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Young man finally manages to bang the girl he's wanted.

Make her friend Dottie's boyfriend a little slimmer ("How could that do harm, honey? I'd be great for his health and self-confidence. Not to mention making him more attractive to Dottie."). Straighten out some slimeball co-worker who kept hitting on her ("Please, hon! It's poetic justice to give him a two inch penis! Just for a few days!").

Ever try to justify your ethical code to another intelligent human being? Try to present it as a coherent and seamless system, even though it's most likely a hodge-podge of notions tossed together from your life's bits and pieces? It ain't easy. Ultimately, decisions about right and wrong come down to gut feelings. There is seldom an absolutely black-or-white situation, no matter what your preacher says. Telling my love "no" wasn't always easy.

Once, I capitulated. Bridgette sat, enthralled, beside me as I did my magic, in very small stages, gradually erasing the horrid scars from a mutual friend's disfigured face. At each session, Bridgette's breath became short, her lips slightly parted. Each time, immediately afterwards, we fucked like bunnies.

"God," she groaned after the final session, trying to pull my entire body inside her womb, "I can't believe how much that turns me on, baby! Oh, yeah, just like that! Faster! Oh, please, faster!" Then, as if her approaching orgasm inspired her, she bucked wildly and growled, "Do me, baby! Change me! Do something to me! Make me --" Her words dissolved into scream, and I saw stars and I joined her.

It became a little boudoir game. "Honey, you could make my breasts larger, couldn't you? Just for a weekend, I could be your centerfold, your own Hooters girl." Or, "Wouldn't you enjoy oral sex even more if you gave me great big fat lips." And, "Yeah, love. Right there! Just like that! What if you . . . ah! . . . bleached my hair and . . . oh! . . . made it long enough to hang down to a tight bubble butt . . . and when you did me from behind . . . like this . . . you could pull it . . . real . . . hard . . . and . . ."

Well. I'm not made of steel, though I can sometimes manage a localized impersonation. And, especially when I'm ga-ga in love, I can get stupid. So, on the sly, I began seeing just what I could do with my love. I'm really glad I started off slowly and carefully, because the effects were immediate and drastic. I'd created a pic of Bridgette curled on the sofa painting her nails, and it came to pass, in excruciating detail, less than fifteen minutes later. Well, perhaps to you that might not seem drastic, but, given my lady's adamant anti-manicure attitude, I was left speechless.
"Hi, babe," she grinned. "Look what I found under the bathroom sink. What do you think? Like it? One of your femmes fatale must have left it behind. What kind of red would you call it? Fuscia?"

I nodded numbly. She'd even changed into the jeans and checked blouse I'd imaged. She started on her toenails, glanced curiously up at me. "What? Don't you like it?"

"No, I do! It's just that, well, you always said --"

She waved me off. "The first thing mothers teach daughters is that it's a girl's prerogative to change her mind." She smiled lovingly. "Get used to it."

I deleted the pic. The polish stayed for a week. I made another pic, sans nail color. The polish disappeared. I reapplied it. So did she. I admitted to myself that maybe there was the tiniest little bit of sexual rush in playing with her, and lengthened the nails in the picture a bit. I didn't mind the way she clawed my back with them at all.

Over a Sunday brunch a week later, my guilt got the better of me. I confessed. Bri sat, blinking with disbelief for a few moments. She raised her hands, stared oddly at her moderately long nails. Her gaze lost focus. She wet her lips, and shuddered slightly. Her eyes sought mine. Her voice was a soft whimper. "I just came, honey."

I had no time to ponder her reaction to being "changed" until Monday.

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