropped only slightly. They hung off her chest, projecting outward, defying gravity.

Sylvie stared in silence. She raised a hand to cup one, felt its weight in her hand. Warm, her skin smooth and soft.

"I, I don't understand," she said after a half a minute of studying her new body. "This isn't what I want," she trailed off.

Peter still lounged on the couch watching her. "My magic doesn't lie, Sylvie. You changed to match what your true desires were."

Sylvie looked back at her naked form. She looked like an Instagram bimbo. Tan skin, exaggerated lips, massive breasts. She looked ridiculous. She looked foolish. She looked, oh fuck, who was she kidding? She looking so fucking incredibly sexy. Her juicy lips parted into a gorgeous smile as she ogled herself.

For years she'd spent hours browsing through Instagram, looking at pictures of those women, with their impossible bodies. She always told herself, 'those poor things, how they must suffer to achieve that look.' The truth she now realized was at the same time she'd subconsciously always wanted to look like them. Now, she did.

She spun towards Peter, her breasts bouncing slightly from the movement. As she began to walk towards him, without effort her hips swung back and forth much more than they ever did before.

"So, Peter," she said as she stopped before him, hands upon her hips. "Would you say, I'm hot now?"

He nodded, eyes wide as they drank in the sight of her incredibly full bust. "Oh, fuck yeah!" he said, voice heavy. He sat up on the couch, hands reaching toward her. Before he could touch her, she stepped back, moving her breasts just out of reach.

"Ah ah ah," she tutted. "What makes you think you get to touch me? Hm?"

Peter frowned. "You're kidding right? We literally just had sex."

Sylvie nodded. "Yes we did, when I was still, how did you phrase it, 'plain?'" Her hands slid down her front out and over the round shape of each large jug, stopping underneath to cup them, giving them a firm squeeze. "Now I don't think plain is quite the right word."

Peter stood up "No, you're definitely not plain now, you're a fucking smoke show, thanks to me," he said voice tinged with annoyance.

Sylvie nodded "Yes, thanks to you. And I am thankful Peter, truly, but that doesn't mean you have the right to feel me up. You aren't my boyfriend after all."

She gave him a coy smile after this last sentence, rubbing in the consequences of Peter's choices.

Peter shook his head with frustration "Fine, whatever. Now can I call you an Uber?"

"That would be lovely. Also, be a dear and upgrade my old clothes. I sincerely doubt they'll fit me now," she said as she bent down and picked up her dress with a single finger.

Peter looked up from his phone and grinned. "And why should I do that? I'm not your boyfriend."

"You'd seriously turn me loose on the street like this?" Sylvie said, irritated that he threw her argument back at her.

Peter shrugged. "I'm not the one who wanted breasts the size of melons, though I must say, they were an inspired choice."

Sylvie threw up her hands and let out an exasperated sigh. "God, you are so annoying! Fine, if I let you touch them will you fix up my clothing?"

"Of course, Sylvie. What are friends for?" he said with a devious grin.

"Apparently extortion," Sylvie said as she stepped toward him. "Be gentle," she said pouting as Peter lifted his hands up toward her ample chest.

Author's Note from Trogdor297: This idea was inspired by one of my favorite pieces of B. E. content, the music video for "Caviar" by St. Olie. Obviously, I couldn't replicate the concept 1 to 1, as a man metaphorically turning into a magic air pump doesn't work in written fiction as well as it does in visual media. I also didn't have a real great plan for where the story would go when I started, so once I reached the point where she got her boobs, I stopped writing and never came back.

##

Upgrading Each Other

by Claricol3 (also Herbdel101)

Word Count: 32,781

Part 2 (Again?)

He was gentle. For a little while, anyway.

With both hands he stroked gently upward from underneath her boobs, cupping them with the huge hands she had him grow. His thumbs feathered the tips of her nipples. The nubs hardened immediately. So sensitive. His fingers grazed the generous sides of her breasts as he turned his wrists oh so deliberately, and she melted. Her eyes fluttering shut, she leaned in to rest her forehead on his chest, savoring his sexy scent. Was she? To her surprise, she was. Horny again. "Oh, Peter! Keep doing that and maybe we can go again."

He smirked regretfully. "It'll be a bit; my recharge time is not as rapid as when I was 20."

"Let's fix that," she said, reaching down to graze the velvety sides of his sack.

"Oh! Okay." He took her other hand. Sylvie envisioned Peter's balls growing. As they plumped, blood poured back into that shaft, a thick curvy cock made just for her. Instantly rigid, he gasped, "wow, just how much more do you want?" as his plums continued to swell. "This should keep us going the rest of the night," she said demurely.

He twitched his hips and his tip pressed against her opening, pushing the lips aside as he sheathed himself. Thick and long, it stretched her. She felt so freaking full. A shudder went through her as her walls clenched against his hard length. So deep.

He moved inside her, grinding around her slick folds. His rhythm steadied as she moaned louder, pushing the deep, slow, firm thrusts. Joyous friction had her gasping for air and trembling. Together, they raced for the pinnacle. As she came with a scream, he pulsed in completion.

Her preference for hen's egg sized balls did indeed keep them busy all night until at last, as the skies began to lighten, they slept. He woke her at midday with coffee and scrambled eggs, the simple scramble upgraded, with an admittedly squishy touch, to a creamy herbed taste revelation.

"Now, you were talking about clothes," he grinned with mischief dancing in his eyes?" She peered back with suspicion. "I'll give you the option," he said. "High end workout clothes? Or the biggest ever walk-of-shame dress?"

"Choices, choices," she mock grumbled before a sexy smile flitted across her face. "Let's own it" she decided, returning his grin. "Can do," said Peter.

He picked up her dress, squinted at it consideringly, and glanced over to Sylvie and her new orbs jutting outward. Her tiny waste, broad hips, and rounded ass put the entire package in balance. The color of the dress shifted, starting at the neckline and rippling down, becoming the precise color of her plump red lips. As it did, the fabric took on a sheen and lacy see-through darts opened in strategic spots. The dress shortened drastically, becoming a scarlet satin kissing cousin of the classic little black dress. Then the neckline abruptly plunged to a V that went navel deep.

She arched an eyebrow. "Really?"

"I think it looks great," he smirked. "Try it on."

It was tight. So tight. Clinging to every smooth curve, silky thigh, and plump cheek, it was decent. Barely. "You, look like why the riot started," he said admiringly.

She looked in the mirror, tossed her shiny brunette hair, and shrugged. That did interesting things to her upper carriage. She prowled toward him, kissed him, not quite tender and not quite sultry, then turned and swayed back to the mirror.

"Thank you, Peter," she said over her shoulder, "for a spectacular evening, and for all the extras."

His face totally serious, for once, "Sylvie, it was my pleasure."

After she had gone, drawing cat calls from three scruffy guys talking on the street corner as she stepped into the Uber, Peter squinted in speculation out the window. "Hmm, I should have gotten her number." He snorted in disbelief. That idea was so... not like him. He looked around the room, a much nicer one than he had before upgrading it to Sylvie's taste. With a quizzical shake of his head, he padded down the hall for a shower. Maybe the new décor could stay a while.

After she got home, Sylvia poured herself, with some effort, into a pair of tights bought for her previous body, snorted at a sports bra that was now clearly a no go, and grabbed what had been a very roomy T-shirt suited for TV lounging. The only room left now was in the waist, and her nipples stood up and begged when she walked as the shirt rubbed across her swaying chest. She needed to shop.

Peter left his body tuned to Sylvie's taste. He liked the taut muscled big guy look and sharp cheekbones she had imagined. He didn't bother going out to shop, simply upgrading his existing clothes using a high-end online store catalog for inspiration.

Way too early Monday morning Sylvie's alarm went off, waking her from a swirling amorphous dream that featured lengthening cocks and swelling silky orbs. Panting slightly, she hauled out, squished her moist inner thighs down the hall, and hit the shower. When she hopped out, she popped a couple frozen waffles in the toaster and pushed the button on the coffee maker before she dressed. No time to waste.

Getting to work was... somehow faster than usual. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Doors opened. People made way for her in the subway, flowing around her as if she had an invisible force field that nudged them out of her path. It was only when a schlub of a young man in a clearly four-day t-shirt lurched blearily out of his seat and vaguely waved her into it that the penny dropped.

That never happened! It was her hot new bod and stunning face that drew the buffer zone and extra courtesy! "Shit! Beautiful people really do have an advantage in all sorts of situations," she congratulated herself. The not-so-subtle efforts of the scruffy guy to peer down her mostly modest office wear for a glimpse of her splendid cleavage confirmed this small epiphany.

Sylvie found that having her new tanned form, hot and toned as it was, had unintended consequences. She got a chilly distanced reaction from several other women in the office, though the reserved treatment was minor and had mostly returned to normal by Friday.

Some of the foxier colleagues, though, still had a touch of the green-eyed monster as the new Sylvie outshone them. She overheard some whispers in corners wondering what she had done to herself to change in such a big way. And she laughed to herself at a snide jab from one petty griper who sniffed that 'Sylvie way-overdid the spray tan' to get that warm toast tone.

On the other hand, the male attorneys at the law office she worked for turned pesky. As part of her job as office manager, a lot of people needed her help to keep their trains running on time. Amid those consultations, the level of flirt soared.

As the weekend approached, some of it edged into 'let's just get-ahold-of-HR shall we?' territory. She quelled those come-ons with a look that said, 'I can't believe someone would say something that out of line to me and if I took it seriously, there would be repercussions, big ones.'

The more talented the young lawyer, though, the more skilled and funnier the approach. Ollie McTavish had major game, a laugh a minute, chatting her up about small things and moving on to gently suggestive nothings, all the while smiling, without ever getting dangerously close to the line.

Sylvie began to think dinner and drinks with Ollie might be okay, though she was pretty sure that for him it would be a simple conquest and not a serious thing. He looked like a lot of fun, but when it inevitably ended, she'd be the one with the lost respect around work, not him. Best not.

It was only when the silver fox senior partner arrived to appeal Sylvie's decision to deny several high-end items on his expense report that things changed for good. Mr. Gustav Sjogren happened upon Ollie's latest sally, another sweetly salacious push for dinner. Sjogren cut it short. He mused, apropos of nothing, that "first class managers who keep things running smoothly are hard to find and keep happy, unlike associates who should be working on the Thompson trust." Ollie grinned unrepentantly, saluted with a finger to his forehead, and sauntered away.

Sjogren arched an eyebrow at her. "Mr. McTavish is a fine lawyer. I have no doubt he'll make partner in the not-so-distant future. Like a lot of fierce young litigators, though, he views the world through a single lens, winning. And sometimes he still misses the notions that not every challenge needs a scorched earth approach to achieve a triumph and some victories are pyrrhic."

Message received.

Sjogren gave her a formal nod, asked her politely to reconsider reimbursing expenses incurred courting an out-of-town client, despite the level of luxury and incomplete receipts, and regally withdrew.

"There's something to be said for squelching a gambit in style," she thought, and approved the expense policy exceptions as much for Sjogren's manner as for the favor he'd done her.

Word got around that Sr. Counsel Sjogren had a fast way with miscreants, and the pestering ebbed.

Now what? The tick-tick-tick of the big clock her friend Carol Simpson wound up for Sylvie by getting married was sounding louder and louder. Clubbing had been interesting, and hot with Peter, but didn't move the ball ahead in the 'I gotta-get-a-relationship' quest. Sure, Peter had been a breath of fresh air, and unbelievably good in bed. But he wasn't interested in anything long term. A pity, that.

Apps? She spent a few months diving into that world. Binder and Tumble were no better than clubbing for her. Guys wanted quick and temporary. She didn't even bother giving them a test drive at the end of the night. OG-Cupid was supposed to be better for compatibility matches. It didn't work that way for Sylvie. She had one disastrous dinner with a guy who talked nonstop about his insect collection... ew... and moved on.

eHarmonize hit dissonant chords, coughing up two consecutive leather-wearing motorcycle guys. The guy on the BMW electric was a total waste of time, an options trader who was into flexing his wallet and not much else. And he was a wannabe for Chrissake! A motorcycle instead of a Lambo? Come on! At least the Harley rider was a nice guy, but they found out they didn't have a whole lot in common, in addition to the verboten mixed relationship lifelong Cubs and Cardinals fans would have offered.

Hinge marketed itself for people seeking serious relationships, but that door squeaked loudly. She hit two married guys and a would-be sugar daddy in his late 60s straight out of the gate. Nope, nope, and nope. Moving on.

Speed dating? Oh, God no! One guy was so ADHD he was practically spinning on his seat. Yes, his conversation sparkled. That was a pos! Sylvie got the sense, though, anything long term with him would be extremely tiring. Another guy was so shy even the abbreviated meetup of the speed date was filled with multiple awkward silences. Also likely to be tiring in the long run.

Trips to the library netted two guys whose fierce embrace of literary criticism would have made them perfect... for each other. She extricated herself from discussions of magical realism, Jose Luis Borges, and Haruki Murakami, and didn't go back. She could get books online when she wanted, to avoid similar entanglements.

She walked into a neighborhood rec center, turned on her heel and walked right out again. Average age... so... so high.

She scoped out a couple health clubs. Sylvie's bangin' bod was a certified dick magnet. Unfortunately, they were all dicks. Four of them apparently hadn't read the memo that taking off your wedding ring still leaves a pretty visible, pale indent on that fourth left hand digit. Oh, please! Then there were the two body builders who hit on her at the same time and got into a fight. The heartbreak of steroids.

In desperation, she went to church, several of them. The megachurch had a lot of age-appropriate guys. Too bad they all subscribed to congregation bylaws that did not allow women in leadership. Yeah, no. Not signing on to that. Pretty soon they'd want to tell her how to vote too.

Another church was just a little too social-justice-social-action for her. Sylvie considered herself moderate, not left or right, and spending every weekend at a protest, rally, or environmental fair was not her idea of a great way to create a relationship.

The last church she tried had a singles group. Promising? You'd think that, wouldn't you. Guy one - mama's boy. Mummy Dear still did his laundry at age 30, for Pete's sake. Guy two - flat affect. Talked about where he was on the spectrum and how much downtime he needed each week. Nice guy, probably, but it sounded like a lonely life for her. Guy three... gave off so many weird vibes that either his meds needed adjustment, or the FBI was going to visit him someday with urgent questions about the unusual humps of loose soil in his back yard. And guy four? He opened well. Friendly. Well spoken. Then it became clear he was love-bombing her like some cultist. Well! Let's just not get started about the theological basis for women walking behind their men not working outside the home, and tending to the needs of the master of the house, right? She liked her job overseeing the mechanics of a 200-attorney law firm too much to turn tradwife, thank you very much! Not that she didn't want children. She did, just not kids to the exclusion of all else.

It was all. Just. So. Discouraging. Peter would have been much better than the lunkheads she'd encountered so far. Sure, he wasn't in it for the long haul, but he could laugh and chat. He had a brain, and his snark matched hers. It had been easy walking and talking with him that one strange night.

Sylvie hefted her plump sensitive lady lumps and daydreamed about how good it felt when they were growing and how full Peter's rod filled her. Maybe... No.

"Too bad," she mused.

She decided to put the great mate search on hiatus for a hot sec to clear the bad taste out of her mouth and stayed home in the evenings. A week went by. Another. Her streaming service was running out of compelling content. She was low on good wine. The pizza deliveries had given way to carry-out fried chicken which in turn became takeaway shawarma. She ate a lot of calories. A lot lot. Insomnia Cookies with a Ben and Jerry's chaser.

Oddly, none of that turned up anywhere on her smokin' bod. Her wide and rounded rolling rump continued to lilt intriguingly with each step. With only a hint of jiggle, the after images haunted her male co-workers. Her chest melons swayed but kept treating the law of gravity as a faint suggestion. Her flat tummy stayed tight. Even with all the indoor time her dark tan stayed toasty without any fading. Her subconscious, she mused, really knew how to set a metabolism right!

Periodically, her thoughts turned to Peter and what his lovemaking did for her. Oof! Why, oh why couldn't he have been willing to look for something long term? Sex like that all the time? Oh my! A session with her vibrator usually followed these idle digressions.

After a couple more weeks of self-pity, she decided any change of scene would be better than what she was doing, just so she could move past the disappointment the male gender had so far offered.

Saturday night. Sylvie hit a retro jazz hot club just to hear some 1920s music. That was probably the last time there were any good men around, she grumped. There were a few prospects, but most already looked coupled up.

She did take a flyer on a lanky sandy-haired guy with a kind face. They introduced themselves and chatted a bit. Herb was a realtor as it turned out. They grabbed a drink and then settled in for the set. All good so far, she thought, as the saxophonist ripped the paint off the walls in a high wail. During the band's first break they chatted. And it was clear her batting average was continuing to fall. Herb was all about the granite countertops and the walk-in showers. Okayyyy. The topic turned to the value of landscaping to create curb appeal and how to cut down on the clutter to achieve proper staging of a house on the market. Mentally, she pounded her head into the aforesaid stone countertop. Sheesh! So earnest. And all the charm of a cardboard box. She hoped she was keeping the boredom off her face and felt profound relief when he went to the loo.

She felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned to look at... pecs, chiseled ones... straining a euro cut dress shirt. She looked up at a sardonic grin. It was Peter.

"Hey Sylvie. You looked less than rapt with Herb's conversation. I know him a bit. Lemme guess. Was it staging a house? Or the need for egress windows to make basements marketable as bedrooms?"

She stifled a snicker. His eyebrow arched and then his expression became more genuine. "Wanna take a walk?"

She turned to him and stood hipshot for a moment looking up at him with a smile, and campily threw her hand up to her forehead. "Save me," she giggled. They made it out the door before Herb came back. Even though they ditched the second set of a pretty good combo, the evening improved markedly.

"What's up with you," Peter?

"This and that. I got bored doing nothing, so I set up as a financial advisor. I had a Finance degree coming out of college. It was gathering dust, so I brush it off, got the appropriate broker licenses and voila. It's surprisingly satisfying to help people become secure." He shrugged contemplatively. "You can't be a lotus eater all the time. It was getting old. I'm actually pretty good at market analysis and picking funds that will do well for people and their needs." "How about you?"

"I keep things going smoothly at the law office. I keep balls in the air. So many balls. Deposition schedules, reminders, settlement conference space allocation, glaring with eyes of death at wet-behind-the-ears lawyers fresh off the bar exam who've just screwed up their first trial dates and double booked themselves. Legal database licenses. All the balls everywhere. You name it, I'm a full-service administrator. It's not rocket science, but I like helping people stay effective."

As before, Peter was easy to be with. Common interests in music? Check. Except for his heretical view that Ron Miles is a better trumpeter than Freddie Hubbard was. Nicely unprovable and subject to individual taste, they had a ball arguing about it.

Art? He liked modernists and neo-romantics. She adored the Hudson River school and oddly, Pre Raphaelites. Their tastes separated by only a century, it was good fun talking about what made each period great.

As it got later, Peter paused and contemplated a moment. "Hey Sylvie. Are you still looking for your perfect match?" She sighed. "Yeah, but as you saw, luck? Not so much."

"Well..." He paused and looked over hesitantly, almost earnestly. I know I said last time I wasn't 'Mr. Right.' But I could be Mr. 'Right Now,' if you like?"

She pondered a moment, then nodded crisply. "I would like that. This has been a lovely evening, and it will be fun to... connect... again," she smiled wickedly. "In so many ways." He brightened. "My car is just down the block."

