The Sculptor Ch. 01

It's hard to get the FULL context of a situation without living someone's entire life, of course, but I gradually peek back further and further in Erika's history to find that Katie had been her best friend for years. On a shockingly large number of occasions, I can see that Katie had clearly been emotionally manipulative and abusive toward Erika, but Erika never really caught on. Erika had even forgiven Katie for stealing her college boyfriend, in front of her, when they were both 20 years old. Yikes. There was no turning back from what she did this time, though.

Erika had recently gotten engaged to a nice young man named Michael whom she loved very deeply, and drunkenly confided in Katie that he stood to inherit millions of dollars from some relative or other. Soon after, Michael started growing colder to her, with little explanation, until finally one night he exploded at her, hurling accusations of all sorts of horrible things he was apparently convinced she had said behind his back, or thought about him, or done without his knowledge. None of it was true, but he was beyond listening. At the end of the night, he forced her out of their shared apartment. She's spent the last few nights at her sister's place.

It all made sense when she discovered that Katie was no longer returning her calls, and heard from mutual friends that she was living with Michael now. The cold-hearted bitch had been poisoning him against her ever since she heard there was money to be gained. She was sleeping in Erika's bed with Erika's fiancee within 24 hours of him kicking her out. Erika agreed to meet Katie here today to pick up some of her stuff, but hoped to talk to her, to find out why she had done such a thing, and maybe get her to convince Michael to listen to her again. No such luck. The stuff in the suitcase wasn't even all of her stuff, just what Katie hadn't decided she wanted for herself. Typical.

I watch every minute of this entire drama, in real time. I am disgusted with Katie. I skip back in Erika's memories - if I spend enough time in a woman's head, getting to know her memories, finding relevant ones gets much easier - and I find almost a decade of nothing but emotional abuse. Katie is the goddamn devil. Katie is the worst person I have ever known. And I feel I do know her now, and it doesn't make me hate her any less.

Eventually I can't stand to see another second of it. I exit Erika's head and stand up, frowning. I walk off in the direction Erika remembers Katie going. That bitch is going to pay.

Katie hasn't been gone long, so it's only a few minutes before I find her on the sidewalk a couple of blocks outside the park border. I recognize her instantly from Erika's memories. I snatch her clutch purse from her resentfully and find her driver's license, more out of habit than because I care about the details of this awful woman's life. Katie Connor, also age 24. The devil herself. I drop the purse on the ground and really enjoy myself kicking it into a storm drain.

I stare at Katie's awful, evil visage for a few seconds. So I have her. What am I going to do with her? I've only used my talents for petty revenge a few times in my life. My go-to if someone really pisses me off is to steal their wallet and throw it somewhere they'll never get it back, but I've already done that to Katie. Once a young woman cut me off in traffic, so I froze time, stole all of her clothes, rolled down her driver's-side window, dangled her left leg out of it, and got back in my car to watch her reaction. That was fun. I usually try to stay positive, though - if a man makes me angry, I freeze time and wander off, sculpting as I go, until I feel better; if a woman makes me angry, I sculpt her the way I'd sculpt any other woman, and usually when I'm done not only will I be more calm but she will be more pleasant. But I can't simply sculpt someone who's done the things Katie has done. She needs to be punished, and Michael may have been manipulated by her but anyone who'd believe such lies about his own fiancee still doesn't deserve to have one of my masterpieces to himself.

So what should I do? Deform this poor wretched soul? Ruin her whole life? Would having something like that on my conscience solve anything, or even make me feel any better? No. I'm better than that. But am I above a little sexual humiliation? Absolutely not.

I strip Katie naked. It takes a while; her fall outfit is complex and multi-layered. Jacket, sweater, blouse, tweed skirt, heeled leather boots, pantyhose, expensive bra, blue bikini-cut panties, jewelry. All of it comes off. All of it goes in that same storm drain except the panties and pantyhose, which I have plans for. I also keep the jewelry. I decide that should go in Erika's suitcase. Even if it's not actually hers, which it probably is, she deserves a little bonus. About a half-block ahead of where Katie is frozen mid-stride is one of those huge gross puddles of brackish standing New York water from some recent rain, a bit past ankle-deep at its center. Pedestrians are doing their best to give it a wide berth. Katie will be doing no such thing. I place her so her feet are about an inch deep in it, facing the center, and tie her panties in a firm, secure square knot from one ankle to the other.