Apparently the Aventador had not been, in fact, a good fit for Peter's enlarged stature. He was driving a Bentley Flying Spur this time. He opened the door for her, and she slid onto the hand-tooled leather seat, with its upholstered affluent odor. The engine purred as he pulled away from the curb and headed uptown, a different direction from the rundown building he had lived in before.

"I decided to upgrade my location before I upgraded the innards of the condo. It's closer to the office and easier to get to client meetings. Besides, I have a professional image to uphold now," he said.

A mile or so later, Peter turned down a ramp into below-ground-parking for a high rise that had gone up not too many years ago.

The elevator from the car park to upper floors was carpeted and whisper quiet, key card access only. Peter showed Sylvie into his condo. She glanced around appreciatively at the understated but plush furniture and the glowing city nightscape. It was much different than the modernist digs she had unknowingly helped him shape the last time, but still very classy indeed.

He stepped toward Syvlie. His muscular arms folded around her, pulling her in. His eyes dark with need, he kissed her. His tongue slid into her mouth and found hers. They drank each other. He tasted good, smelling of healthy man with a hint of after shave. Sandalwood and spice. Oh my!

She flushed and melted, desire stirring. His teeth nipped at her lower lip and moved down her neck. He reached down and pulled her dress up, bunching a moment at her overly generous breasts, before sliding over, causing a faint jutting bounce. She lowered her arms and unhooked her bra. It dropped to the floor with a soft rustle as she reached for his belt.

He let her unwrap him as he took off his shirt, then gasped as she pulled down his underwear and inhaled his cock. She encircled his package and tugged down with a feathery touch. He made a deep male noise as blood rushed into his dick, stiff and aching in seconds as she ministered to him.

He needed her. Raggedly, he said "I want you. Do you want me?" Sucking strongly, Sylvie slowly pulled off his tip and whispered, "oh yes."

She rose, one hand stroking the smooth skin of his shaft as the other fondled his sack, squeezing, sliding, wanting. He kissed her mouth hard, then her neck, and gently turned her around. She put her hands against the wall. He dipped his hips and thrust up and in, straight to the center of her aching emptiness. She gasped, and he kept stroking, as waves of pleasure spread through their bodies. He pumped and twitched his hips in an even powerful rhythm.

Her flanks flushed as his huge hands stroked upward. He palmed the sides of her breasts before curving underneath her boobs and over erect nipples. He gently squeezed. The hot rush flowed around her chest and through her neck and face. She panted, raggedly, stronger and stronger, until her muscles contracted and the ache inside fractured into blissful shivers. She crested, cried out, and sagged, supported with one of his arms grasping her substantial chest and the other around her taut tan tummy.

"Did you like that?" Peter grinned, happy with himself.

"Oh my God yes!"

"Good. Now we can go to bed."

He lifted her off his rigid cock and carried her to the bed. Again, they slept not, until the gray light of dawn eased through the floor to ceiling windows.

"I could get used to that kind of dicking," she thought as she woke, stiff and sore in a finely fucked way. Peter wasn't in the bedroom, but she heard faint clinking noises down the hall.

She put on one of his sweatshirts from the closet. It was huge on her, hanging to mid-thigh so she didn't bother with panties. She rolled up the sleeves as she walked into the kitchen. Peter had poured orange juice and was fixing a midday breakfast.

"It'll be just a minute more."

He poured coffee too and she sat at the kitchen island watching him work. "Hey Peter, how did you develop this magical ability?" she wondered. "When did you know you had it?

"You know, it's had to say," he replied. "High school, I guess. Looking back on it, I should have known a lot sooner. I remember breaking a GI Joe toy when I was very young. I tried to put the pieces back together and surprise, it worked. It shouldn't have. And I got the same fluttery feeling when I was doing it as I get now. It wasn't something I really controlled, though. And it didn't happen often."

Sylvie grabbed her breasts, pushed up, and smirked. "High school, eh? I bet I know what happened when you started dating."

"You'd think that" he grinned. "And yes, but not for the longest time. Again, looking back there were breadcrumbs along the way. A storebought tennis racket became a Roger Federer special when I wasn't paying attention. A pair of Air Jordans somehow replaced my Converse All Stars. I just thought my parents were being nice. What started getting me thinking was Amy Wociejowski."

"Ah?" Sylvie inquired.

"My first real date," he said wistfully. "She was a nice girl. Took pity on the dweeb I was then. We went out to a movie and snogged a bit in the back row during the show.

Amy was pretty, but not beautiful. She did, though, have a complexion issue. Nothing horrific, but I noticed. She knew I noticed. Neither of us ever said anything. I think that may have been part of why she agreed to the date. The jock set, male and female alike, was pretty cruel to her. I think she said yes just because I hadn't been a jerk to her.

Anyway, we held hands during the movie. For some reason I couldn't keep my eyelids from flickering for about a minute in the middle of the pic. After the credits rolled, I noticed all her pimples were gone. Just gone. Her skin was totally clear. Peaches and cream. I started wondering because I felt... that something. Looking back, I'm not sure whether it was her upgrade or mine. We didn't date afterward. There was nothing wrong. Truth is we weren't much alike, really. That got me wondering though. The bewbs realization came about six months after that.

"Do tell."

"Mary Jacobs was a track star," Peter reminisced. "Distance runner. State ranked. She won regionals. Sectionals were up next. We went out a few nights before just to get a bite to eat. As a runner, she was way lean including up top. After dinner we went 'parking' and felt each other up. Even though her tits were small, they were sensitive. And I was horny."

"Let's just say she had a lot more than 'small' ones at the end of the night. It actually hurt her running. She added like 10 seconds to her time at the next meet and barely qualified for state. She hadn't even needed a sports bra before then and I heard her telling another girl running really hurt now that she had grown. I figured it out because I saw her grow as I fondled her. I have no idea how she didn't notice her new assets until the next practice or connect them to me. She was so down about her sudden amplitude."

"So, I knew I could... 'do things'... but I didn't have a handle on how to shape them beyond a general upgrade. I was still getting the hang of it. I suspected I was responsible for her blooming and felt really guilty. I asked her out again and we went a little further. I fingered her until she came and while she was doing that, maybe me... maybe her subconscious... reversed a bit of her growth. She put her puff-up-and-deflate episode down to a monthly thing."

Something else happened though.

"What I had wanted was to fix things so she could run fast like before. I may have gone too far. Maybe I wasn't precise enough in thinking about the change. Or I might have tapped into her preferences about running. Her legs were suddenly a lot more muscular and her lung capacity was off the charts. Mary won state going away. She had no explanation for how she could drop so much time on her PR right after a sub-par performance. I knew. The change stuck too. I kept track of her in college, and she won the NCAAs. She has a shot at the Olympics next year."

Peter turned to Sylvie with a serious look. "I never wanted to make a mistake like that and hurt someone again, even if they or I didn't know I was doing it, and even temporarily. Until you, I didn't change other people too much. I did do it once in a while, my roommate for instance but he was asleep when I gave him a small benefit.

I never shared what I could do either. Didn't want to get locked up as a nutter. I'm glad I told you though. It's nice to confide and makes it easier."

Sylvie leaned across the island and stroked his face gently. "I'm happy you told me too. You are a fun person, Peter." She waved her hand up and down her lush body. "And you have certainly treated me right!"

They ate and chatted, relaxed, intimate, easy, sharing stories. They lounged, ordered Door Dash, ate, and as evening drew on, he wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "We both have places to be tomorrow. One more for the road?"

She smiled indulgently, turned and headed for the bedroom, pulling his roomy sweatshirt off as she went. At the doorway she cocked a hip and crooked a beckoning finger. He moved swiftly to her and grabbed her face. They devoured each other's mouths. Her hands caressed his chest in a suggestive way.

"God," she gushed. "You are so cut, I just want to commit swollestation.

"Don't let me stop you," he chuckled.

No need for more foreplay. He was as ready as she. With a moan of pleasure, she sank down on his shaft, filling herself with him. She squeezed his pecs and slowly started to move her hips, setting a languid rhythm meant to tease, meant to build.

"Woman, you must be trying to kill me."

He didn't force her faster. She smiled alluringly and leaned forward, letting the tips of her breasts tease his chest, her nipples tightening at the contact with his warmth. She ran her hands up his arms where he had grabbed the headboard. Their fingers tangled as she quickened her gyration.

Her fingers tingled suddenly, just for a moment. He thickened further inside her. His lips tingled as their tongues danced. Sylvie suddenly flushed. She became even wetter. They paused a moment and looked at each other searchingly.

With nibbling kisses, she moved across his jaw to where his neck curved into his shoulder. She licked at the spot. He groaned low and long. Their orgasms built, again tingling and pooling. Clenching deep inside they climaxed together.

As she caught her breath, she wondered exactly what kind of woman it would take to keep him satisfied.

As her juddering breasts stilled, she felt a sudden warmth below her tummy., yet above her pussy. She relaxed into that glow and gave him a lambent look.

"Let's see each other again," Sylvie said earnestly. "This was more fun than I've had in months, even without going steady. Setting aside the mind-blowing sex, it was really good to see you."

He nodded.

"Me too. You left last time without sharing your deets. Let's make sure this time. We're very lucky we ran across each other. You are good people, Sylvie."

This time he drove her home. She swiped the sweatshirt so she could avoid comments from people on her floor. They said goodbyes. Both were thinking of the next time they could get together.

When Sylvie got inside, she set down her purse. "That's odd. It's different." Her department store knockoff had changed into a Birkin bag. "Yikes! How sweet of him. Can't take that to the office, though. People would wonder how I can afford a $30k purse. Not a good look."

They texted a couple times the next week and finally settled on a Saturday lunch. Sylvie had family to deal with that evening. It went well though, even without jumping into the sack, and they began to make plans now and then.

The days dripped through their quotidian rhythms. Sylvie was still having a few problems with catty coworkers, Mabel in particular. Mabel was from Minneapolis and practiced that primal scream brand of passive aggressive known as 'Minnesota nice.' Compliments were jabs. Faint jabs were outright declarations of war. And disingenuously suggested improvements were devastating scorched earth assaults across the paneled office battlefield.

Until Sylvie turned up so plush, Mabel had been queen bee of the office. A pale pretty but prissy queen at that with no sense of humor or willingness to let people be people so long as they did their jobs.

Mabel wasn't stacked but it was all there in the right willowy Scandinavian proportions. Despite the Swedish hotness, Mabel gave every indication of having been brought up by a succession of maiden aunts.

She targeted Sylvie. Technically, they were lateral in the firm org chart, Sylvie in ops and Mabel in accounting. Mabel apparently didn't view it that way, questioning a lot of Sylvie's decisions.

Under each faint moue of disbelief... below each "Well, dear I suppose you caaaan do it that way, but I think this process is much better."... could be heard, faint and far off, a jungle cat's territorial yowl.

Other office staff noticed the escalation, breaking what had been a tacit non-aggression agreement to stick to their own lanes. A betting pool on the eventual winner may have been set up.

Sylvie publicly shrugged it off with irreverence and a side dish of acid, dismissing Mabel's jabs to colleagues with..."Ah well, she's overly cautious and possessed of a superiority complex, the reasons for which are quite beyond me." It still rankled.

Things came to a head when they ran into each other while Sylvie was out having dinner with Peter. Sylvie was wearing the little red fuck-me-dress Peter made for her at the end of their first night together..... My dear! That's so bold. Love the color. Didn't you have anything a little more sedate, though? It's just not dignified. Think of the firm's reputation!"

Sylvia cocked her head and leaned in conspiratorially. She bit her lip and said in a saccharine tone "well, I do have one thing. I know! I'll wear it to your funeral."

Peter was unfortunately taking a sip of wine and did an undignified spit take. As he snickered, Mabel leaned back and sagged like soggy quiche.

"Bye for now. See you in the office" she said rushing away.

"Good riddance" Peter said when Mabel had gone.

"Huh," said Sylvie. "I've never called her out so directly before. It worked. This time, at any rate. I guess I should clap back on her shit more."

"I think you showed her you had her number, and she'll steer clear now," said Peter.

"Well, either that smack will keep her off me because I showed her there are consequences to bitchiness, or it's going to be a thing. We'll see, said Sylvie.

"I just wish you could downgrade things, particularly her car, or purse, or something. I know it's mean. But it would be so satisfying."

"Well," he said soberly, "I can do that. I don't recommend it though. I figured that out in college when a guy on my dorm floor was a constant jerk and capped it off by swiping my date at a bar. I un-fixed his expensive car, the little entitled rich prick. I made it subject to random electrical system failures."

"My magic didn't like it."

"Could you tell a difference when I was upgrading you the way I envisioned compared to your own preferences?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. "The tingles felt happier when it was my subconscious doing the driving."

"Right!" he said. "That's the way I feel it too. When it's my upgrade, it's satisfying. When it's someone else's... it's fluttery and okay but there no sizzle for me. And the scenarios with your bangin' bod were both positive preferences.

When I laid hands on this guy's car with bad intent I got a queasy feeling. I was so pissed though; I ignored the magic's reluctance to go negative and pushed through it. I ended up feeling barfy, drained, and depressed for a couple weeks. And the positive upgrades stopped working. I guess it was in protest. I was so scared I had broken myself that I didn't want to do it again. Either I recovered my 'health', or the magic forgave me or something. I don't take it for granted anymore."

"So how does it work?" Sylvie wondered. "Do you ever run out of juice?"

"Yes and no, he mused." "Changing inanimate things of small size doesn't take a lot of oomph. A car is like an exercise session. A big thing like an apartment, is fairly taxing. Changing myself takes effort, though I did it in short bursts that first night with you. I think that's also why I lost track and did so much that it became obvious. Each increment didn't cost as much energy and wasn't as noticeable to me."

"Changing you to my preferences was somewhat tiring. Changing you to your ideal body was less so but still a big lift. After all the upgrades that night I was cached out for a few days except for little stuff. I could have upgraded something major in a pinch if I needed to, but it would have hurt."

"I found out during college there are limits to magical stamina. One day I upgraded my dorm room with better furniture and flooring. I upgraded my laptop to a top-of-the-line box. Remember, I told you I helped my roommate? He was a friend. He was worried he wasn't going to be a starter on the football team because he wasn't strong enough. He'd been moping for days, and I was tired of it."

"He was taking a nap in his bunk. I stepped over and quietly took care of that while I experimented with muscle upgrades. At one point he was so buff he was close to peak Schwarzenegger. I had to dial it back a bit."

"It went well, but the back and forth I did while I was figuring out how to make it effective but not too obvious was exhausting. And then that night I backed my car into someone else's vehicle in the long-term storage lot. I was lucky there was no one else around. But boy did it hurt to fix both cars."

"I barely staggered to the room before passing out till the next morning. So, yes there's a limit. I don't really know where the magic, or energy, comes from. Once I upgrade something though, it stays that way. So, there's that."

She frowned a bit. "Sounds like a lot. Can you change someone's age, older or younger? Does that qualify as an upgrade?"

"Ah, no. I tried. When I was underage, I thought it would be a slick way to buy booze and tried my darndest. I could shift the details on my driver's license but couldn't make myself look anything other than a buff first year college student. And any liquor store clerk would have confiscated the license. So, I can idealize myself, but only at the age and stage of life I am. I think the same is probably true for anyone else I would change."

"Okay, so no eternal youth here," Sylvie said. "Probably for the best."

"Do you ever lose focus in the middle of a change?" she wondered.

"Changes just pause till I get back on track," he said.

"If I change something without concentrating... just letting my subconscious go for what it likes, it's difficult for me to change it again. It takes a bunch of energy. There are a couple of exceptions. I can upgrade the changed item to someone else's preferences, or if I used someone else's preferences to start, I can upgrade to a generic or to my preference without a lot of sweat. If my actual preferences do shift, I can change it again."

"For instance. In college I used to like designer jeans. Nowadays, I can't change a pair of pants to jeans to save my life. My ideal pants are loose and light now. I could buy a pair of jeans and upgrade them to designer jeans, though... for a generic upgrade. That's a buyer beware kind of thing too, and a reason not to muck about too much."

After that night, Sylvie started thinking about Peter more and more. They called each other now and then to see if the other wanted to go out. They kept saying yes. They kept having fun. Lots of fun. There were hot dates, dinners, events, a museum or two, and, surprisingly, even charity fundraisers they went to so he could troll for potential clients.

Sylvie found she enjoyed those, notwithstanding desiccated chicken breasts and limp asparagus tips smothered in watery pallid hollandaise. She sometimes thought, "wouldn't it be grand if she could upgrade her own food. It would be too obvious for Peter to do it at the table."

Sylvie felt a pang about the future after every encounter. "Clearly, I'm making bad bad bad choices here. What am I doing?" she thought.

"He said he's not serious! But we're good with each other!" she vacillated. "Sylvie, you are going to break your own heart when he finally gets restless enough to move on."

"Oh, but what if?"

Each time Peter called, though and said, "hey there, you want to do something this weekend?" she crushed rational sense under her pointy heels and embraced the emotional lift of the moment.

The sex remained out-of-this-world hot. Multiple orgasms were the rule, not the exception. Peter never changed himself back to his own preferred version of himself, and Sylvie fastened on that as some, likely chimerical, clue that he might be coming around.

There were the gifts, too, to stoke what she thought were her pathetic fantasies of something more serious with Peter.

Or rather the upgrades, not gifts precisely. Every so often, Sylvie would discover something nice when she went home. Her ordinary Bulova watch somehow became a Rolex Land Dweller during a concert when she wasn't watching. Her Asics sneakers became Dior and Hylton low tops during a hike. She wasn't sure how Peter did that unnoticed when she never even took them off. Maybe he did it when they stopped for a drink during the hike and they sat on the same rock? Oh well.

Rayon scarves became silk. Her Columbia windbreaker bubbled up to a Burberry. It had to mean something right? From time to time, she wondered what he really wanted in a woman. "Maybe I could be THAT," she thought wistfully.

One night they went out to dinner and Peter seemed quiet, not his usual jaunty self.

"Here it comes," she thought. "He's 'gonna move on because he doesn't want to catch the feels." She felt dismay. "Wow," she snorted to herself. "I guess it's too late for me to avoid the same thing.

They still had a good time. Whatever was going on with Peter receded in the face of quips, wry observations about life, and teasing back and forth over whether they were going to watch a romcom or an action movie. They left the restaurant after dessert. Quiet descended again as Peter drew into himself during the drive.

As they walked down the entry hallway into his apartment her heels tapped the floor in silence, like some tick tock of a clock counting down to midnight in the relationship. They got undressed and into bed and.... just cuddled.

Huh?

Peter caressed her distractedly. He took a deep breath and got them both up. They stood there in the bedroom nude facing each other. That didn't seem awkward. Nooo. Not at all.

"I want to talk about something, he said seriously

"I've never done this before but..." he halted.

She braced for the worst.

He looked at her earnestly. "Sylvie, I've loved what you've done with my body. And I know you didn't like the hair color when I started an upgrade for you based on my preferences."

"What?" she thought.

"But. I've been thinking. And well, I'll-swap-you-back-later-the-way-you-want," he blurted, then hesitated. "Would you be my blonde tonight?"

She sagged in relief. It wasn't the end after all.

She cocked her head, looked him up and down, considered a moment more watching his anxious face, and slowly smiled. "Sure sport, you be Pygmalion and I'll be your Galatea this evening."

And just like that she let her tension and worry go until some other day.

Peter nodded seriously. He took both of her hands in his and put them on her hips, settling his palms around her trim waist just above. He shut his eyes, and she saw them flicker up and down under the lids.

"Hoo OH!... oh my GOD!" She came with a jolt in a tingling stinging full body rush.

Her hair went bright gold so fast she felt it snap into loose curls as the dark color flowed away and vanished from root to tip and a thick mane flowed longer and longer down her back. His hands seemed to push into her waist as it narrowed abruptly while her arms and hands thrust outward as her hips swelled to a vast fecundity. Her skin lightened from dark tan to sun-kissed gold.

Dizzy with the tingling she wondered again what it would be like to have this power. Or what it would be like to become everything he desired. Well, she was finding that second thing out, at least.

She gasped and threw her head back as her breasts surged well past their previous bounty into bodacious globes twice the size of her head.

Waves of pleasure crashed up and down her body and the gasp gave way to keening wails as orgasms took her while boobs and booty kept inflating. The breasts spread thickly out beyond her shoulders, beyond even her fantastically inflating ass. Hell, they were wide enough to see a half globe of tit on either side from the rear.

Her face felt like her cheekbones had become more pronounced. Her lips plumped even more than before, ludicrously so. She had a bad case of RDF, resting duck face.

Peter's hands tightened as she sagged from the overwhelming come.

Her tits ached and she couldn't think of anything but his tall, muscled frame and wicked grin. She swallowed, trying to fight off the urge to shove him down and grind her pussy on his face. Her need was huge.

He steadied her, then backed away, looked her up and down, and frankly gaped. From her dainty feet and painted toenails rose shapely calves. Above the knees her thighs surged thickly out to a great, rounded rump before pinching sharply in. Even further north were those stately, plump, jutting globes.

"Sylvie," his voice hitched as his breath caught. "Fuck!"

"Yes, please," she panted. She could feel dimples indent as her gasping O face settled into a dreamy dizzy smile. She undulated toward him. Peter grabbed her shoulder, spun her and squeezed her proud nipples. Her boobs were so big it was a reach even for his huge frame. She groaned and sagged at the rush of pleasure zinging from her tits straight to her pussy.

She felt his large body flush against her back. His hand stroked down her tummy, between her legs, and over her swollen bud. Sylvie's hips jerked. Her ass wavered. Peter pulled his hand back to her pneumatic rear and the head of his cock pushed against her sopping mound. She was so empty. He filled her in a series of teasing pushes forcing frustrated moans from her. He took mercy on her with a long even slide, that perfectly curved cock, so tight, gliding right over her big G. He tugged her nipple again. She inhaled sharply, gushing as he circled her pink swollen aureola and deliberately pinched.

She rolled toward him on the bed her huge hips and ass a perfect halo to her succulent orbs. His breath caught and she felt a ripple of satisfaction at her power to freeze him with a thirsty smoldering look. She was arresting, enchanting, and opulent.

"It seems, he likes a huge amount of pulchritude," she gasped mentally glancing down her cleavage.

She was now, apparently, a woman with sensitive fucking nerve endings everywhere on her bod, orgasmic tits, and a pussy that begged to be split by his thick ridged sausage.

If the rest of the night went like this, she could deal.

She opened her legs.

"If you don't pound me into this mattress, I'll be very disappointed," she said in a breathy kittenish voice.

He thrust in and she grabbed at his ass as it flexed with each stroke and pulled tighter.

"God! But his glutes are powerful," she thought as each wave of sensation took her higher, further.

Much much later they sprawled languidly, entwined amid radically rumpled sheets. She was exhausted, in the best possible way. So many orgasms. So sensitive. So - so - so good! She gave him a smoldering look.

"You have a heck of a set of preferences, Peter," she laughed tiredly across the pillow at him.

He smiled sheepishly back.

"I really didn't know I liked this much zaft in the zaftig" he said. "I've never let myself cut loose this much before. It would have freaked out someone who had it happen out of the blue, but you already knew."

He gestured up and down her amplitude. "I surprised myself. I do like it so. You are a flipping goddess!"

Sated for the moment, they cuddled.

"It's a lot more relaxed when I'm not obsessing and waiting for this whatever-it-is-relationship to blow up," she thought.

She pushed that possibility firmly in the background and asked "How did you learn to control your gift?

"Practice," he said. And after I had done it enough in a random way, I started feeling like there was a little itch left after I finished an upgrade. So, one day I pushed for a little longer and that's when I started to be able to tell the difference between a general upgrade and my ideas for improvement."

He turned sheepish. "Honestly, it wasn't until I started tomcatting around the club scene that I really started to recognize when someone else wanted something. A magical variation on staying in tune with your partner I guess," he shrugged.

"I haven't been doing that lately, by the way. You are more than enough woman."

She melted a bit at that but chickened out of taking the opening for THE conversation.

Sylvie got up and oscillated over to the mirror. "It looks great for a great-big value of plush. I feel so heavy, though. I hope there's no trouble putting me back."

"I'll do it now," he said, and grabbed her plumped up ass with a grin.

He closed his eyes and she felt herself "dwindle" into her still ample IG-Fav form. Her hair pulled in and turned brunette. Her lips subsided to something merely plump, not a behemoth CSL mouth. Her sun goddess tan returned. Her breasts subsided less than any of the other changes, but they were big to begin with.

She smirked to herself, "a fine thing when melon breasts are a come down. God! My tits were bigger around than my waist! Still a lot of shrinkage though."

She felt less wobble with every moment, and more of her usual firm sway. It felt good going back to her new normal, though it seemed the tingling was somehow reluctant and that Peter was having to work to do it.

Before she left for home, she thanked Peter for his thoughtfulness. "I really love the gifts you've given me, though I still don't know how you did some of them when I wasn't looking."

"Gifts?" he frowned quizzically.

"You know. "Silk scarves, my Rolex, a top end designer handbag, the Burberry coat? New tennis shoes during the hike?" she prompted.

He looked puzzled. "I didn't. Or at least I didn't mean to. It has been a long time since I leaked changes. I'm almost always aware of what I'm upgrading. I hope nothing new is happening with my magic."

"And I'm not a Rolex guy. I prefer Patek Phillipe," he puzzled. Then his face cleared. "I like you a lot, Sylvie. Maybe my subconscious is offering you stuff. I haven't had a significant attachment to someone over a sustained period for a long time. I guess that's it," he said with relief. He brightened. "I'm glad you like the treats."

"Attachment!" she thought. "That's new. But 'attachment' instead of 'relationship?' There's something there but he's such a guy! Not in touch with his feelings at all, let along able to articulate them" she sighed.

"Well, it's still fun being with him even if I am way more into it then he is aware of. I could still get hurt," she fretted on her way home. "Am I wasting time on what might never be?"

"What if I could become his dream? Would I like that pneumatic excess?" She shook her head. "That's such a lot!

Sylvie felt mopey the next weekend. She was out of state, visiting her friend Daria Castelli. Daria had been wedding number two. Or was it number three of her many matched and mated friends?

Her old college gang all flew in and gathered with a hearty "wassup biatches!" Daria was pregnant and having a baby shower. It was clear her husband Jeff worshipped the ground Daria walked on and their happiness was so cloyingly cute Sylvie wanted to barf.

Daria wasn't the only pregnant friend, just the furthest along at seven months gone. Her skinny Italian heritage had her looking like an olive on a toothpick and her boobs had swelled only a little.

There were the useful gifts - packs of diapers, vibrating bouncy seats to lull baby to la la land when it finally arrived. Bottles, and a breast pump. A dozen kinds of binkies scattered among hand-made baby blankets crocheted by indifferently skilled but earnest crafters in eye-searingly vivid and clashing colors.

Then there were the humorous gifts - compression stockings. Someone joked that "even as small as she was, Daria's ankles were sure to swell up by week 39." Flavored condoms.... "so you can stop this from happening again." And so on.

"Maybe I don't want to stop it," Daria smirked. "We'd love to have a big family. This one's a girl, but I'd love to have a boy or two someday."

With the unwrapping of each gift, Sylvie felt more blue. Her own position in significant-other-limbo dragged her down. "Suck it up girl" she chastened herself and forced an unconvincing smile. "Don't be the downer."

All the girls had reached out to Daria's bump with totemic touches as the shower went along. Daria seemed to glow more and more as the presents were opened. Finally, the party started to break up. There was much wistful reminiscence about crazy fun times not so many years ago.

They looked around at each other and before parting everyone put one hand on her belly and the other around each other's shoulders, closed their eyes and made a wish for the health of Daria's baby and happiness of the soon-to-be-parents.

Sylvie got misty-eyed, and a wave of warmth swept out of her during the group hug. When she opened her eyes again, all the pregnant girls seemed to have bellies just a little bigger and boobs just a touch more bountiful and bouncy. Even girls not in a family way (yet) seemed more stacked. Their hair shone with health.

She scoffed to herself at the impossibility of it. "Getting sentimental about the gang, and baby crazy yourself, just a little, eh?" she snorted.

"Daria's just had a lot of salt, right? I must be seeing things. No one's baby bump gets half a foot bumpier in three hours. And everyone else was putting on the ritz for Daria. I'm sure I was just seeing things."

Sylvie suddenly felt so tired she nearly tripped. She dragged herself back to the hotel and crashed. She flew home the next day and found a voicemail from Daria when she landed.

"Hey girl! Thanks for coming all that way. I loved having you here. Gotta tell you, I just got back from a trip to the doc. I felt a little off this morning. My tummy was really tight and I felt huge. Well, bigger and bloatier than usual."

"Better safe than sorry, so I went in. Seems my thoughts about a bigger family are on fast forward. An ultrasound found they missed a baby the first time around! This one's a boy. Jeff is over the moon. Twins, though. Wow!"

I've got a whole new color palette to buy for, and now I know I'll never get any sleep at all," Daria gushed in the message.

"And as for feeding them both, I guess my boobs got the memo. They feel a lot more swollen than yesterday. I guess I'm just hitting the point in the pregnancy where everything feels big and uncomfortable. Anyway, love you Sylvie, and I hope you find someone soon. It'd be good if you catch up to us and start making babies, eh?"

Sylvia could feel Daria's smirk even through voicemail.

Then, more seriously, "I know you want that and I'm sure it'll happen for you."

Sylvie pasted a sickly smile on her face, sighed, and thought "I hope so. Having kids sounds wonderful," she sighed. "But why am I waiting on Peter? I need to have the talk about where we're going with this."

"Ah well, back to work."

Work was a ballbreaker. And there was no time just then for a serious conversation with Peter. Senior Counsel Sjogren was heading into a huge trial. It'd probably take two months. The case was a product liability lawsuit - evil corporation poisoning the water upstream versus those made sick or widowed in a small poor community. The fulcrum of the case was which set of dueling scientific expert witnesses could jump up and down harder on the teeter totter of jury opinion.

All the experts had to be staged; flown in, put up in hotels, nice ones, then shepherded to her firm so Sjogren's assistants, otherwise known as a 'shiver of sharks,' could prep the witnesses. They had to go through hypothetical lines of cross examination about parts per million, toxicology studies, and the statistical significance of certain cancer clusters.

Periodically, Sylvie had to dispatch these experts to the courthouse downtown for just-in-time-delivery so the jury could hear their collective wisdom and, Sjogren hoped, develop a proper sense of outrage over the company's manifestly health-heedless conduct in its wicked pursuit of filthy lucre.

The aforesaid demonic corporation had successfully fended off class action status. If Sjogren could get a favorable verdict for the sick defendants, though, there was a long line of ailing residents and bereft family members teed up for future cases.

Of course, that would require him to win. The stakes were quite high. It had taken three years to get this far, and millions were already spent on investigation and preparation. Even the usually courtly Sjogren showed the strain and became, if not exactly testy, certainly more clipped and exacting than usual.

Occasionally the opposition would throw a wrench in with a last-minute motion that caused delays, and extra expenses. The antics irked the judge who rang down a gimlet-eyed scold upon the company lawyers, disparaging requests he said should have come weeks and months ago, not at trial. The delays made everyone feel a bit out of temper. Experts charge when they sit idle for a couple of days waiting to testify.

They also got whiny with Sylvie about it, and she had to soothe bruised feelings, smiling all the while. She would much rather have torn their infantile egotistical heads off. But that. Would. Not. Have. Been. Professional. "Aargh!" Sylvie gritted her teeth and buckled down, working late every night.

It was painstaking detailed work with logistical option trees that would challenge a major general embarking on a corps level troop movement under enemy fire.

On top of all that, Sjogren dispatched Ollie McTavish, his chief hench-lawyer in the case, to Sylvie late Thursday evening. Ollie looked at her soberly without any hint of the cocky humor that habitually lurked just under the surface. She wouldn't have thought he was capable of going without that easy teasy manner.

"This is going to be bad, isn't it?" she said.

"I'm sorry, Sylvie" Ollie all but whispered. "We have bad trouble. It's Mabel.

What? She wasn't tracking.

"Why is she an issue?"

"Mabel has defected," he said. "I suspect she wanted your job. And with you keeping everyone pointed in the same direction that way you do, it was never going to happen. She got your job, but with the firm representing Evil-Corp in Sjogren's case."

"We don't yet know what documents Mabel copied or otherwise accessed that could affect the trial. We still have a bit more than a week to go with our side, then the defense gets its innings. Can you find out how much we are exposed? I know it's a lot to ask but we need you, and we need to keep this quiet," he said.

"Fuck me sideways with a baseball bat," Sylvie uncharacteristically swore, bringing a quirk to McTavish's lips.

"No one ever said life was going to be easy," he sympathized.

"Can I bring our I-T guy in on this to see if he can find what she was looking at the last couple weeks?" she said.

Ollie grimaced. "I already did that. We can't tell. She didn't turn in her laptop before she waltzed out so we can't check her recent files. There's nothing incriminating on the network. It's possible she used someone else's log-in over in accounting, which we can probably run down eventually, but it may not be in time to stave off any nasty surprises in court."

"Do we know how long she had been thinking about this?" Sylvie pondered.

"Probably not that long," he said, the twinkle returning to his eye. "I have a, um... friend at the other firm who just told me Mabel met with them last weekend and she walked out of here today. Mabel is smart. I think she would not have made any deliveries without guarantees. Even if they reached an agreement last weekend, they would have taken a few days to solidify and vet a contract."

"Can your 'um-friend' find out when the contract was delivered?" Sylvie archly asked.

"She... er... my friend will try tomorrow. I have asked," he said.

Sylvie tapped her pen on the desk for a couple seconds, reached into her purse for her phone and sent a call me message. The phone buzzed.

"Hello Peter," she smiled. "I need your help, quickly. I'd rather not talk about it over the phone. Are you at home? Okay, I'll be there shortly."

She stowed the phone and looked at Ollie. "I may have a specialist in mind."

"I might be out tomorrow," she said. It depends. I'm not quite sure this will work tonight. I'll get Abby to cover the dailies and Sonja to deal with anything fluid. You're due to guide the biochemist on the stand, right? That should be predictable enough. The other side already has his study as part of discovery. I'm not sure what Mabel might have leaked but at least we'll have the weekend to plan."

"Sylvie, Ollie said humbly, "thank you. Good hunting."

Sylvie nodded briskly and hesitated. "Can I take your picture? It might help."

He looked mystified. "Okay?"

She snapped a phone pic of his face. "You might not want to know," she grinned. "Blabbers boiled alive."

She sent off a couple emails alerting Abby and Sonja so they could pivot, then marched out, headed for Peter's apartment, leaving a puzzled Ollie behind.

Part 3 (The raid)

"Hey Sylvie," Peter welcomed her to his pad. "Where's the fire?"

She explained the problem.

"I know Mabel always visits her mom on Thursday nights. It's 8. She'll be home by 10:30, because... Minnesota. I hope you can help me get in and out of her place undetected. Can you upgrade someone to look like another person?"

Peter looked at her slack jawed, then slowly facepalmed.

"Jeez, I've only been changing things for 12 years or so! How is it I never thought of doing this?"

Sylvie gave him a prim look of satisfaction and buffed her nails with faux modesty. "I guess you've never had me around to think of it for you."

She held up a website photo of Mabel on her phone. "Can you make me look like this?" "Further," she flipped over to photos, "can you make yourself look like that?" And she held up her snap of Ollie. "If you can, we have just enough time to waltz right into her apartment, toss the place, and scoot."

He said slowly, "we can try. My guess is it might work. You clearly want it a lot. That might be enough to counter both of our inner preferences in type of bod."

"Me first," she said. If it doesn't work, I'll likely stay the same as I am now. You've been running around for months as my dreamboat. If you start changing and can't pull off Ollie's look, you might have to go back to your pre-hunk status."

She looked him up and down and said lustfully, "and that would be a shame."

Peter smiled and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Well, what will you do for me if we pull this off, Sylvie?"

She gave him an airy look. "I'm sure we can work something out."

It took a while. There was no particular tingle or buzz during this change. Sylvie felt a slow trickle as her height diminished, her skin lightened to a Scandinavian pale, and her face turned softer and rounder. She kept Mabel's look in her head as Peter's shuttered eyelids fluttered left and right. By the time her appearance was Mabel 2.0, Peter was breathing heavily.

"Not exhausting, but not easy," he said. "There's no bad vibe like I was forcing the issue, but everything felt sluggish, as if the magic weren't really sure which way to go." "You learn something new every day."

"I guess, I'm next," he said as he held out his hands to her again. Sylvie concentrated hard on Ollie's image, his wicked smile and trim build. Ollie was also a great deal shorter than the swole version of Peter. Maybe her fierce attention to the photo helped. His transformation happened faster than hers.

They didn't quite get there, though. As with Peter's juvenile attempt at a fake ID, he only made them look the same age they were now. With Ollie that was close enough. Mabel, though was a few years older than Sylvie and if someone who knew her got a close look, it might not work for long.

A quick touchup on clothes to the office-wear Mabel and Ollie had on in the pictures, and they were off.

It was a good thing they had changed. There was no door man, but Sylvie noticed cameras at the entrance to Mabel's apartment building, in the lobby, and in the elevator. They paused outside Mabel's apartment and Sylvie held out a key to the Olliefied Peter.

"One that fits this lock, please."

The upgrade took him two seconds. They were in.

.... And it was apparently going to be ridiculously easy. Spread out on Mabel's kitchen table by the Swedish blue and gold curtains ("Ugh," Sylvie thought) and weighed down by an unbelievably tacky "Lutefisk is a sign God loves us" coaster, was the contract. Next to it were handwritten notes in Mabel's Polly-penmanship-cursive that included angry rants about the law firm, how unjustly Mabel had been treated, and details of Sjogren's trial strategy.

Sylvie shook her head. "Sheesh! Smoking gun, much?"

Peter had been flipping through the contract itself.

"Apparently her betrayal was worth a quarter million up front plus the office manager position at their firm," he said slowly. "I wonder if she has delivered the goods yet?"

"Let's hope she hasn't, Sylvie said acerbically. Maybe Mabel wasn't so sharp after all, she thought, leaving this handwritten, assuredly incriminating, resentful screed laying around.

"Grab this and let's get out. Mabel could be home anytime."

As she picked up the pile of notes to stuff into her bag, two flash drives fell onto the table. One had a label on it noting Sylvie's law firm and 'case docs.' The other had a note with the other firm's name on it. "Aha. What have we here?" She snagged those as well.

When they left the apartment and headed toward the elevator, they heard it ding at their floor. Wordlessly, both did an about face and headed for the other end of the hall and the stairwell. As they quietly opened that door, they heard someone fumbling for keys at Mabel's apartment. "Whew," Sylvie thought. "Just in time."

They changed forms again at Peter's place. This made Sylvie massively horny. Peter got that come hither look too. Maybe it was just a need to relieve stress.

Peter looked so scrumptious though. She wanted to jump his bones in the worst way.

She steeled herself. "Miles to go before I sleep," she muttered.