It's still missing a certain something. I wander the streets for a while until I find a handy sex shop, duck inside for a second, and help myself to the largest clear plastic buttplug I can find. I walk back to Katie and spend the next several minutes from my perspective working the plug all the way into her ass. It takes a while, but I have plenty of time. It would probably be quite painful if she were aware of it. I use some puddle water for lube.

Finally I decide to sculpt her just a little. I'm not going to leave her a grotesque hulk, even if it's what she deserves. Instead, I stand in front of her and place one hand between her legs, on her mons. She is already clean-shaven, but I decline to give her the gift of a permanently hairless pussy. Instead I close my eyes and concentrate.

Recall isn't my only new trick. My skills at manipulating women's bodies have improved over the past few months: I can go beneath the surface to tweak their nervous systems. I've been practicing. Usually my goal is the opposite of what I'm doing now, of course. I locate Katie's clitoris and G-spot, shrink and dull them just a tiny bit, then slow the flow of her vaginal fluids. She'll still have a sex drive, and she'll still be able to orgasm, it'll just be frustratingly hard now, whether she's alone or with a partner, and she'll have chronic trouble getting wet. On a whim, I move some nerve endings to her asshole. Playing with her ass will be her best bet for cumming from here on out, but the stuck-up bitch will probably never let anyone put anything back there long enough to notice. The plug I've stuffed her with will have to serve as enough of a hint. From there, all that's left is for me to shrink her boobs down to A-cups, give her a more pronounced gag reflex, and I'm done.

I walk to the other side of the puddle, facing Katie head-on. I take out my phone and, at the same moment that I restart time, I begin recording video.

It's every bit as glorious as expected. Katie tries to take the step she'd been about to take when I first stopped time, but her feet are tied. That haughty bitch look is still on her face as she starts to go down, but by the time she lands face-first in the puddle it's gone. She tries to scream, but gets a mouthful of muddy water and ends up choking instead. She's trying to get up, but with everything that's happening to her she can't even really process the idea that her feet are suddenly tied together, so in effect she just ends up thrashing around aimlessly in the water for a good fifteen seconds. Once she figures out what the problem is with her ankles, getting her soaked, tangled panties untied with her panicky hands takes maybe another thirty seconds. The entire time, she's very drenched, very filthy, very humiliated, and very naked in public. Thanks to the clear plastic wedged in her asshole, if the angle is right you can see right into her. A crowd has gathered to watch, chattering to each other excitedly at this novelty, but no one is helping her up. No one wants to get that close to the naked girl splashing around in dirty water on the street. By now I'm not the only one taking a cellphone video, I note with satisfaction.

Eventually Katie gets one ankle free and staggers to her feet. She glances around, terrified, like a cornered animal, then slips and falls back in. I try not to laugh. It'd shake my camera. Soon she manages to escape the puddle, on all fours to keep her footing. She clambers to her feet on dry land, and flees around a corner, covering herself with her arms as best she can. I stop recording. Eventually I can send Erika this video anonymously; that should make her feel much better.

Erika. That poor girl. She's still sobbing on that park bench. I've been so focused on getting my revenge - I mean her revenge - that I forgot all about her. I didn't even sculpt her. I sigh and freeze time again. I'll get to her in a second.

I fish Katie's panties out of the puddle and walk around the corner to find her fleeing form, bewildered panic on her face. She's still trying to cover herself. That won't do. I grab her arms from their protective positions over her crotch and now-tiny boobs, gather them behind her back, and tie them securely in place, each wrist to the other elbow, with her pantyhose. When I'm done she can't even lower her arms enough to cover her plugged ass. The sodden panties go into her mouth, tied off behind her head to make a makeshift cleave gag. Satisfied, I give her a final smack on the ass and turn to leave. She's on her own now. How her mind will manage to rationalize what has just happened to her is anyone's guess. From what I know about my powers, there's a decent chance she'll end up with some serious bondage and exhibitionism kinks, but there's no guarantee. At any rate that's between her and the new buttplug that represents her best chance at ever getting off again. I have more important things to worry about.