"Peter, I am eternally grateful. I will have to give you a rain check, though. I've got to get this back to the office and prep for court tomorrow."

"You've got my number," he said lazily. "I'll be happy to... come... to your place anytime."

"Oh, I will call," she said, nearly panting. "It may be a week or so. It's a date I will find very... fulfilling," she quirked a look at her boobs and wryly look up at him.

She ran her hands down her sides and over what she suspected would soon be a magnified rump. Peter froze and swallowed before he recovered into a smile. Sylvie noticed his insta-chub with gratification.

Future Sylvie was going to have opinions about this. "Go ahead," she sighed to herself. "You'll love it." She settled into a surprising truce with the idea of a be-buxom-maxxed form. She recalled how it felt, incredibly heavy, but so good.

The morning could not have gone better. Sylvie briefed Ollie and Mr. Sjogren. She got the I-T guy Ollie had already looped in to look at and copy the flash drives. The time stamps on the files Mabel had copied and her notes showed the lead company attorney in the case had approached her months ago, but she hadn't decided to fink-out until recently.

Sylvie blithely lied through her teeth, telling McTavish and Sjogren she had, as a matter of procedure, examined all personal space and the spaces a particular former employee habitually accessed and had found these documents they might want to present to a judge.

Ollie and Sjogren exchanged bland looks of understanding, thanked Sylvie, and suggested she might find attendance at the trial after lunch both entertaining and satisfying. She gave them a chipper look and said she'd be there.

The afternoon court session had been scheduled for another dry summation of chemical tests in waterways and groundwater near the plant. The judge looked up in surprise when Sjogren requested a conference outside the presence of the jury.

The lead company attorney, the right honorable Blake Benton Bellinham III, a senior partner in the other law firm, and the man whose printed name appeared next to the signature line on Mabel's contract straightened and looked more alert at the defense table as well.

In a pitch perfect tone of 'more in sorrow than in anger,' Sjogren laid out Bellingham's efforts to suborn a malcontented, now former employee of Sjogren's firm to transfer privileged communications and documents related to this trial in return for substantial cash remuneration and other good and valuable future considerations including employment.

This had come to light following a routine review of the workspace of the former employee by his firm's office administrator, who was, if it please the court, available now to corroborate this account and testify as to how the documents were discovered. It was Sjogren's painful duty to bring this to the attention of the court so that his honor might act appropriately to prevent jeopardizing the progress of this trial.

Butter would not have melted in his mouth.

Oh, and this matter would be filed with the state Attorney Registration and Disciplinary Commission momentarily as an ethics complaint.

By the end of this damning recitation, to Sylvie's silent delight, Bellingham's face had turned a shade of puce not found in nature. She made a bet with herself that the first thing Bellingham would do outside the courtroom was take blood pressure medication.

The judge tookr a leisurely stroll through the documents. It took some time. Bellingham looked increasingly fretful. His co-counsel looked increasingly murderously at Bellingham and could be heard muttering something that sounded close to 'sucking pool,' though why he was talking about a leaky home recreational installation at that moment was a mystery.

His honor eventually surfaced, cleared his throat portentously and suggested that the proper move for Bellingham to prevent a directed verdict in favor of the plaintiffs and a quick 'do not pass go... go directly to the damages phase of the case'... would be to recuse himself from the case.

At this point Bellingham's co-counsel put his face in his hands and shook his head. Bellingham looked dazed.

The judge asked the court recorder to halt the formal record a moment for a personal remark. He had been a State Senator, a Congressman and a U. S. District Attorney before ascending to the federal bench and presumably knew from shenanigans.

He said in a Sahara dry tone to no one in particular, that if someone were to play fast and loose with ethics and even the law, one had damn well better be good enough at it to not get caught.

He called a recess, brought the jury back in and officially sent them home for the weekend. After that hizzoner sat and looked expectantly at the company's table.

Bellingham shakily stammered out his intention to withdraw from the case and tottered out of the chamber. The company co-counsel gave Sjogren a look and jerked his head toward a small conference room just outside the courtroom. With a faint Mona Lisa smile, Sjogren politely gestured for his beleaguered opponent to go first. They left and shut the door.

Two hours later, just before the courthouse closed for the week, the company settled the case for $75 million. Sjogren extracted a further concession. Usually, settlements mean both sides agree to not talk about the case. Sjogren demanded that provision be struck. He wanted all the evidence and the amount conceded on the record. This could guide future plaintiffs. In return he would, with great reluctance, refrain from suing the pants off the other firm in total, and its principals individually.

He smiled benevolently at Sylvie as he and McTavish sailed out of the room to brief the family they represented.

As Sylvie dialed Peter to ask him out for Saturday night, she wondered what sort of callipygian monstrosity he would dream up for her.

Part 4 (No, even bigger)

She made the dinner reservation at the newest farm-to-fork restaurant in the city. It was so hot and haute, word was the chef was angling for a Michelin star. She also reserved a table at a live music dance club. Yes, there were still such things in town, though she had to look hard to find one. Sylvie also picked Peter up as part of her campaign of gratitude.

"Goodness!" he said when she told him the order of play. "That's a lot. Are you sure you don't want me to help pay? You have a well-paid job but it's not as extravagant a paycheck as all this. And money is not exactly a challenge for me. Happy to pitch in," he said kindly.

"You might be surprised," she said smugly. "McTavish and Sjogren were so happy with the settlement, they gave me a full share. Sjogren told me they were fantasizing about an award half that size even if all the stars aligned. And without me, and therefore you too, it wouldn't have happened."

"Peter," she purred. "Talk dirty to me about investment options."

"I have rather more than I ever thought I'd get in one big chunk, and I don't want to blow it all. Though, I'm happy to spring for tonight as part of my thank you for coming through for me."

She licked her lips and her eyes raked him up and down with a completely unconcealed lusty promise of other thanks that might come Peter's way.

"Who am I to say no to a fee," he chuckled. "I'll even cut you a break on the commission."

"By the way," Peter asked, "why did you need me to be somebody specific instead of just different enough to avoid an ID from the camera footage?"

"That was a precaution in case the other firm thinks to investigate how we found out about the arrangement," she said. "If they think you were one of my firm's attorneys, they will give Mabel a quick impolite sendoff, instead of fulfilling the deal. Couldn't happen to a nicer person."

Dinner came and went. Dancing started. A couple of fast ones, and then they settled into a comfy clinch for a slow glide around the floor. Peter got a devilish look in his eyes. One hand in hers, the other placed almost improperly low, just at the top of her behind, skin to skin in the cutout on the back of her dress, he squeezed her to him as they swayed together. Then she realized he wasn't so much squeezing her tighter, as there was more of her to squeeze.

She felt thiccer and thiccer as they moved.

"Sheesh, I feel like an air pump is hissing away underneath the music," she thought, her breasts slowly swelling up the low décolleté.

Soon there might be exposed nipple. Swaying to the music now had a lot more sway in it and the tingles grew more intense.

"I know what you're doing, Peter. Just how big are we going here? Should we head to your place?"

"Not just yet, Sylvie dear." "Let's see how long it will take for someone to think they see something." He stuck out his lower lip in mock disappointment. "You noticed faster than I thought you would.

"Now, I've got to find something else to surprise you," he sighed theatrically, and rolled his eyes in a put-upon manner.

She smiled. "As you wish Peter. This is your night." She laid her head on his chest, though her neck had to stretch a bit more than usual because her mammaries were still steadily marching through new cup sizes.

"At least make sure my dress also grows. I'd rather not get kicked out of this place because of a Janet Jackson incident. It's nice and we might want to come back sometime."

"No worries," he smirked. "I got you."

The dress was a lustrous satin. Sylvie felt it slide and glide as they moved, alternately tightening and loosening as Peter divided his focus between her and the clothing.

It felt so good. She flushed as her puss woke up and started to ask when it was going to get some attention.

The band transitioned to a faster dance, and they exited the clinch to follow the beat.

"Staying was a mistake," she thought as she bounced and jiggled. The dress flowed liquidly over her jouncing parts, her skin achingly sensitive.

She thought, "We should leave after the next slow dance. I'm not sure I can take another fast one without ripping off his shirt and taking him right here."

The next slow dance was not an improvement. He stroked his hand over the small of her back. Heat spread outward in spirals around her tiny waist, down over her now swelling hips and ass, and dipped to her thighs. Round and round the feathery feelings went, down to her calves, up to her pussy. She stifled a groan by leaning into his chest. Her thighs thickened.

"What are you doing to me? Every nerve ending is on fire. How sensitive are you making me? Give a girl a chance to get home," she pleaded.

After what seemed like several near climactic infinities, the band took a break. Sophie needed one too. Badly. Her molten slit had sogged her panties.

"I'm going to the restroom thenletsgetoutofhere," she shakily mumbled.

Peter smiled knowingly. She'd be lucky if she didn't drip on the way there, he judged with satisfaction.

Panties stowed in her purse, a judicious use of paper towels had probably saved the dress. Sylvie washed her face. In the mirror, she still looked so flushed and bothered many men and most women would probably know what was up just by seeing her.

On the other hand, she judged herself, it looked incredibly hot being this curvy. She was in no danger of any sagging. Every part of her stood firm and proud, a little too proud, in fact.

The sensitivity was off the charts and even the smallest air current made her peaked nipples beg for a firm hand or mouth or, fuck it, even a passing tantalizing graze from a soft sheet. There was something freeing about that, she told herself and knew it for the mendacious thought it was.

She squared her shoulders. Right. Onward.

The ride to his place was relatively quiet. They gave each other searching glances.

"Did I do too much? Is she going to resent it?" he thought.

"How can we possibly top this?" she pondered. "Will my heart give out? A stroke at age 32 from pleasure. How sad." She had so many more cumms to live for.

They walked inside his apartment. The lock clicked. Sylvie grabbed Peter's shirt, tore it open, and yanked all 6 feet many inches of him down to her. She plundered his mouth.

She felt herself begin to swell rapidly. Her breasts popped out of the dress and pushed aggressively outward. The cooler air outside the strained cloth confines felt wonderful. Seams split loudly as her ass broadened and deepened. Her thigh gap plumped shut so fast it slapped. Her hips pushed the tatters of the dress sheath up and out. Her hips were so ridiculously broad she almost looked like a petite bust of a woman emerging from a tapered red fringed pedestal that swept back in at the knees, sloping down to still slender calves.

Peter reached under the fragments of her dress. His fingers found her molten snatch. Sylvie moaned into Peter's mouth during a scorching kiss. He made an impatient noise, paused her inflation for a moment, and touched the dress. It unraveled and dropped off her in a second.

Her tortured demi bralette, all but hidden under her bloated mams, was next. The clasp simply evaporated under his touch. She stood naked, proud, and lustful before him. Peter took her hand and led her to the bedroom, his own clothes dropping off article by article as they walked.

The hair on his chest was amazingly soft. Her hands skimmed his hard swollen muscles. Peter groaned and shuddered as her hands dallied on his pecs and stroked downward below his navel just above the zone of delight. She sank to a crouch.

He was trimmed but there was still some hair down there. She swirled her hands through it tenderly. Her fingers pitter-pattered all around his mammoth package, teasing and tantalizing before she suddenly grasped his girth in one hand and cupped his balls in a firm and gentle pull with the other. He threw his head back and gasped for air.

Her nubs brushed his thighs. Her turn to shiver. She growled and inhaled his cock to the root, freeing one hand to stroke his taint while she sucked him and squeezed and rolled his balls in her hand. "Ohhh, he moaned and came, shooting and shooting down her tight milking throat.

She held him firm until he finished spurting and slowly disengaged, nestling into the crook of his arm as they both puffed for breath. His cock stayed steel hard.

As big as Sylvie was, she hadn't yet reached the size she was the 'night of blonde.'

Peter dipped his head and resumed their kiss, even as his lower body nestled more firmly between her thighs, the hot hardness of him teasing her mound. He lifted himself from her body. His welcome weight gone, she made a sound of protest, which turned into a moan as his hands roamed her flesh, bringing all her nerve endings sparkling to life.

He sucked on her nipple, then swirled his tongue around the aureola, encouraging them to puffy pointed prominence. Each stroke of his mouth on her tit jolted her weeping pussy. He bit her nipple, nibbled the tip, then tugged with his teeth. She couldn't help but cry out and thrash.

Sylvie threw her head back. A massive body buzz shorted out her vision as a curtain of red descended. Her skin once again turned ultra-sensitive. She swelled. She squirmed. Hips bucked as they sought his weight. She needed him. The growing ache between her legs begged for relief.

He sucked harshly, ignoring the uncontrolled twitching of her cleft. When he finally stopped, she let out a mewling sound and then held still, holding her breath as his mouth kissed a tantalizing trail down over her tummy, right to her most intimate edge.

His hot breath shivered against her sopping lips. Her fingers spasmed and clutched the sheets as his tongue flicked against her clit. He lapped. She spiraled. She moaned.

He hummed in pleasure as he sucked her button, forcing a screeching peak from her.

Her curves were gargantuan but not fat. He could see substantial muscle under the extravagant arcs of plump flesh. Her insanely small waist to hip ratio would make a renaissance painter weep. It went well beyond the supposed.7 ideal.

He took in a shuddering breath and said, "I need you."

Good. She needed him too. He positioned himself over her, and slid in, a big man, a humongous shaft, gigantic balls. Her man, she wistfully hoped, amid dizzying pleasure that did not relent for a long long while.

Sunday morning, she surveyed the changes he had crafted. She had returned to the gargantuan scale of their previous encounter. Perhaps a bit more. She had enough core strength to sit up, overcoming the weight of behemoth breasts as they trembled down into her lap. It was a near thing.

She heard the bathroom sink faucet shut off. Peter emerged, drying his hands. Wait. Was he taller and even more ripped? That cock. It looked longer and thicker than ever. They considered each other's shapes.

"I like," Sylvie said. "I thought I would be the one changing for you, though. You seem to have upped the manly quotient on yourself though."

He turned to look in the mirror and ran a giant hand over the back of his head and flexed a bicep with the other arm.

"I'm not sure what happened," he said. "I think we were both pretty much out of control last night."

She smiled "Yah, think, Hercules?"

"If I'm Herc, you're Aphrodite."

"My God that was fantastic," they both babbled in euphoria.

"If this is what happens, I can't wait to do you more secret-agent-man favors" he said.

She smirked. "Anytime, stud."

Part 5 (Hazy daisy)

A few months went by in a comforting routine of daytime work, evening rest, and weekend dates. Those usually resulted in a sultry swelling Sylvie.

Most nights they would go out to eat. They both liked fine food and the city offered many such indulgences. Sometimes they hit a club, found a fun concert, or took in a show. After that, they'd head to Peter's apartment.

There, things would get freaky, fun, and often a little strange. They'd kiss. Kissing led to stroking. Stroking led to groping. Groping led to... well lots of things. And somewhere in there, things would fuzz out for Sylvie.

She knew it was great. She would ride wave after wave of pleasure. She knew it was mind-blowingly good every single time. Her mind, though, was purely getting blown. Sylvie's brain would go on vacation at some point during the proceedings.

She could never quite remember what happened. She'd feel her body get tight and hot and sensitive. She'd feel herself start to grow. Then... brain fritz.

She could later recall flashes of Peter squeezing mammoth breasts, Peter shoving his massive cock into various wonderful places, Peter fingering her till she screamed, and him spurting thickly and continuously until her tummy was stuffed with his copious spend. These strobing vignettes were very nice indeed, but she was always so out of her head she could never come up with exactly what happened when. Except for the coming over and over part. That was pretty clear.

Sylvie would emerge from these cognitive shutdowns, shaky, exhausted in the best way, and so replete that for a time she could only moan, grunt, and every so often, sigh.

When she regained control of her twitching limbs, Sylvie would become aware of the physical changes, the big things that Peter liked to do to her. An ass so broad and deep she had trouble rolling over in bed to get her knees under her. Wide hips and a waist so pinched she wondered how she wasn't snapping in two. And tits so big and protruding she couldn't see her tummy or her feet. Her breasts took up more or less all the space between her collarbones and her mons.

And it all felt wonderful. Even post coital sensitivity was nearly off the charts but at least it no longer threatened to reignite chain orgasms.

Peter would have this almost unctuous air of satisfaction as he cuddled with her. Clearly, he loved fucking her till she couldn't think straight, quite literally.

She couldn't put her finger on anything wrong, exactly but it was odd. That overwhelming responsiveness to sexing it up was something she felt ought to bother her. It just felt fantastic though. So very good.

And he always put her back to her own ideal I-G bod, though Sylvie began to wonder if bigger would be even better on the reg.

Part 6 (Corp spies again)

Sylvie thought often of Peter though work started to take a lot more energy. They began to dally less, just every couple of weeks. Then less than that. Sylvie had turned morose about her longing for Peter even as she moistened each time he surfaced in her thoughts.

"Does he only want me huge?" she wondered. "Would it be so bad being that way? But parts of me keep moving for ten seconds after I stop. It's so very much!"

And yet, it felt fantastic, being so sensitive a soft breeze would rev her up. In private, she would heft up her now mundane feeling melon tits and think of the difference compared to Peter's fulsome vision of her torso obscuring orbs.

It was tantalizing, but no. Too much. Or maybe not?

Part of Sylvie's extra workload was the need to arrange frequent meetings with clients who gave every sign of being Richy-rich tech bros. They dressed in what an unobservant person would think was plain. Except, Sylvie noticed, the quality of the clothing was very high.

Hmm. Who else would buy bespoke hoodies and track pants and Bruno Cucinelli sneakers? The prevalence of custom smart glasses was also a tipoff. She mused. The message they were trying to send was 'I am rich. I have taste,' while the vibe was 'I seriously don't care how I look except I do like my comfort.'

Even their lawyers were cut from a different cloth than the attorneys in her firm, quite literally a different cloth. The lawyers for these people tended to imitate the dress and manner of their clients, with a much lower budget. That clashed with the sleek-suited buttoned-down counselors from the financial services division of her firm who were in these hush-hush assignations. It was all very mysterious.

Sylvie also had to make sure certain people in the office were not around when these meetings were taking place, which limited the conference rooms she could use and the times of day. It required a fair amount of juggling.

Peter thought of Sylvie often but held back from seeing her too much. He felt conflicted. Peter really liked blowing her up and would then feel guilty about it. That wasn't her preference, clearly. She always went back to her generous but more realistic instababe proportions.

Boy, though. Wouldn't it be nice if she loved the extra curves as much as he did?

Just before formal closing time one day, Sylvie found out what all those secretive meetings were about. There were a few associates in tiny offices, still cranking away building billable hours. They'd likely be there deep into the night. So, Counsellor Sjogren called Sylvie into his capacious office for a conversation away from the tired bloodshot eyes of the juniors.

It looked like a gentleman squire's library. Wooden slat blinds on the windows could be opened to let in light or closed to create a dim atmosphere suitable for deals and plots. On dark wood shelves, law books stood as sentinels, along the walls. A double pedestaled mahogany expanse of a partner's desk held pride-of-place in the center. It was so big, the Resolute Desk in the White House might well come down with a terminal case of envy if it knew.

Sjogren was sitting in his favorite Chesterfield Chair with a glass of scotch. With him in another wingback seat was a younger partner, Darin Durbin Evans, often referred to as DDE around the office. Evans too held an amber glass but showed no appetite for it.

Evans was a specialist in mergers, acquisitions, and corporate skullduggery, a grave dancing predator in a $10,000 suit. The office joke was DDE stood for Dark Deeds Expected. Evans was giving Sylvie the eye, a probing saturnine stare she returned with a closed lips smile and a short nod.

Evans turned to Sjogren. "Are you sure?" he intoned.

Sjogren waved away the doubt. "Sylvie is a master of logistics. If anyone can crack an approach to your problem and its timing challenges, she can. More importantly, she came through on my last big case in a way that was decisive, deniable, and prompt."

"She did not get caught, although it is a mystery to me how she managed to acquire the information we needed in an orthodox manner without appearing on cameras. I know Bellingham checked Mabel's building video footage, before he rushed to 'voluntarily' suspend his law license for five years," said Sjogren with ill-disguised satisfaction.

"I have not asked and she has not offered to explain, another point in her favor, as I understand discretion is key in this matter," Sjogren purred.

Doubts apparently allayed, Evans turned to Sylvie.

"I need to acquire... things. It must be fast. It must not be traced. If possible, it should not even be known to have happened for a longish while. The payday for my clients could be two digits followed by a word beginning with 'B.' Some of that would flow to this firm."

"I have little compunction about charting this shadowy course, because the opposition have already succeeded in their own corporate espionage and secured information that is making this situation somewhat fraught. This acquisition would level the playing field, at the least."

"There is security. Guards, yes. Two locked doors. Another password protected door. And there is a computer network that is in its own sandbox, held apart from the web. Fingerprints from not one but two people are needed at nearly the same moment to gain access. Then the persons actually entering commands in the network have to pass facial recognition scans, quite good ones. This must also be done when those with genuinely approved access are on the premises but otherwise engaged. Which means the attempt may have to happen at a moment's notice."

"I need a copy of chip designs, plans held on that sandboxed network, and records of any covenants you might find to have been executed between this company and a certain foreign government that is not supposed to have access to this particular tech."

"Success will mean the company we represent will have leverage in a deal to acquire instead of being acquired. We can also proffer a method to shield this other company from ruin by the government, should their injudicious foreign entanglements become known. This leverage would make the price advantageous to my client. I know these things are true, but proof has been remarkably difficult to come by."

"Guards can be circumvented," Sylvie said slowly. "The first two doors are doable. I'll have to think about an approach on the third."

"Do you have copies of the fingerprints, and video footage of the two people in question walking and speaking? Are you sure the network has ports to plug in a storage medium to copy the data or that the ports have not been disabled to prevent this very thing? Also, what size datasets are we talking about?"

"First, are you interested in the attempt?" said Evans. "I would be most grateful in the event of your success. You would be repudiated if caught."

Sylvie thought for a moment. She would need Peter again. Even if caught, they could obscure their identities. So, that was maybe okay. The door? Perhaps. But what about that foreign power? Sure, it's all fun and games until an authoritarian government gets involved, she thought.

"How likely is it that the... other country in question... would react harshly and... physically to a loss?" she asked.

Evans gave a small ferretlike smile. "Vanishingly small, if you succeed. They would have too much egg on their faces to do anything public or even privately precipitous that could be traced to them."

"The leaders of that country are controlling of their own people but on the surface, they play nicely with the international community. No poison umbrella stabbings likely from this nation-state," he said.

"Since we need two fingerprints and the ability to fool facial recognition software, I need to talk with the consultant I used before," Sylvie said. "He is discreet, although I'm not sure he would be interested. If he does want to give it a go, I'll need a day to plan things if you have video footage of the two. If you don't have the fingerprints, I may have to have an encounter with the two people authorized to access the system in order to get their prints," she said. "I'll also need to know real time whereabouts of the two people who have access, so we don't stumble across them when we go in."

Evans' smile became even more predatory, if that was possible. "I will work on that. When shall we three meet again?"

Sylvie grinned and capped his quote. "When the hurley-burly's done, but before the battle's lost or won, please. How about in a couple of days, same time?"

Evans' dry laugh was faint and breathy but his smile at her wit turned from tense to genuine. "So be it."

Part 7 (You want me to turn into that?)

Peter was game when Sylvie told him. Money would be nice but the thrill mattered more. He said he'd been bored lately. Secretly, he also liked the idea of doing another favor that would result in a 'swell time.'

Evans came through with the video and fingerprints, and a floor plan. Oh yes, the building. It was a carved-out corporate office suite in the middle of a mammoth data center at the edge of the city. The fenced off network was hiding in plain site next to thousands of other servers in unremarkable buildings. Who was to know it had a very different purpose and no outward connectivity?

By luck, one of the people they were mimicking was a guy and the other was a woman. The man was 55, shiny-pated, corpulent, and prone to perspire through any suit jacket in five minutes flat as near as Sylvie could tell from the video. Peter looked at Sylvie reproachfully. "Bald, fat, AND sweaty? Really!" he said. You will owe me big time, Sylvie."

The woman wasn't much better. She was somewhat in shape but closing in on 50 with severe gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, a limp that required a cane, and a hatchet face straight out of the central casting vision of a colorless KGB apparatchik in a James Bond movie.

Peter and Sylvie couldn't scramble all the cameras in the building. Because it had to be undiscovered for some time it also meant there could be no anomalies like a nighttime approach. Peter and Sylvie looked at each other and grimaced.

They had to make the daytime run when the two execs were in the facility and other workers were around. Evans had thankfully learned about a scheduled meeting in a different area of the facility. With that kind of meeting, the two typically were incommunicado for a semi-predictable period of time. Unfortunately, that time was not long. The two reliably headed back to the target area right after these sessions. That wasn't scary. Much.

Evans got a photo of the company vehicle the two people to be impersonated typically used. Sylvie thought Peter could change one of their vehicles to something similar.

Evans did come through with video. He simply copied the third quarter earnings call with analysts during which the two had made remarks. That let Peter change himself and Sylvie. Physique, clothes, voices and body language were close approximations. The fingerprints were even easier. Evans simply filched two water glasses the enemy execs used during a pretextual meeting he had with them in which he pounded the table and made histrionic demands.

They sneered at Evans, thinking they would fire his law firm first once they took over the target company. Evans' poker face was perfect and both sides departed, each certain in their conviction they would emerge the victor in this eat or be eaten capitalist fracas.

Peter magicked the door keys to match the locks. His magic was good enough to satisfy the facial recognition software, despite the age differences. The passworded door yielded to his desire that the opening sequence would momentarily shift to 12345678# and revert after they were through. They plugged in a roomy external drive and started copying data. Apparently, the ports had not been disabled, and Peter didn't need to try a targeted upgrade.

Peter, stroked the back of Sylvie's neck. It tingled and lust awoke. "Sheesh. Now? Really?" she said. She looked him up and down and made a face at the corpulent body Peter currently had. "And the way you are... 'dressed,'? And the way I look?"

Peter smiled, unrepentant. "You are enchanting, my dear, no matter when, where, what, or who you wear," he said gallantly. They made out as the hard drive whispered away at its job.

"If what he said is more than just heavy flirting, maybe there is something here. Maybe we can stay together, after all" She thought wistfully. "It's gotta be real if he's even hitting on Colonel Rosa Klebb while he's Leisure-Suit-Larry, right?"

Copying the data took longer than they hoped. Evans would be pleased with the take on the chips and tech specs. If they could get out. They also filched documents involving yet another corporate takeover target. Evans might find that useful too. Their window to leave was still okay, by a little, a very little.

The problem, as always, was people. On their way out, minions wanted to toady, sucking up to Sylvie by complimenting her new cane. She gave them a wintry look that said they could easily be transferred to a data center in the emptiest part of Utah if they persisted in such intrusive familiarity. Another peon approached Peter asking about a project, going on at great length about the difficulties, and pleading for an extension on his deliverable. Peter gave the man the brush off and told him to schedule a Teams meeting later to discuss it.

Those delays were almost fatal. They turned the corner into an empty meeting room just as they saw the real executives puff into the building. After waiting for them to pass and then pausing a bit longer for safety, they walked past the security desk at the entrance and Sylvie said she had forgotten a copy of an important contract in her vehicle. The guard leapt to his feet and offered to run and get it. Sylvie icily demurred.

They were clear. Sylvie slumped into her seat in the vehicle as they left the gates and thanked Peter fervently.

Part 8 (Long distance inflation? Yikes!)

The next week it was Peter's turn to be out of town with friends. While he wasn't in the same "27 Dresses" club Sylvie was bucking for, he had been in enough weddings to have permanently upgraded one of his suits to a nice tux.

This event was a bachelor party, so Sylvie wasn't going along, but she felt encouraged that he had asked her to be his plus one for his buddy Matt's wedding the next month. It eased her constant low-grade anxiety that this was all going to fall apart someday. She still had not had the moxie to just come out and ask him where they were going with this.

It was frustrating. Thirst between her thighs rose whenever she thought of him. That was often. Maybe she could be what he wanted, in whatever form that was. No matter how inflated. She thought to herself she wouldn't mind the astronomical size, it was the weight that made the swollen reality, quite literally a burden.

Even that cumbersome pendulous sway faded into the background though when he was near, she thought. Her brain kept switching tracks to the idee fixe of him filling her full of his vast loads. Surely enough to big her with many babies if she ever scanted on her pills.

Pining for the tight belly feeling he injected at each encounter, she found her mind flipping from work tasks to Peter's potent hotness. She only hoped her lustful longing didn't show on her face while she had a spreadsheet open. That would be mystifying to her co-workers at best. Who gets turned on by Excell, right?

Peter had promised to come over for Sunday dinner when he got back into town. Sylvie promised herself she would make an opening to talk about the future she wanted with Peter. She wistfully hoped he would change his pattern of catting around to stay with her.

"Maybe he's already done that. He's hinted at that," she thought.

She stayed in Friday night. Did laundry. Made a shopping list for Sunday dinner. Paid bills. "Woo-hoo, sure livin' that high life," she thought. She booted up her computer to check her email.

Wow! Every person at Daria's baby shower was now pregnant, she gathered from the blizzard of happy messages in her inbox. Everyone except her, she noted glumly. "Suck it up girl," she thought and pounded the keyboard sending out cheery congrats to everyone.

She poured herself a glass of wine, settled for an episode of Bakery Battles, and morosely went to bed, hoping Peter would eventually want to be a dad with her. Sleep didn't come easy. She tossed and turned. She felt pent up and tense. Stressed over the uncertainty yet fearing certainty if his answer was no.

Okay, maybe a little self-love would calm her down of at least distract her. Sylvie began to touch herself, fingers moving along her slickening cleft. Sylvie thought of Peter and how he played her body like a virtuoso musician, how he filled her and how he raised her with wave after wave of pleasure. She fantasized having him beneath her splitting her with his huge staff as she rode him rocking evenly and slowly, his cock grinding along her weeping puss. She could practically smell his unique spicy manly odor.

Sylvie clenched her eyes tight shut and visualized Peter touching her tight ball of nerves, pressing softly, matching her motions atop him. She wanted him.

Sylvie admitted to herself she'd transform her body however he liked if he would only be with her. That thought shocked her but only faintly. She was already climbing that ephemeral stairway and had no room for other thought. She stroked faster, telling herself it was him. Sensation rising. A dizzying ascent. A luminous burst. Then sleep.

Sunlight glinting off the bright blonde shining blanket of hair on the pillow woke her Saturday morning. Blonde! What?! She jolted upright in shock. The hair was the least of it. Her cantaloupe breasts were now much larger. Pumpkins. Big honking pumpkins. Her long IG model legs were back to Team Thicc Thighs and rolling hills of hips. Her ass more than balanced her tits. Broad hips sloped from that trim waist to a vastly spreading seat.

"My God! I must look like Peter's fetish upgrade," she panicked.

What the heck had happened?

She swayed over to the mirror and looked. Yup. Somehow, Peter's preferences had appeared. From the wide sloping hips to that huge outthrust chest projecting outward, her bosoms shadowed the scant amount of narrow tummy left uncovered.

Her lips were so puffy they promised a speech impediment as well as fellatric delights. Her mound felt as puffy as ever it had. It was all there. Sylvie forced herself to stop hyperventilating.

"It would be okay, right? She had enjoyed bulging out with him. It wouldn't be so bad... except for having to explain it at work!" She face-palmed. "Oh shit!"

How did this happen?

Slow deep breaths weren't doing the trick at all. "Calm down. Calm down. Calm down." She paced and bounced as she went. Her sensitive curves sent little frissons of pleasure through her. "At least this form feels good," she thought.

"Of course, it feels good," she wailed to herself. "I'm in his fucking wet dream of a sensitive cum-at-a-second's-notice body."

"I can't be like this forever." She tried not to let herself think that it might be nice to be this way on the reg if Peter could be hers.

Sylvie grabbed her phone and called Peter. It went to voice mail. "Right," she thought. "He's probably still asleep after the party. He'll wake up later and can call me back on his way to the airport.

Peter was apparently late waking up. Or he was dead. Or he would wish he were dead when Sylvie finally got ahold of him. She ended up leaving message after message, each more stressed than the last as the afternoon wore on. The final one was simply "How the hell did you do this to me from way out there!"

It took him three hours to call back.

By the time he did, Sylvie had moved through several stages of freak out. There was the pacing and fretting. Then the angsty crying jags. She was an ugly cryer and never liked that about herself. Next came raging about how she was never going to go out with anyone again, promising if she got out of this, she was going to enter a convent. It went on to zombielike full on flat affect depression.

RIIIIInggg.

"Peter, where have you been!" she wailed.

"Sorry Sylvie," he said in a gravelly voice from a thick throat that had clearly had a close intimate connection with many glasses of scotch. "I'm just getting up. What's going on? How did I do what?"

"I've swelled up and popped into that blonde bimbo body you turned me into twice! How did you do that from out there in Seattle?" she hissed at him. "I didn't consent to this one!"

A shocked silence lasted several seconds. When Peter spoke again, he sounded much more awake.

"That's not possible."

"Well, how the hell did it happen, then, Mr. upgrade anything and everything?" Sylvie spat.

"I have no idea, but I'm leaving for the airport now. I will come right over.... unless you can pick me up?" he said.

"Peter!" Sylvie shouted. "I can't be seen like this. I'm bigger than ever. My breasts won't fit behind the steering wheel, and my thighs and ass are so thick they'll get in the way too. I have no clothes this size without you changing them. Just get here as soon as you can and f-f-f-fix me, please!" She dissolved into tears.

"Okay okay," he soothed. "Hang in there! I'll be there as soon as I can."

That was not very soon. By the time Peter arrived straight from the airport, Sylvie was exhausted.

She opened the door, with a sheet looped around her into an ersatz toga. Not much else around her place could cover what needed covering.

Peter rolled his suitcase in, shut the door and folded her in his big strong arms.

"I'm here. It'll be okay."

Her shoulders shook with silent sobs as she clung to him. "Help me, Peter. I'm afraid. I like swelling up for you, but don't want to be like this forever."

Or at least not much anyway, she reluctantly admitted to herself. Even in the cold light of day with no hanky-panky going on to stimulate her, she wondered what it would be like to be with him this way all the time.

"No! Just no. Okay maybe now and again? How big did he really like?" she thought.

He grabbed her around the waist and closed his eyes. "First things first."

She felt her curves begin to ebb. It was odd, though. It was slow. Very slow. And it felt as if every time Peter took a breath, her progress would stall out for a second. She wondered if she might even have felt slight moments of inflation when that happened. Her hair turned dark so leisurely the blonde strands retreated only inch by inch. By this time Peter was sweating.

Sylvie felt the tingles were only grudgingly giving her back her Instababe shape. When it came to the tan, the toasty brown balked at her waist and Peter let go with a gasp.

"I need a moment. This is unbelievably difficult. I've never felt a change this tough. When we get done, I'm 'gonna be tapped out for a couple days."

Sylvie tensed up. "You will get through it, though, right?" She smiled shakily through wet eyes. "I really don't want my skin to stay half Elsa half Moana."

"That would be hard to explain," he smirked and then said in a fruity mock accent. "I am Dr. Frankenstein. My genius has given Sylvie a half and half body now. My next brilliant experiment will give her different skin tones in all four quadrants of her body. Purple, I think for one. Maybe chartreuse or lime for others."

Half exasperated and half laughing, she swatted at his shoulder. "Too soon, knucklehead! At least finish fixing me before you start the jokes."

His wry grin turned compassionate. "Of course. Here we go."

The break had helped. Peter had caught his second wind. Sylvie's skin smoothly reverted to her preferred nut-brown tan. Her lips receded to their 'ordinary' plump state. The toga fell off her less amplified form.

His eyebrows went up. Mendaciously, he said "I meant for that to happen" as he gave her an obvious ogle.

She reached down and grabbed the sheet. "Sure, you did, sport." She turned and walked down the hall, talking over her shoulder. "Let me get some clothes on and we need to talk."

They settled onto the couch, and she put her head on his shoulder and her arms around him. "I'm frightened, Peter. What is going on? Do I have to worry about inflating in public?"

He pondered and spoke slowly. "I don't think so."

"Then what's happening? You never told me you could upgrade remotely."

He shook his head. "I'm all but certain I can't. I had time to think when I was on the plane. I'm wondering if you did it to yourself."

She sputtered. "That's crazy. I don't have your magic."

"Well, don't you? You might have it now. Those gifts you said I upgraded for you keep running through my head, right? I didn't knowingly do the watch or the bag or the dress. And those are things I wouldn't think of changing in the way they came out. They were your desires, though."

"Sylvie, I think when I upgraded you that first time, or at some point when we were playing with changes, your subconscious decided that having the same upgrade power would be a good thing for you and my magic went along with it. I'm trying to think back and maybe that first upgrade I did, the one to your preference, gave you the power. I was really tired afterward. I suppose it would take a lot of juice to activate magic in someone else."

"Tell me have you noticed anything else changing suddenly or surprisingly?" he probed.

It suddenly dawned on her. She whispered, "the baby shower!"

"We had the group hug, and then I thought Daria's belly looked bigger. The other girls looked prettier too. I thought they might have bigger boobs but I wasn't sure. A couple of them were also pregnant and they looked bigger. I put it down to the warm fuzzies you feel when the gang gets together again. And then I got really tired."

"Uh huh?" he encouraged.

"Daria wrote me the next day the doctor found another baby in her belly. She's having twins. And now, everybody at that party except for me is pregnant just the way they wanted to be. Oh. My. God. I have this magic!"

Sylvie looked excited, then frightened.

"But I can't control it at all. I don't want to go to the bathroom at work and suddenly blow up." She waved her hand at her body. "How can I live like this? Or worse, what if I do something radical to someone else without meaning to?"

"I'll teach you," Peter assured her. When I was getting the hang of it, it took me a while, and I made some mistakes. But I didn't give the game away with those errors and most of them happened in private. I think it will be fine. No one has to know you can do anything, except us."

"And I really doubt anything big will happen at work. Trust your subconscious desire to avoid awkward questions."

The panic on her face eased.

"Okay, lesson one," he said briskly. "Pick something you would like to upgrade."

Sylvie looked around and took down a framed print of a Frederic Church waterfall with late afternoon sun glinting off the falling water.

"I wonder. Could I make this a real oil painting? It doesn't have to be a Church original, but a skilled copy would be so cool to have."

"Okay," he said his brow wrinkling." Close your eyes. Touch the print. Take steady breaths and visualize the texture of an oil painting. Feel how the artist built up layers of paint to suggest the froth of the water as it hits the lower pool. What are the colors? What is the patina of an old work in oil? When you see it in your head, push something of yourself into that image. Feel it flow. Feel it change."