Erika is still on the same park bench where I left her, still sobbing her little eyes out. Poor thing. I pull her frozen form to a standing position, do my best to move her face into a more neutral expression, and wipe her face clean of tears. I throw my arms around her, cradling her motionless head on my shoulder. I can't make this right, but I can do something else. I'm going to give her the works. I'm going to sculpt this girl all to hell and back.

She is dressed for comfort only, like you'd expect from someone going through a bad breakup. Mets hoodie, old jeans, tennis shoes, shoulder-length pale blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her bra and panties are old and unflattering, which again is understandable given the circumstances, but still I can't in good conscience leave this trash on her. It goes in the garbage. I inspect her naked form. Honestly, this girl is nothing special just yet. She's cute, but she probably has to put in some serious effort to qualify as beautiful. I've got work to do.

I start with her face. She's got a sweet, genuine face, but she is a bit mousy. I adjust her nose to make it a touch smaller and daintier, then push in her cheeks and pull out her cheekbones and chin just a little to give her round face more of a diamond shape. A fine start. Her brown eyes are pretty, but the Scandinavian goddess I'm creating should have ice-blue eyes to match her platinum-blonde hair. I carefully rub at them until the color is right, then expand them until they command the right level of attention. This part always makes me uncomfortable, but I power through. I'm a professional. From there I plump up her lips just a bit, give them and her eyelids a bit of natural tint, and tweak her eyelashes for a permanent mascara effect, and she's glam as hell. Her face is done. Perfect.

Erika is definitely not fat, but she could stand to lose fifteen or twenty pounds. Hey, who couldn't? I spend a while kneading, pushing, and burning her excess fat away from all the various places her body keeps it. Her butt is a decent size, so I leave it alone for now. Soon enough she's in the best shape of her life. But I'm not a personal trainer, I'm an artist. I can do better than that. She's still stocky. Broad. I can make her slender. I lay her naked body out flat on the ground, perch over her with one leg on either side of her hips, and begin the slow, arduous process of changing her body shape. This part is kind of like stretching pizza dough. Enough time running my hands over her flanks, exerting just the slightest pressure each time, and her frame narrows until she's shaped like a fashion model. Her waist is very slim; her shoulders and hips are wider, but not as wide as they were before. She could make any outfit out of any high-fashion store targeting 90-pound 16-year-olds look great right off the rack. But of course I'm still not done yet. I haven't even gotten to the really fun parts.

Erika's boobs are on the modest side of average - either a large B or small C; I could have the exact measurement if I'd managed to look at her awful bra long enough to find it before throwing the thing out, but it's not relevant anymore anyway. I sit on the bench, sit her in front of me between my spread legs, and reach around her to caress them larger. As I knead and rub, they swell to fill my slightly-cupped hands. I cup my hands further and keep going, and they grow more. By the time I'm done, she has a really impressive rack. On her old, pre-sculpture frame, they'd probably be double-Ds; on her new, slender body, she'd probably need an F-cup bra to really fit them well. But she'll never have to do that, because for her bras are a thing of the past. I firm her tits into as round a shape as possible, then work on her chest and back muscles until she'll never have to get sized for a bra again. Erika's ass, as I find out when I lie her face-down over my lap, is perfectly sized and shaped already, but it could use some firming. I thoroughly enjoy caressing and massaging her to turn some of her cheek-fat into glute muscle.

From here, a little detailing is all I need and I'm done with the externals. Erika appears to make a habit of shaving her crotch completely, but has sort of let it slide over the past week or so. Again, understandable. And her skin is good enough that I'd pay it no mind on any other girl, but she's getting the works. I rub her all over, exploring every nook and cranny, until all of the skin on her entire body is smooth, soft, hairless, and of a completely flawless classic peaches-and-cream complexion. I pull her hair out of its rough ponytail, grow it to midback, and give it the kind of texture, gloss and body it'd normally take a woman $500 and a day at a beauty salon to pull off, and the exterior is finished. She could be a covergirl with no airbrushing, Photoshop, or really any makeup required.