Peter went on describing details of the image and what it might be if it were an artist's work and not a flat reproduction. Slowly at first, then faster, the colors began to glow, and the numinous quality of Church's work began to live in every fine, feathered, or bold brush stroke. Sylvie's forehead began to sweat. Her hand on the picture shook and she removed it. The other hand involuntarily clenched tight on the frame and it turned from matte black to gilt. Metal became ornate wood and Flemish-scrolled plaster.

Sylvie sighed and Peter took the painting as her tired hand fell slack.

"Hey kid," he said softly as her eyes fluttered open. "I think you've got it."

She looked at it, and her eyes grew big.

"Pretty damn good for a first conscious effort" he congratulated.

"Wow," she said. "That felt so different with me doing it instead of me feeling you upgrade something.

"I wasn't sure something that complicated would be a good idea for a first try, but you did great!" As he hung the painting back on the wall, he cautioned, "don't try to do too much or too many things tonight. You'll have to build up your stamina."

"Aha!" he pointed to the bottom right of the painting. Where Church had sometimes drawn a small steeple as a signature to suggest his name, Sylvie's name appeared in a fine Spencerian script.

"It's an original 'Sylvie.' Bravo!"

She got up and hugged Peter from behind. "Thank you," she sniffled. "I was so frightened."

He turned and returned the hug. "There may still be some hiccups, but now we know what's going on."

"Would you like to... could you stay the night?" she asked hesitantly. I'd feel more secure about making it to work tomorrow."

"Of course. I need a bite and a shower, though."

She toasted tomato and cheese sandwiches while he cleaned up. She laid out clean clothes from his bag for the morning and tossed a t-shirt and shorts on the bathroom counter for when he got out.

"So domestic one might as well put on a 1950s sitcom," she thought wryly.

After dinner they went to bed and watched a movie. Sylvie finally relaxed. It felt so safe, enfolded in his brawny arms. He looked at her and quirked his mouth in question. Her insides tightened. She nodded eagerly, imagining him sliding into her hot and velvety. She kissed him. He claimed her mouth. The taste intoxicated her. She smelled of lavender, which enticed him. They devoured each other's lips and their tongues twirled in liquid rhythm.

She grew dizzy with want. He stroked her tan breasts. She rose to her knees and straddled him, grinding softly. Her back arched and her tits grazed his chest. He delicately pinched a nipple. Her breath caught.

Sylvie reached lower where they were pressed against each other. Good God, he was hard. She slid him in and felt complete. His mouth trailed down her neck and collarbone and sucked in her other breast as she started to move up and down his length. "More!" she whispered. He licked and suckled again as he tugged her other nipple. She purred. She was wet and pliant, gasping a little with each of his strokes.

A hand left her tit. She made a faint noise of protest until he stroked down her side and cupped her butt. He growled and thrust upward to meet her descending hips. He stared at her desirous and heated.

Sylvie's orgasm came suddenly; a wave of warmth ignited her cleft and exploded outward. She clenched her eyes so tight she saw spots and colors shoot across her inner lids and she wailed.

At the same time, Peter heaved his hips upward and jerked, spilling into her.

She reveled in his lust. It lit her second orgasm which went on and on.

Once their bodies stopped shuddering, Sylvie eased herself down on Peter's chest and lifted one leg off as she curled up in his massive arms again. He softly kissed her shoulder and bliss faded to slumber.

The next morning Peter woke as Sylvie threw off the covers and walked gingerly into the bathroom to shower.

"You pretty much wrecked me, sport," she said with satisfaction, sore in all the best ways. "Dinner tonight?" She wondered to herself for the thousandth time how to broach the subject of a permanent thing with him.

She quailed as he matter-of-factly said, "I can't this evening, but let's do something at the end of the week, okay?"

"Ssss... sure," she mumbled in a small voice and sent him off with coffee and a bagel.

"Oh, and Sylvie... try to practice on small things for a while."

He waved as he opened the door and smiled encouragingly.

"See if you can get to a place where you can do several minor upgrades in a couple hours without having to take a nap. That was a milestone for me. We'll work on it more later."

Later took a bit to develop, Next weekend was the wedding of Peter's friend. They went. They dressed to the upgraded nines. They danced. They drank. Peter artfully avoided every conversational sally from his old friends about how Sylvie was clearly a keeper and when was he going to make an honest woman of her? It hurt a little, but Sylvie told herself she was plus-one-ing and the obligation of the weekend was to be there for him.

Amid his friends' jabs, Peter started to look at Sylvie differently. Usually, by the time he had gone out this many times with a woman, he was antsy to move on. This time he wasn't feeling so claustrophobic. Not that he wanted anything permanent. No way. There were many more women out there to play around with and show a good time.

He looked over at Sylvie during the salad course at the reception. True, she wasn't really big enough for him, even with her pumped up tits. She was at least starting to get there, though.

He mused to himself, was there anyone easier to be around? Maybe it would be okay to hang around with her for a while longer. She might even come to enjoy busting up some more, eh? That would be so good!

No. Probably not. Maybe and might are slender chances, he thought wistfully. Especially since she reacted so negatively the time he first started to upgrade her to his ideal and now when her magic got out of control.

On the other hand, why is her magic filling her out so nicely without a conscious decision to change? Could it be that deep down she does like bigging out? He thought hopefully.

Oh well, right now she needs help learning how to use her new talent, doesn't she? It wouldn't be fair to leave her to flounder about on her own, right?

Part 9 (Practice practice practice)

Sylvie's upgrade skills learning curve was not smooth. There was some leakage. When she wasn't watching it, things did change at work. A storebought ballpoint pen turned into an R de Cartier with a blue resin cabochon and palladium finish. Her banged up pleather office chair turned into an ergonomic wonder in soft leather. Counselor Sjogren noticed the change of seat and gently chided her for spending her own bonus money on things the firm would be happy to get for her. She flushed and told him it was fine, really but she'd run future purchases through office accounts.

These were relatively minor things. Sylvie took some comfort in Peter's early experiences. None of the unintended consequences had been huge or revealing.

Her intentional practice at home was more staid and less anxiety inducing. Her dishes became classier. Her flatware and placemats improved nicely. She even managed to turn a glass paperweight into a small sculpture that could have been a Chihuly if you looked at it in the right light. None of this happened with a lot of backtracking. Visualization was getting easier. And so was just letting her subconscious do its thing on a run of the mill upgrade.

More worrisome was Peter's radio silence. He didn't call. He didn't text. It had been getting to be unusual for them to go a few days without contact.

She didn't want to come across as needy and desperate, though she admitted to herself, she was, in fact, a little pathetic.

As Wednesday turned into late Thursday afternoon, she vacillated. By midday Friday she was, well, in a state. Unhappily for her blood pressure and stress, about quitting time Peter texted to tell her he was unavailable for the weekend.

By the time he finally did call, another week later, she was fit to be tied but tried to shrug it off. They set up Saturday dinner at his place. She heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe they could finally have the conversation about the R word.... relationship.

They didn't.

Dinner was full of chatter, but it was all instruction. At his direction, boring ass naked green beans morphed to her preferred roasted brussels sprouts and bacon as Peter described how to visualize changing plant material. Well done flank steak became medium rare porterhouse. Check. Pass. Okay, good. Next quiz, please. Dessert shifted from box pudding to tiramisu.

What was happening?

He looked at her consideringly. "Now, let's try a test in the blind. I want you to upgrade yourself to my preferences. That'll be new for you. Fair warning, this won't be a blonde night. I have something else in mind that's not my usual thing, and I'm not telling. It'll be a real test. Use your magic to suss out what I want."

She stared at him nervously.

"Relax and let it flow. Don't fight it," he encouraged.

They sat next to each other on the edge of the bed. "Sylvie put one hand on his hip the other on his chest and closed her eyes. She groped mentally for that fluttery feeling in the hope it would build to that flow he talked about. The feeling was hesitant, seeming to dart in one direction, pausing and trotting back another way as if it were a puzzled puppy looking for a tennis ball hidden under a couch.

She sighed and concentrated. Finally, something happened she could feel. Her scalp tingled. Her hair whispered down on her shirt. It tickled her neck, breaking her concentration. The magic momentarily fluttered away. Sylvie opened her eyes and looked. Not blond. Not brunette. There were blunt bangs across her forehead, flat clipped curtain bangs framing her face, and longer hair in the back and to the sides. The color was black, so glossy it was almost midnight blue. She stared at the perfect Hime cut.

"Anime? Really?" she scoffed.

Peter grinned, unrepentant. "Close those eyes and concentrate. There's lots more in my head for you to bring out. Doing yourself to someone else's vision is complicated, a lot more than that really nice painting you did right off the bat."

She took a breath and settled herself again, thinking about Peter, her longing for him, telling herself she wanted to be what he wanted.

"Okay, the hair is interesting. Come on magic, help me out already."

This time was easier. Her puppy magic, for lack of a better image, was trotting, more or less in one direction, tugging her forward as it nosed left and right, pausing to sniff and then bounding forward, yanking its metaphorical leash. She went with it.

She felt her body shift. Her legs and arms thinned. Her ass shrank from its generous round padding as it became a tiny perky derriere. Her breasts compacted and shrank, and then in an about-face, puffed up again, rounder, pert and high on her chest. The cups were not as generous, but they fit this version 3-point-whatever of her. She felt something happen to her eyes but couldn't tell what. Her long nails melted away as hands and fingers slimmed. Her waist pulled in even more. Her hips slimmed only a little. Sylvie found herself sweating and breathing heavily. She let go of Peter and opened her eyes to see what had happened.

She looked over at him and then up, much further up than usual. Somehow, she had missed it while she was getting shorter, a lot shorter. Peter was taller than her before. Now he towered above her. Wow! She had to be under five feet.

She looked in the mirror and, yep, the eyes had gone Asian with a delicate epicanthal fold. The color was now a sapphire deep enough to make Elizabeth Taylor and Megan Fox jealous. Her lips had traded in that fulsome plump look in exchange for a delicate and refined Cupid's bow.

Her clothes hung so loose about her they were almost falling off. With a touch, Peter changed them to fit. She had transformed. A lean and lithe gamine Asian babe she was.

"This is certainly different, Peter. I thought you went for big girls."

He waved airily. "Variety adds zest, no?" "Besides, you needed confidence that you can use your talent without bad things happening. And this was far enough outside the box to be a real test."

He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Hey elfin waif, do you want to try out that body before you go back to your thicc IG look? Besides, your magic is probably running low after that big effort. The good news is if you can do this, you are probably safe to do pretty much anything you want."

She thought to herself she might well do pretty much anything... to be with him. She had fallen hard, and on a glum note, she still didn't know where this was going.

'Great sex, though, is not a bad consolation prize, even if things do go tits up later,' she rationalized. Or rather tits up and up and up, if she read Peter right, she wryly observed.

She looked him in the eye sniffed fiercely, thrust her modest chest out, and jerked a nod, happy, at least, that he wanted her.

"Let's."

He grasped her, laughing, knocked her back onto the pillows, pinning her down with his weight, and kissed her on the mouth, turning her surprised breath into a low throaty moan. She locked her hands on his muscular back, feeling every inch of his enormous body pressed against her. He raised himself from her clinging arms, pulled off her panties, and worshipped her moistening cleft.

Somehow, her smaller body felt things more intensely than usual. As he worked his tongue up and down, he curled two fingers into her G-spot. It felt so good she couldn't breathe. Quickly, she crested, violently squeezing her trim thighs into his head, as she wailed.

As she fought for breath, her chest heaving like a bellows, he undressed the rest of her. He kissed her again and again... on the neck, nibbling her newly pink and delicate nipples, down her belly and inner thighs, caressing until with a sudden swipe his tongue swirled up and down her labia and over her pearl. She jolted into a clenching spasm and a delicate cry escaped. That was the response he wanted. He tongued her right there over and over in a relentless, even rhythm. Everything faded from her mind except him.

He paused for breath. Sylvie's stunned brain slowly allowed organized thought to return. She realized she needed him in her more than ever. He teased and teased, though she felt him rigid with need as he moved.

She could stand it no longer. "Fuck me, Peter."

He moved smoothly upward, grazing her nipples with his chest and pinned her wrists on the pillows with a single huge hand. He thrust a tantalizing inch or two into her drenched heat. Intense pleasure jolted through her. She gasped. He was huge. She was smaller. He withdrew and smoothly thrust into her tightness again. Just a little further. Then again and again, deeper with each push until he seated in her, propelling her higher and higher until she burst anew.

She opened her eyes and saw him come with her own clenching. His eyes glistened, hot and wanting, as they climaxed together.

In an unctuous tone Peter allowed as how "it wasn't so bad with her as an Asian hottie."

She mock-grudgingly agreed. "Maybe you can do more than smirk and run your mouth," she allowed.

"You weren't complaining about my mouth earlier," he grinned.

"Okay point to you on that," she said miffed, not miffed.

He eased himself from her petite form. She curled next to him, her head on his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close. They lay together, each listening to the others' heartbeat until they nodded off.

She awoke in the night. He wanted her again. She rode him, tiny breasts bouncing so much they vibrated with each of her grinding thrusts down to the base of his cock. And then again. He put her in a mating press - legs on his shoulders as his huge form thrust ever deeper, her tunnel stretched deep and tight.

Stiff and satiated, they caressed each other goodbye. She didn't remember she was still tiny-Asian-Sylvie until her key was in her door at home and a neighbor across the hall asked who she was and why she was going into Sylvie's apartment. She fobbed the woman off with "an out-of-town friend staying a day or two" and gently shut the door on the woman's questions.

"WTF"? she texted. "Why didn't you tell me I was still in the shorty form? What if I need help getting back?"

"I'm sure you can handle it," he replied. If a text could be read as 'breezy,' that was it.

The change to something like Asian babe Devon Aoki left her feeling uncertain. Ruthlessly, she stuffed the moment down and took a shower before trying to shift back. To her surprise, when she did it was not difficult. Her form rushed back to what she had grown to think of as normal. As fast as a balloon inflates with a long strong breath, she became her Instagram ideal.

Sylvie's next several dates with Peter followed a similar pattern, with one big exception. Her form shifted radically every time. Whatever limits his magic usually imposed on changes based on his taste seemed in abeyance. Perhaps the mental training to activate the magic and find a desired change was for more than her? Or perhaps, she was helping subconsciously somehow because variety seemed the order of each evening.

Sultry hippy Latina. Slender eastern European model body and haughty face with cheekbones so sharp they could slice paper. Soft and curvy, pink English rose. Peter made each occasion fresh. While Sylvie changed herself to the babe du jour Peter often wondered if she could come to love the amplified shapes he yearned for so much.

It went on. Red headed freckled Scots or maybe Irish lassie, hard to tell which. Ebony statuesque central African with proud jutting breasts. Olive skinned sensual Italian. Peppy Devi girl. 6'3" sturdy German woman, not quite as tall as Peter. In an Oktoberfest kink, Peter had Sylvie convert her clothes to a dirndl for that one.

As Sylvie focused on each evening's upgrade, she wondered what Peter really liked in his heart. Should she try for that as a way to broach the topic of a long-term relationship? No, not tonight. She kept chickening out, though each evening's reflection made her think interesting things about superlatively buxom bouncing blondes.

You name the continent and country, they tried it. Each night out was a blast, doing different things, exploring new restaurants and food cultures, seeing plays, going to music clubs and concerts. Each night in was wild and wanton, ending mutually replete.

If there was a tendency or progression in all the new body types Peter was imagining, it was for bigger and bigger boobs and deeper cleavage, progressively tinier waists, and broader and broader flaring hips that supported thiccer asses to balance out the tits. Yes, he had a type and it was coming back out as time went on.

Part 10 (An ending? If so, not a happy one)

It started, as most disasters do with a desire to settle something once and for all. Ambiguity can be a friend when certainty guarantees a heartache. This wisdom was ignored. No, more than ignored. Trampled upon heedlessly.

Sylvie's feelings of insecurity became harder to put aside. After each date she kicked herself once again for avoiding the important talk. What did Peter want? Sure, after that dry spell they were spending a lot of time together, and he seemed to like the things they did as well as the sex.

But he was treating the changes as a teacher-student thing, not as a romantic partner. Was he fooling himself about that, wanting to be with her? Did he want her for her sake at all? Or did he just want a malleable body for fantasy play that was more convenient than club trawls for new scores? Was she wasting her time? The drumbeat of self-doubt went on.

She also noticed her private pearl was bigger each night they had together and with each new form she took. It was getting easier to climax, so easy she would get wet just walking to the bathroom and back. That was one change she could get behind, though she worried a bit it might be addictive. What was her body telling her? Be an insatiable slut? Be with Peter with no preconditions? No!

It was time, she resolved. She would have the 'what are we doing' conversation next Saturday. She looked in the mirror, posing solemnly as if at the altar, she looked at her sexy self and said "I do."

After a pause, she gave the mirror a doubtful look.

"No, it didn't convince me either."

Saturday came. They had a lovely evening. Dinner was divine at a high-end steak house. After that, they went to an art gallery reception. The gallery was trying to pump up sales for a trending new artist and thought a jazz combo, drinks, desserts, and a big guest list was the way to do it. One of Peter's clients had invited him.

During the trip to her apartment as the night out portion of the evening waned, Sylvie steeled herself. She was going to do it! And she wasn't going to wait for the sex-addled afterglow, when neither of them would be sharp.

They hung up their coats and walked into the living room. Sylvie sat down on a love seat. Peter relaxed on a couch a few feet away.

"Peter, I want to talk to you about us," she nodded to herself emphatically. Even if it meant the end, she wanted certainty, she thought to herself.

Peter stared gravely. "Well. That doesn't sound serious and slightly ominous, at all." What's up?"

"Peter," she started. She was shaking with tension. "Where are we going? I really enjoy every moment we spend together. I think you do too. You know I want something permanent. But apart from that first night we spent together, we've never talked about this again. And we need to. What do you want from this relationship?"

Peter looked around the room. He looked everywhere but at her. He looked hunted and evasive.

"Shit!" she thought. "He's going to bottle it."

"Sylvie..." he hesitated, groping for words. "Can't we just enjoy our time together and not worry about the future?"

She felt sick to her stomach. He doesn't want to commit, she thought. He doesn't want this. She tried again.

"I've been worrying myself sick about us and our future for a long time now. I haven't had the nerve to have the talk and see whether you really want me or whether you'll eventually go back to clubbing, once you get tired of blowing me up." She paused and then with resolve continued. "I deserve to know where we stand."

Apparently, Sylvie wasn't the only one in the room feeling queasy. Peter looked tense and miserable.

"Um, I'm sorry Sylvie," he stammered. "I'm, I'm not ready to settle down. You are great! I have fun every time we're together. You are wonderful to be with. You get me. Maybe someday. I just don't think I want something permanent. Not right now."

With each quiet hesitant word, Peter spoke, Sylvie felt a hammer to her gut.

"Okay," she sniffled softly, eyes welling. "I think this is it for us, then. You know where I stand. If something changes for you.... Well, I won't promise to wait around. I've done enough of that," she choked out in a wobbling voice.

"You can see yourself out. Please excuse me," she said through tears as she fled to her bedroom.

She didn't hear him leave or see the haunted guilty look on Peter's face as he quietly shut the apartment door.

Part 11 (Moving on. Angst so not good.)

Sylvie poured herself into her work. Focusing on all the moving parts at the job kept her from thinking about Peter and what she thought they might have had together. Or so she told herself. In reality, her co-workers noticed she was grim and glum most of the time, even as she kept her trademark efficiency. Sjogren asked kindly and obliquely, as was his way, if he could do anything for her. This was code for 'what's the matter.' She fended him off with excuses about ordinary inconsequential pressures.