The final step is the subtle interior quality-of-life changes I've been practicing lately. I move her back into a seated position in front of me on the bench, close my eyes, run my hands over her new-and-improved body, and try to get a good overall image of the way her nerves are set up within her pleasure centers. Her clit is about average size and sensitivity, which of course means I have to give it a little boost to both. Her G-spot is not very prominent at all - I'd rate it as unlikely that she's ever had an orgasm from penetration alone. By the time I'm done with it it's so huge and responsive that it'd be hard for a dick to miss that thing on purpose. Once this part is done, I have a good feel for what exact arrangement of nerves produces the best sexual pleasure response in her, which makes it really easy for me to duplicate in all sorts of fun places - her asshole and her nipples, of course, but also places likely to come up in foreplay, such as her asscheeks, her lips, her tongue, the back of her throat, and even a little smattering on her neck and lower earlobes. Every sexual encounter this girl has for the rest of her life will be quite an experience. I just barely remember to suppress her gag reflex - that thing causes so many problems - and that's it. I'm done.

I stand her on her feet and behold her. A work of art. The best work I have ever done in my life. It would be irresponsible of me not to immortalize her for the world. I'm so excited that I dash at top speed all the way back to my apartment to get my painting supplies. I bring Erika to a bridge overlooking a pond, with some skyline just visible between some trees, and pose her in a faux-demure posture that of course hides nothing, her eyes smoldering at me over a bitten lip. The resulting painting is not only the best I've ever done, but the best I've ever seen. This is my Mona Lisa. I could sell it for quite a hefty sum... but do I really want to? I'll decide later. I bring it back to my apartment to dry.

Erika's old clothes no longer fit, so I dress her from a nearby high-fashion boutique I often find myself shoplifting from for this same reason. Finding stuff here that fits her is extremely easy - she's now built like a model, after all. Finally there's nothing left to do but wake her up. I've done all I can.

I hesitate. Have I done all I can? When I start time, she'll be beautiful beyond measure, well-dressed, and primed for some explosive sexual experiences, but she'll still be heartbroken, betrayed, and homeless. There has to be something else I can do for her. God, but she's beautiful.

I typically never talk to my subjects after I'm through with them, unless I'd already been talking to them before I started. I find it unprofessional. But I have to talk to Erika.

PART 2: PYGMALION

When time begins moving again, Erika is once again bawling her eyes out, but she is surprised to find that she has apparently thrown her arms around my neck and is sobbing directly into my shoulder. "Sssshhh," I attempt to soothe her. "It's okay. Everything's alright." She stops for a second and pulls back, confused. She has no idea who I am. I start us off on the right foot. "What's your name, ma'am?"

It's hard to predict exactly how someone's mind will fill in the blanks when my powers place them in an unexpected situation, but there are ways to prompt them toward a desired conclusion. In this case, if I act like I just sat down, minding my own business, and Erika threw her arms around me and started sobbing into my shirt, there's a good chance that's what she will think happened.

She claps her hands to her mouth, embarrassed. Guess it worked. "Ohmigod. I'm so sorry! I'm Erika. Sorry. I - I just..."

I hold up my hands disarmingly. "It's okay! Don't worry about it. You've obviously been through a lot today. We've all been there, right?"

She rubs her hands over her eyes and face, clearing her long hair out of her eyes without a second thought about it, even though a minute earlier it had been shorter and tied back in a ponytail. "Not like this. God."

I smile wryly. "That bad, huh?" She winces and nods. "Well," I continue, "talking about this stuff always helps. I'll tell you what. Why don't you let me buy you a cup of coffee and you can tell me all about it?"

Erika raises an eyebrow and looks at me appraisingly. I smile at her. I know I look good - I have allowed myself the vanity of sculpting myself, just a little bit - and anyone I use Recall on as much as I've used it on her will feel a certain instinctive trust and empathy toward me, too, but there's no way I believe that'd be enough by itself. I seize the moment before she decides she needs to be alone, and when it's over, she's at the counter of the nearest Starbucks with me, looking at the menu to decide what she wants.