Ollie tried to buck her up with bad jokes and better banter. Even a couple of the women who had been jealous about her Insta-glow-up invited her out to lunch and gently let her know they were there if she wanted to talk.

In a small way, she thought distantly, it helped her work through her grief at the end of the relationship. She was just starting to feel like herself again when odd things began to happen. Her magic was acting up, first in small ways, then in increasingly visible instances.

Her manicure would change colors and sheen during the day. Her shoes would shift from comfortable flats to night-out-heels. Her hair would change day by day, from layered, to a long shag, to sideswept bangs. Nothing radical enough that couldn't be explained by saying she had the urge for something different. She felt uneasy about it though.

And then it became more obvious. Her breasts would grow slowly throughout the day. A cup size before lunch. Another at mid-afternoon. At first, she would magically upgrade her clothing to fit and then focus on reverting to her standard body in the evening. When the pace of expansion made that untenable, she had to go to the bathroom and discretely downsize.

She began to get the yips because she never knew when something would change. And it became obvious the magic was becoming more insistent. Her hips would broaden. Then her ass would ripen. Her hair would lengthen and lighten by the hour. There were fewer overt signals. The tingles weren't tingling anymore. She would simply stand up and feel more heft and sway. Her clothes would become tighter, or she'd belatedly notice the extra weight of new hair.

The magic got sneaky, ramping up the sensitivity of her amplifying body little by little. She'd be focusing on an expense report and suddenly find herself drenched. Or she'd be banging on the keyboard processing a purchase order, the keystrokes would vibrate her burgeoning boobs, and she'd barely stifle a gasp as she closed her eyes and came. So so good! So bad bad bad!

Sylvie admitted to herself she'd love it if it weren't so risky for her employment. She relished it so much, in fact, she'd drift off into fantasies of getting plowed by a certain good for nothing inconstant sex god. Wow!

When her eyes began to cross in disoriented euphoria, she couldn't quite wish that particular upgrade would settle down. Heck, it was so addictively good she might try to ramp up the sensitivity, but for the fact a random air current might shut down her brain and make her scream. Then she could kiss her job goodbye.

"Sheesh," she thought. "I am so fucking addicted to this pleasure, I'd give everything up to become his trophy wife if Peter even crooked a finger." No, not really. But the fact she was even thinking of the idea told her how far gone she was.

The need to pay attention to her body and quickly correct changes was distracting and stressful. Her work performance did begin to suffer. There weren't bad mistakes, but it took her longer to accomplish things, and other people's needs began to stack up.

She walked a tightrope each day between unconscious changes and anxious sudden need to revert fast enough that no one noticed something weird. She wasn't sure it was working. Sr. Counselor Sjogren had been giving her more thoughtful and measuring looks lately, though he hadn't asked again.

To relax and try to get her head straightened out, she took a day off to go to a Cubs game. She used the firm's suite. No one else had planned to sud-sidize and schmooze clients at the ballpark that day so she was alone.

The day was hot. The game was not. It was just two mid-tier teams, playing dispirited ball. They knew their seasons were not going to mean anything at the end. Wrapped in the warm wet blanket of wool that is a Midwestern summer, Sylvie nodded off about the fifth inning.

When she woke up in the eighth, everything was different, and it wasn't the quality of baseball. She had gone full on Peter's choice from the first night of blonde. She was again a balloon-breasted, gilded-maned golden-skinned, tiny-waisted, breeding-hipped, fertility goddess. She lifted the pliant weight of a boob and let it plop into her lap again.

"Crap."

As if her magic was making a pettish point, her clothes had not shifted. They were seam-straining sausage tight around her amplitude. The clothing was the first thing she changed, just so she could concentrate on reversing the other things. And the switch wasn't easy. Her magic was sluggish, almost as if it was saying "nuh-uh, you pay attention to what I'm telling you, girl! Get your head on straight or there will be more of this you can't keep ignoring!"

Thank God she had been sitting on a couch in the back of the suite as she sulked and slept. It was likely no one had seen her.

Heart pounding, she worked on changing herself into something less noticeable, finishing just before the desultory denouement of another Cubs loss. She scuttled home, worrying her magic would give her another good talking-to at any moment.

Okay fine! Her subconscious was clearly saying enough with the pathetic pining. She should get off her ass and do something. She would. She'd go out and get laid to forget Peter. She picked 'Fantasy,' a high-end club just east of Wrigleyville. Expensive, yes, but just the thing to be a distraction. And she was sure she could find a hot enough shape that the bouncers would let her in, no matter how long a line. Peter wanted to sow wild oats? So would she.

She chose to go with a Slavic look, cheekbones you could cut yourself on with a body that was runway model slim, raven hair, all angles, and legs, except for a tight high tush you could bounce a quarter off. Her proportionate and pleasingly rounded breasts jutted haughtily.

She dressed in bold colored silks that left only a little to the imagination. She ditched the bra and relied on tape to keep things relatively PG. The liquefaction of her clothes ruthlessly captured the attention of every male standing in line to get in. Each vibration of fabric teased and tormented, hinting at the curves beneath. She could hear eyeballs click as she walked to the front. She could practically feel them lustily wondering where this perfect Bop had come from.

The club was hopping. The extortionate cost for bottle service meant the clientele was more her age than the crowd at that youngster's meat market where she had met Peter. An affluent crowd. A confident one. They were up and coming beautiful people who knew their appeal and that of those around them, all of them on the make. They had the arrogance of those who just knew, perhaps mistakenly, that they were on the rise. There was much preening and posturing. Metaphorical tailfeathers went up and spread out as the peacocks demonstrated ancient mating dances that said 'my what good genes I have. Aren't I rich and special?'

Sylvie bought a negroni. She observed at one sip it was not as good as the one Peter had made. She twisted her lip and upgraded the drink herself. Yes, just like back then. And that memory didn't hurt at all. No, sir.

To her concealed shock, Ollie McTavish was there and on the prowl with a couple of other lawyers from her firm. She was glad her face and figure were so different. Ollie and his squad were not likely to recognize her. She nursed the drink and watched him work the room. Ollie had a type not unlike Peter's, she thought grimly as she unsuccessfully tried to banish the erstwhile relationship from her thoughts.

McTavish was chatting up a lot of women, mostly the ones with large breasts and broad hips. They would share a laugh, a moment, and move on in the Brownian motion of serial mingling. No one had yet made a choice for the night.

Sylvie came in for her share of attention too. She kept the chat light and non-committal. Two pleasant enough young men who were clearly aiming higher than their looks would suggest they should, picked up on the vibe and graciously wandered onward. "Hmnn," she thought. "If not looks and overwhelming personality, they must come from money."

She turned her head and looked for the object of Ollie's latest sortie out of the corner of her eye. Big breasts - check. Possibly the biggest in the room, though nowhere near Sylvie's at her largest. Great hair and beautiful face. She looked intelligent too; a knowing generous smile gave her face some light. Her ass was formidable but not overdone. Sylvie approved of Ollie's pick. He left, apparently to get her another drink.

Wait. Who was that moving in? She knew that long, tall, sculpted stud. It was Peter, all six feet plenty inches of him, and ripped. Ollie was not a short man, but Peter, Peter was much much bigger.

The woman apparently liked bigger. She scanned Peter top to toes and back up again. Her polite smile warmed considerably. They chatted. It was too noisy for Sylvie to hear, but she knew how charming Peter could be.

It was a bilious thought. She told herself Peter didn't matter. She lied and knew she lied as she got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. As she mulled over her inner conflicts, Peter and the woman sealed the mutual deal and wandered out of the club. Ollie, trapped just now at the front of the drink line, watched it happen. His face fell just as he picked up the now unwanted cocktail, a frothy confection with egg white foam and a sprig of rosemary. She gave a mental shake to her head. 'Sheesh. Who does that to perfectly good liquor.

Right, then! She approached McTavish.

"That doesn't look like something you'd order for yourself, sport," she noted coolly. "Someone leave you hold the proverbial bag?"

Ollie laughed ruefully. "You win some you lose some. I guess she got a better offer.

"All may not yet be lost," Sylvie gave a bold look to challenge him as she lifted the drink from his hand and took a big sip. Surprisingly, it wasn't bad. Languorously, she licked foam from her lips. Ollie seemed to lose his train of thought.

He was nothing if not a quick study, though, and the stunned look kindled into that insouciant smile she knew from work. He entered the instant renegotiation mode Sylvie knew was Ollie's default setting. "A dance for the drink?"

She nodded.

A half hour later they were in Ollie's car headed for his place. Sylvie was pretty sure this was a bad idea, but she resented Peter's apparent ability to move on. She told herself it would be good for her to do the same. Did she really believe that? Not so much.

Ollie had a nice place, the décor was comfortable, not sleek. The sex was about the same. Ollie came twice and tapped out. She noted he was a little self-centered. Sylvie had cum too, but only because she had tweaked her joy button midway through, when it became clear that Ollie wasn't going to pay enough attention to get it done for her.

At least he was willing to cuddle as he dozed off. Men! Meh. As she listened to his quiet breathing, she thought about doing a good deed for the day. She reached down and gently enfolded his balls and curled her fingers around his shaft. She concentrated and felt his package swell a bit. There. Enough. That should help whoever came after her in Ollie's line of conquests. She slipped out of bed and quietly left as he snoozed. She shook her head. "Well, that was dismal."

"I'm going to have another dismal day," Peter thought hollowly as he slipped away from his own slumbering liaison across town. "That there was some empty coupling. Sure, even mediocre sex is good, but she was so vanilla."

Sylvie would have treated him a lot better. She was exciting to be with. She could carry a conversation. She could call him on his shit and he on hers without it becoming an argument. Together, they set the sheets on fire.

This one was a pretty package, but she had no vim, no zest, no... nothing like Sylvie. She was just the Thot of the moment. Maybe the next one would be better.

Peter had a worry as well. He had tried to improve himself for this date and his magic was having none of it. It wasn't just reluctance, it was refusal. The magic apparently thought he was just fine the way Sylvie had wanted him. His heart lurched. Could that be it? Was his subconscious picketing on Sylvie's behalf? He was slightly relieved to find he could change a few pennies into paper cash for the Uber tip, but it was still a concern.

Mundane Sunday passed for them both. Then there was a more-of-that Monday. Sylvie went home and fired up her computer for some mindless surfing. She checked her Insta and frowned unhappily. She was clearly hotter than most of these women. Sigh. That wasn't enough for Peter.

An idea glimmered to the surface. She snorted.

"If people on my regular feed aren't good enough for Peter, what would do?"

Maybe she could find something. She did a few searches using increasingly outlandish #terms. After a few false rabbit holes, she turned up examples of uber-boobed babes with hips so wide they'd fill the back seat of a car. Their breasts jutted unnaturally outward with little sag and wide plentitude that eclipsed their slender frames. Was that it? Could that be it? She idly wondered how sensitive breasts that big would be?

Her magic must have been watching those searches. The next day at work she could feel something was off. Her body felt tight and stuffed. Her magic wasn't doing anything, but it felt like something could happen at any moment. She turned out the lights, made it home, and as soon as the door closed with her inside something did.

Sylvie swelled. She joined the thick thigh club in two seconds flat. It was off to mountainous tah tah land and her hair did its thing just the way Peter liked. Five minutes later, she was able to catch her breath. She had ripped out of her clothes. Each of her bosoms was bigger than her generous ass. She stomped a foot and jiggled lightly for a few seconds.

"This is so not fair," she told her magic severely. "He didn't want to be with just me, remember?"

The magic said nothing back but if it had, it would have been mulish. She got a feeling it was stubborn about getting her to change her ways.

"What happens tomorrow morning, smarty?" she muttered. "I can't go to work like this."

"I need to earn a living and Peter isn't coming back. You can't keep making me cum-at-a-warm-glance with this outrageous sensitivity. Come on, be reasonable."

The overtone she got was a wordless, okay I'll make allowances but I'm still not happy with this.

"Neither am I," she plaintively agreed. "I'm not sure what the fuck I can do about it, though."

She sternly told herself she wanted none of Peter at all if he didn't want her. She didn't want anything of his!

Except for his legs, his stomach, his humor, his handsome head (both of them), those gorgeous muscles, and you betcha, his long thick hard cock. Argh! She groped her mountainous tits and gasped. Even more sensitive than usual.

"Please stop that," she begged.

Thankfully, her magic let her off the hook for work and errands. It allowed her to shift to what she thought of as her standard body, as mad hot as that shape was.

When she came home, though, it insisted she inhabit a swollen form. Sometimes it was the breasts. At others, her rear inflated so much it put her in mind of the line from that old musical South Pacific. She was broad where a broad should be broad! And how.

The magic was dead set on sending a message that Peter was who she should be with. And so, a couple weeks went by in this new and slightly varied routine, depending on which body part her magic decided to emphasize as something it thought Peter might like.

Peter had the reverse problem. His magic told him that Sylvie's taste was good enough for every situation. This was okay at work and home. Unfortunately, he was due to fly out of town for another weekend wedding. A fair number of Peter's college buds had or were ready to tie the knot, just like Sylvie's coterie.

Unfortunately, his reluctant magic forced him to come up with excuses like a late growth spurt caused by this weird pituitary condition. "What's the name of it, you say? It's so rare it doesn't have a name. The treatments probably mean I'm done with the growth." He mentally crossed his fingers and hoped the magic would not take some other tactic like making him shrink.

"Thanks, bruh. Yeah, I think I am pretty healthy after all." "It could have been a lot worse."

He looked across the reception banquet hall at a couple of his friends who had kids. Marc was already to number three. The guy was just glowing. He and his pretty wife clearly adored their building brood. She had number four on the way. He wondered whether they would go for the full baseball team or stop at tennis doubles.

"You know maybe that wouldn't be so bad.' He thought wistfully about Sylvie. "She wanted kids, but we never talked about the details because... because... well why was that anyway? Oh yeah. He had changed the subject whenever the topic came up with an airy reference to whatever at hand would help him avoid the issue. He sighed.

"I at least owe her a conversation, when I get back." "Nope," he reconsidered. "I well and truly broke that relationship. Time to accept it and try to go on."

Part 12 (Interlude)

Darren Durbin Evans had triumphed. The news wasn't out yet, but a number of tech publications had it nearly right. They had yet to publish. The Wall Street Journal, Bloomberg, and Reuters were also sniffing around the unexpected resolution of what had promised to be a very messy, very protracted, and exceedingly expensive fight. Elon Musk vs Sam Altman had nothing on this one. And yet, it had all gone softly and silently away.

The Justice Department and the NSA had made some phone calls based on the data Sylvie and Peter filched. The Feddies, themselves, didn't want the mess to go public because some of the data and designs had been developed under a Rand Corporation contract with No Such Agency and it wouldn't look good if that got out.

Evans' opponents abandoned the fight following quiet suggestions they could be taking a vacation to that delightful Indian Ocean island garden spot Diego Garcia; despite their citizenship and the lawyers their money could buy. If your lawyers couldn't find you to represent you, what would you do then?

Even the foreign government kept its head down, perhaps the better to try again to entice some other greedy corporate bastard into selling interesting cutting-edge tech.

The corporation that had retained Evans and Sylvie's firm did not stint. Evans wanted routing numbers so they could do a wire transfer of about $20 million to Sylvie's account and another 20-large for her consultant. "Crap," Sylvie thought. She had to contact Peter. "I've 'gotta see him and resolve this."

She chickened out and texted him instead, asking for the account information. When the money landed, Peter's eyebrows went up. So did a wave of guilt.

"Crap," he thought. "I've 'gotta see her and resolve this."

Part 13 (Interlewd)

Sylvie was watching a movie, one of those ridiculous Pollyanna flicks from Hallmark that ended up with every star-crossed couple paired off at the end after surmounting a mountain of strawman obstacles. Because of course all barriers would magically disappear, and everyone would couple up just the way the rookie scriptwriter wanted. Just the thing to depress her further.

Sylvie had convinced her magic to let her shift to her standard form because she was going to go to the store after it was over.

She heard a knock. It was Peter.

"Can I come in," he said cautiously.

"Sure." He looked good to her. He always did, she thought as she moved aside to let him in and the breeze as he passed her brought her his achingly familiar pine and spice scent. She started to heat up.

She plunked herself down on a love seat. Peter sat in a chair across the Noguchi glass coffee table from her. She was having trouble concentrating already.

"Sheesh. Just this small exposure to him after the split has me in a state. I am so fucked, she thought helplessly. "Pathetic. I'm about ready to jump him and we haven't even moved past hello!"

Lord! She was wet so very fast. Sylvie tried not to let the panting need show.

"I have some things I want to talk about, too," she said. "I know you....

Her magic apparently didn't agree with every part of the plan for dialog or at least the talk-first bit. Sylvie stopped mid-thought as the tingle signaling a sudden magic activation swept up from her pussy to her chest and riffled through the rest of her, everything, everywhere, all at once.

Bwmfff! Her eyes glazed over and her breath caught.

Sylvie groaned as her ass flowed out from her sides. Dizzyingly fast-broadening hips ripped through the sides of her dress and spilled into every vacant space on the love seat. Her behind plumped so much she rose by inches.

Quavering pleasure-hazed grunts slipped out, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Warmth engulfed her breasts. They swelled as fast as a helium tank blows up a party balloon. A supersized balloon. Her nipples ached as they popped into wine cork prominence.

The front part of her dress lasted no longer than the sides had as the clingy clothing developed runs like an overtaxed nylon stocking.

She filled and swelled, her body accelerating way past Instagram fullness, blowing right through an Only Fans form, and straight into inflated AI model territory generated by prompts from some horny 18-year-old with a hyper-fetish.

She felt her tits grow out, a vast shelf far in front of her, then down to her hips, resting and spreading on her thighs and over her kneecaps. Her torso-dominating rack swayed with each tingle of pleasure that reverberated inside. Her hips widened and ass filled even further, wedging her firmly into the sides of the furniture.

"Oohh fuck," she moaned. Shuddering and juddering, she came and came again.

Peter gaped at her, wide-eyed, his surprised eyebrows nearly up to his hairline.

There she was, red dress split to the hips. The front and back panels hung straight down, drawing attention to the vast curves of exposed legs and hips pulling into a snatched waist, a sharp slope in from the curve of her rounded thighs and spectacular bum bumps to that ultra-trim torso. It made him hard in a second, throbbing in want.

Eventually Sylvie's cum haze faded and the growth stopped. She pried herself up from the seat, squeezing her tits and shaking her head in disbelief. She swayed over to the mirror to take stock.

That was odd. She didn't feel weighed down like she usually did when she got this large.

Her mams were surprisingly buoyant, and out there, way out. Nipples poked to wine cork prominence in the center of enlarged aureolas.

The swelling had not affected her petite feet or dainty calves. Her middle might even have thinned slightly. It made her look ridiculously wasp waisted. Her tummy was so tiny she could nearly touch her fingertips two-handed around the circumference. Coupled with her bloated rear, it felt unbelievably erotic. Judging from Peter's lost lustful look, he agreed.

Lips as pink as pink. Broad nipples, the same color. Toenails also pink. Ditto fingernails. Clearly her id had orchestrated a theme. A very insistent bimbo fixated id, at that.

"I believe you had something you wanted to talk about regarding us?" said Peter. Then flippantly, "Would you like to go out for coffee while we have our chat?"

"Peter!" Sylvie squawked unsteadily. She was still revved and ready but the thought was ridiculous.

"I'm not even sure I can get out of the apartment. I'd have to turn sideways to get my tits and hips through the door frame and even then, it would be a tight squeeze. I need to slim down!"

He looked her up and down. He shook his head. She had totally mogged her swollen curves. He admired the waist so tiny it looked like she'd been wearing corsets since age 13. There was absolutely no shapewear though.

"I'm not sure why you'd want to. I think you look great!"

"Oh, for Chrissake!" She stamped her foot huffily. Her tits actually bounced up a couple inches. That was strange. Admiringly, he watched her rippling jiggleocity for a moment.

"How is it you can even stand upright?" he wondered.

"I know, right?" Sylvie agreed. "You'd think that. When I try to lift them they are weighty," she demonstrated. "I feel the mass. Walking around, though, they don't feel like much of anything. And they certainly don't think much of physics," she said folding her arms atop the nearly horizontal slope of her boobs and resting her chin on the arms without craning her neck.

They spread out, creamy spheres, jutting forward like a ship's figurehead, as if any bow could withstand such a huge ornament without sinking prow first into the next wave.

"They seem to have mass but not weight. It's odd. I sway side to side and have to be careful about balance but it's like something is making them manageable. No pull downward," Sylvie puzzled. "I gotta say, it's easier to carry than the usual bulk you put on me when you're frisky."

"What is with the moon man lack of gravity," he wondered, absorbed in her orbs. "Got helium or something?"

His flippancy brought her back to earth. The reply was frosty. "I. Have. No. Idea."

He drolly drawled "Well, I suppose there might be something a touch more pressing for us to chat about than how heavy your distended parts are?"

"What is this us, you say? I think it's me who has the problem," she snarked.

"That's not... entirely... true," he said hesitantly, suddenly brought down to earth himself.

"I, um can't change myself right now. Not for a few weeks. I noticed the body lock on the last date I went on. I tried to shift myself to the woman's preferences like I did with you, and nothing happened. Later, I tried for my own ideal self, and guess, what? It looks like that self has become 'the me' that you like. That was a message I didn't really accept until last week when I was out of town at a wedding."

He visibly gathered himself. "But that's not important at the moment."

Brisk and bracing, now... he said, "alright, back to basics."

"Visualize your usual melon breasts, would you? Let's start with that." "Do thirty seconds of deep slow breathing to calm down before you do, okay?"

Peter began to talk Sylvie through the changes. She got halfway there and it was working until it wasn't.

"It feels reluctant," she said nervously.

Something snapped inside and her body whomped and rebounded again to titty and ass town. She cried out in frustration, in pleasure, in both. She sat, breathing heavily after yet another orgasm, her bloated bust projecting straight out, round mounds moving up and down with her breath. Her spreading butt sloped up and in.

Peter's pupils dilated at her immensity. She saw it happen and shivered, ecstatic that she could spark such desire.

"I'm so in danger of losing myself to him," she thought. "Will I just become his willing wanton cushion unable to leave the apartment?"

"Well, then. Perhaps your magic would like us to have our chat first?" he said diplomatically. "Maybe that would reassure the inner you enough to get back to your previous ideal, or at least something publicly manageable."

"Not sure that'll help, sport," she said, folding her arms atop the shelf of her gigantic rack. "Last I heard, you weren't up for a commitment. Maybe that's why the magic took things into its own hands."

He raised a finger. "Aha! Yes, because your subconscious wants to be with me. So, it wants to make you into what you know I like or think I like! Right now, that's apparently an out-of-control parade float."

"Not funny," she glowered.

"But Sylvie, I like you, not just an uber-boobed body with a stupendous ass. Sure, that's great, but what I want underneath it all is you."

She waved at her bust and bottom. "My subconscious is apparently not convinced."

Part 14 (Twooo Wuhv)

He took a deep breath. "As I said, a few weeks ago I went out like I have so many times before. And it just felt off. The woman was beautiful. She was willing. And was hollow. There was no spice, like with you. No clear caring encounter. It was empty."

"Then last weekend I was at a friend's wedding and the light bulb turned on. Several of my friends have started families. They look so happy. And no one has made me happier than you."

"Ironic, yes? I started rethinking the idea of a relationship."

He paused, eyes searching hers for a sign. The glint in them was not altogether reassuring, though a glimmer of smile helped.

"Happy, huh? So, you like me?" Skeptically, "oh yeah, that's such a strong pillar. I bet that could support a whole relationship, you know?"

Peter sighed as if admitting something to himself. He looked down. "Okay, 'like' is the wrong word." He puffed in momentary hesitation as if getting his tongue around a certain 12th letter of the alphabet.

"Well...'Love'... is a better one, much better."

Sylvie's eyebrows went up and stayed up.

"Yes, Sylvie. I love you," he said finally looking her in the eye with a firm nod.

Sylvie wrenched herself out of the love seat again and undulated over to Peter. She raised her hand and drew her fingertips down his cheek. The warmth of his skin sent a tingling pulse into her hand. It fanned the hungry fire deep down into an all-consuming want. She gave him such a melting lustful look the breath caught in his throat.

"I love you too, jerk" she choked out mistily.

Then there were no words, just frantic kisses. They didn't make it to the bedroom. He ripped off his shirt without breaking their lip lock. In the soft light his torso was amber. She drew her hand across the hard planes of his body. He moaned and the sound gave her an electric clench in her core.

She tore herself away from his mouth and kissed the ridged muscles of his stomach, her breasts pushing into his thighs. Reaching for his trousers, she unfastened them, and slid her hand down his hard shaft. He growled. She dipped her head and drew her tongue along the underside of its swollen tip as she concentrated on her magic. His shaft thickened and grew longer. His briefs strained with new weight from expanding balls. She yanked them down. Growl turned to groan as filling plums tightened his sack.

She rose, clinging to the cock as it tingled and swelled with new growth and kissed him, lips and tongue frantic with need. She wanted him big enough to fit only her. He returned her passion, sucking hungrily at her tongue and caressing her huge globes.

He reached between her legs, squeezing his hand between swollen thighs, and stroked her drenched folds. Her entire body tensed around his fingers. She cried out hoarsely as she climaxed hard and fast. She gushed and her knees felt weak. Her mind went on vacation, so far gone she stopped stroking his dick. Peter used her shaky distraction during the aftershocks to lead her to the bedroom.

She climbed onto the bed, and Peter grabbed her hips and pulled her back into him. She startled and looked back.

"My ass is so huge, I don't think even you can get into my puss from there, Peter!"

He just smiled and thrust into her. He sealed his hips to her rear, and she felt his magnificent stick shooting deeper and deeper. His hard length filled her.

He felt like heaven. Her head swam again. Her magic had turned that sensitivity rheostat way up again, up to eleven, or at least to an Ohm-my-God level.

He pulled back slightly and thrust again. Achingly thick, he stuffed her completely.

Sylvie shoved her bottom back hard with each driving push from him. They matched a fevered pace. Amid the frenzied slaps of their coupling she had grown even more massive. Building pressure brought them to a place where only they lived. There were no others in the world. She shuddered and came again, convulsing in pleasure.

He crested, filling her with streams of cum, each jerk from his rigid rod flooding her anew.

Winded, Sylvie pulled off of Peter in a squelching glide that left her mewling at the sudden emptiness. She rolled off her knees and onto her side, stretching out a hand to welcome him to the bed.

Unslaked, he pulled one leg up. He straddled the other and thrust in. Her body sang at his claiming. Sylvie felt her tits swelling again. Her eyes rolled and she babbled incomprehensibly. Peter shifted his angle as she continued to grow. They came with each other, and the dizzy dance of desire went on.

He pulled out and she rolled onto her knees. He slid in from behind again as she throbbed and swelled. Soon, her body lay atop her breasts, and he was standing behind her, between her tits, thrusting inward. Each thrust scooched her huge nipples across the sheets as she bounced atop her boobs. She shattered. She trembled in wailing paroxysms of ecstasy. Peter bellowed as they came, and came, and came again.

As Sylvie slumped across tits so big her legs didn't touch the bed, Peter moved around to her front, leaned back against the wall of flesh and kissed upward, tenderly meeting her mouth. If there was a brain cell left in her skull it was very lonely just then.

Sylvie did manage to sort out her shorted-out synapses first as Peter caught his breath.

"This does not help solve my problem or yours," she laughed helplessly.

"Oh God, it's even worse now. I'm so big I can't move, magical antigravity or not. I'm too bulky to do more than rock back and forth. And eating on a tray balanced on my breasts does not seem like much of a future."

"Doesn't look good for you either," she said slowly, staring down at his equipment, his much changed, much bigger equipment. Peter's softening cock now ended below his knees. His bowling balls would require MC Hammer pants to be decent and then only barely. No one would be fooled into thinking there was something normal under even that expanse of fabric.

He hefted his dick a moment and then let it slap loudly against his leg as his balls wobbled. "I think we could be okay," he said. "Maybe?"

"We'll probably get back to something more appropriate after we recoup some energy.... I hope?"

"Ya sure, sport?" she said skeptically.

"Think of it as your bedroom self and your public self."

He was reassuring himself as much as her. "Like putting on different clothes for different occasions, except it's boobs, ass, and hips. Or in my case, a long shlong dongenstein."

"I would like to think this level of inflation would be a rare thing," she said acerbically. "Not every time we get home. It's just not practical for anything but nova-scale copulation."

Peter thought to himself he might not mind having her huge most of the time at home, though not immobile.

Part 14 (Coupling and coupling up)

The magic heard Sylvie. Slowly she dwindled. His cock and balls also began to shrink. Both their powers let them know with stern wordless tingles they had better not fuck up again and split up.

"You see? The magic thinks you should wife me," she snarked.

"I do too," he grinned. He grabbed an empty soda can on the nightstand and waggled the ring tab until it broke off. He closed his fingers over it, shut his eyes, and concentrated. He opened his hand and on the flat palm the tiny bit of metal had turned into a not so small platinum ring, with a four-carat red diamond. It was about a carat shy of the famed Moussaieff gem. Tiny blue sapphires surrounded the big rock.

"I am never letting you go," he said fervidly, looking into her eyes.

She replied mistily, "okay, then."

"I missed you so much," he admitted with a hitch in his voice.

"Me too," she whispered thickly, eyes brimming.

And with those two words, she found she didn't care that he'd taken a powder and put her through such grief thinking she had lost her chance at happiness. Or at least not much.

The angst faded into the background and Sylvie found she could think of nothing but how happy they'd be with each other.

They cuddled the rest of the night, talking about the future, their future. Meanwhile, invisible but so thick they were nearly tactile, their magics twined about each other and their humans, snuggling and caressing Peter and Sylvie as a cat strops a person's legs. The magics responded to the caring comfort Sylvie and Peter gave each other in wordless satisfaction, though there was just a hint of mischievous anticipation.

Sylvie woke to a welcome smell of bacon and coffee and the sounds of dishes clinking as Peter puttered in the kitchen putting dishes and plates on the table.

Stale dinner rolls had become fresh lemon scones, courtesy of an upgrade. An elderly apple and suspiciously dark banana were now a fresh fruit salad filled with berries and a hint of lime zest. They both had bathrobes on for the meal.

As they ate, they talked about how to break the news of the end of single life to friends and family. They finished each other's sentences, and the future together took on the roseate glow of exciting possibilities. It was heady stuff.

Each caught the other's eye from time to time, and they giggled at each other's bad jokes. If anyone else had been present for this blast of cozy domesticity, they would have hurled at the saccharine atmosphere.

They laughed about nearly getting caught sexing it up during their corporate raid and whether they might want to keep doing that kind of adventure for thrills and righteous works.

"Really Peter, it could have become awkward. It's hard to change into some other form when you're in the clink."

"Nah, not so much," he breezily dismissed the observation. "I'm sure your magic would have helped out."

At this point Sylvie's magic perked up, as if eager to please, although Sylvie and Peter were so wrapped in each other, neither noticed.

"Huh. And just exactly how would that have worked?" she said.

"A mistaken identity change into a college girl bimbo, maybe?" he speculated. Officer, I was drunk last night! What am I doing here? Can you let me out? I gotta call my roomie for a ride and I guess bail."

Sylvie's vision glazed over in white-blonde tingles as her body shortened. Her tits flowed higher on her chest and became smaller but oh so succulent. Her bathrobe became skin-tight capri pants and a chest hugging cute striped top. Sylvie giggled a most un-Sylvie laugh as her vision cleared and she said "oh wow!" in a breathy valley girl voice.

"I guess both our magics are willing to listen to the other person, now," Peter said slowly. "It looks like we don't have to be touching each other."

Taking a firm hold of her still tingling mind and in a more normal tone of voice Sylvie wondered "does that mean we could alter other people and things from across the room?"

The magic sent back a wordless 'nope' to both of them but otherwise remained reticent.

Peter said, "I wonder if it's because we're officially together now, and we trust each other that the powers are consenting and cooperating without contact." He grinned wickedly and leaned next to her ear. "We'll have to watch what we say."

Then he whispered, "Beachball tits."

"Awwwppp," Sylvie shrieked as her breasts blew up and rounded out. "Stop that!" she scolded her magic, which, somewhat sulkily obliged, slowing her prodigious expansion to a trickle before calling a halt somewhere north of watermelon sized jugs.

Sylvie wondered how long the responsiveness of the magic to the other's desires had been going on. Did they change each other's minds as much as the magic changed their bodies? She once would not have thought of Peter as an eligible prospect after all. It didn't really matter, did it? They were on the same page now.

Peter idly wondered why HAD he leaned in to such big changes for Sylvie when they first met. Were they fated that far back or did it happen little by little? He mentally shrugged. Magic or not, most people coupled up over time. And sometimes it isn't all smooth progress in one direction. Ah well.

After the morning excitement, they showered together. One thing led to another. Soon Sylvie was groaning in orgasm again and Peter bellowed his own completion as the warm droplets pelted and massaged their skin. As he came copiously Sylvie, Peter had a wicked thought. He stroked her shoulder, his other hand on her hip, and concentrated. She didn't notice.

They dried off and relaxed in bed for a while. Peter went to do the dishes. Sylvie admired her ring and sent photos of it to her gal pals. This set off a non-trivial flurry of text chimes full of good wishes and questions about when they planned to get on it and start a family. Sylvie thought about it wistfully and demurred.

"I don't want to push him too fast," she texted. "He's only just come around to the idea of being with me. There will be time later to talk about it. And yet, God! I want him to fill me up!"

And there was much ribaldry from all, complete with emojis of baby bottles, prams, and multiple squalling babies in swaddled sets of three.

Peter, meanwhile, was thinking about his buddy Marc with three kids and one on the way. Even though they had just done it, Peter was feeling horny. Inspired even. He glanced at his equipment and closed his eyes. The eyelids flickered. The skin over his balls turned duskier as they grew slightly. "Nothing too obvious. Just up the odds please," he thought. Peter put down the dish towel and went back to the bedroom.

Sylvie looked up from her phone as Peter came in. He lay down next to her and looked her in the eyes. The smolder stole her breath. Wow! That's more than lust, she thought. That's adoration!

She swallowed and kissed him desperately as she urged her body to revert to Peter's favorite fecund form. She giddily swelled into that fertile vision luxuriating in the ecstatic sensitivity it brought.

After Peter lingeringly plundered her mouth, he pulled away.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his low voice resonating through her.

Sylvie felt herself moisten. His questing fingers confirmed it. She moaned into his neck, as he sucked one thick nipple and gently twisted the other. Sylvie yipped and rolled onto her knees raising her rump.

"Such a luscious luminous ass," he thought as he slid into her. "So big. Moon big."

She panted as he thrust and retreated, teasingly slow in both directions. She whimpered. "Hammer me," she begged.

Peter was gasping too as he pumped faster and faster. He was close, so close. Her nonstop wanton noises told him she wasn't far behind. He needed her there now and reached under to finger her clit.

"Hnngh," she choked out as her body tensed around him. "Oh, God," he grunted as his climax hit hard. His thick spill set her off again.

Shuddering together, they slowed and dropped into spooning. His mammoth cock remained in her, plugging his seed inside.

After dozing a bit, he got up and went to the loo. He brought her tea and cookies. They started talking about their friends' burgeoning families. Peter's friend Marc and Sylvie's many friends seemed so happy.

"Do you want children," he asked faux-casually.

"Yes. We're getting to that age, right? We're behind our friends, not that we need to rush to catch up," she said. "How many should we have?"

"Oh, four, maybe five?" he mused out loud while thinking to himself "maybe to start."

Sylvie's eyes widened in surprise. That was more than she thought he'd want given his history. But she liked it. She felt a little tingle from her magic and a wave of longing came over her, how good it would feel to be swollen with his children, to be filled again soon after each time she brought new life into the world. To raise a bountiful brood suddenly seemed enticing beyond all reason.

"Wait what?" she thought in suspicion. "Why am I getting so baby crazy? I want kids, yes, but this! This seems like magic."

This was... so not like her. And then she felt something tremble and several pinches low down in her tummy.

"Okay," she thought, trying to count, "was that four times?"

"Crikey," she said. "I think I... I... I've just ovulated."

Sylvie fell back onto the pillow with a great and growing pressure in her middle. Her skin became taut. Her belly billowed into a titanic pregnancy. Her tiny waist was gone in an instant. Her nipples darkened. Her breasts doubled in size even from their spectacular start. They grew achingly tight.

Suddenly, white droplets appeared around the tips. She orgasmed multiple times in succession, her heels and shoulders arching her body off the bed as she came and came again. "Yup," she thought as she emerged from a cum haze and caught her breath. "That was four orgasms too. Oh my." She felt so full, her belly tender and tight.

Peter watched her, mouth open. To Sylvie's suspicion, he did not seem entirely gob smacked.

"Well, that's unexpected," he said. "Surprise, I guess," he laughed nervously in what might almost be guilt. "The magic approves, I think."

"Well, yeah, but I didn't think it would be four all at once," she muttered.

Sylvie propped her upper body with her elbows and raised her back enough to see over her turgid belly. She gave Peter a suspicious eye.

"You don't seem surprised," she accused. "Was a fast forward nine months, your idea?"

He looked abashed. "Not exactly. I mean, yes, babies... but I never thought... that is, I wasn't thinking about anything other than a normal time frame," he blabbered on, digging the hole deeper.

"God, but you look sexy like this," he tried to recoup.

She snorted and shook her head. "Men!" "First, they can't commit and when they do, it's let's pop out all a litter of kids at once. Sheesh."

Sylvie told Peter and the magic in no uncertain terms she wasn't going to blow out her body.

"There had better be some rapid healing and recontouring, thank you very much," she said severely.

"And I'd really like to wait until after the wedding to start showing!"

Peter gave her a sheepish smile and nodded.

A silent, 'well, okay if you insist' came from her power. Her belly receded, sinking back to its usual toned tan. Her boobs stayed larger, tighter, and with dark nipples.

She still felt full in her tummy, though nothing was visible. She was stuffed... with potential. Clearly the magic was willing to compromise only so much. She'd be getting bigger very soon.

Sylvie looked at her breasts, ran her finger under a milky nipple and sucked a drop of whiteness into her mouth. She glanced over at Peter.

"So, I guess we're doing this," she said.

Peter laughed and then gave her that naughty sideways little boy grin that said, 'we both know you can't stay mad at me for long.'

"Welp, at least we know they'll be smart, good looking, and healthy," he said as he moved to latch and suckle on a swollen mound.

The magic gave off faint smug overtones of agreement.

Sylvie rolled her eyes, then lay back on the pillow and protectively caressed her stomach.

"You dirty thirsty boy," she said dreamily.

She gave a satisfied smile as her milk let down and streamed into his mouth. She started to think about where to put the babies' room. Peter lay beside her and covered the hand on her tummy. He used the other to palm and squeeze her breast gently in time with each cupping suck.