Live like this

Sophie: "You know what? With all the cooky crap that's happened to me today, I think I just can live like this. Just gotta... hm."

You consider the situation and concoct a cunning course of action. In a moment of brilliance, you take out a piece of paper and write on it the something to the following effect:

'Dear whatever-is-making-this-happen

I'm like 95% sure you can read this. Even if not, I'm gonna have to ask you to be able to read this, 'cause it's important business.

I want the following:

* That my biology be altered to make living with a tail up my ass viable.

* That I can use my tail as an ultrasonic vibrator.

* That I can have a second tail.

* That I can still insert this secondary tail up my butt, and the resulting pleasure will scale accordingly.

* That I also be hardwired to feel a thousandfold of the pleasure that a normal human could, but I'm able to control this pleasure so it doesn't become debilitating or addictive.

* That I be made godly hot, like the hottest person on Earth by a wide fucking margin. Like the Comicbook Superheroes Hottest 100 girls all made twice as everything, slapped together and then made even hotter.

* That I won't regret my decision and won't need any further additions or requests.

Here's what I'm offering to you: Fuck all. In exchange of one (1) sum of Fuck All, I demand that you fulfill all of the above conditions unconditionally and without any stupid hiney-hoo ironic punishment genie bullshit.

Effective immediately.

Sincerely,

Sophie'

If you're going to **** the cracking fringes of reality for personal gain, might as well go big. Worst case scenario: nothing happens.

This sheaf of paper you roll up into a tight wad and shove it seemingly into thin air, where it disappears, much to the surprise of even yourself. You also hear something peculiar: as if an all-encompassing voice gently trying to stifle a pained moan.

Sophie: "Huh. Something definitely happened just there."

What happened was: you managed to stick your message directly up reality's ass. Reality can't really reach into its own butt because honestly that's a pretty lewd place. Furthermore, reality would just be embarrassed to **** if anyone caught wind of this incident. So the only way that reality can relieve itself from this rather awkward situation is by granting your proposal, thus rendering your paperslip unnecessary and discardable.

Reality: "(Hhnn... okay, you got a deal.)"

At first there's only silence as the universe pipes down and throws your contract into the eternal void. You're slightly mistrustful that all of reality itself would just fork over keys to such a tremendous existence, until a small audible sparkle begins to surround you. Soon these tiny specs of light grow in intensity and both physical and auditory volume.

Sophie: "Oh geez fuck!"

The blinding lights besiege you, assimilating themselves through the cracks between your cells. Your heart rate is suddenly soaring, as you rise floating into air, your hair billowing out, unaffected by gravity. Feeling like a beyond-holy amalgamation of an Angel and Goddess, your veins are brought to bursting point with divine potency.

That is only an infinitesimal fraction of your ascension. Your demands about being 'Like the Comicbook Superheroes Hottest 100 girls all made twice as everything, slapped together and then made even hotter' is being taken very literally. While you only meant their beauty, 'everything' here refers to all attributes: beauty, strength, speed, intelligence, charm, luck, narrative convenience (despite being an attribute that exists only within fiction), horniness... You must also consider that since there are probably thousands of listings of the 100 hottest superheroines, Reality just used all of them, cumulatively.

Sophie: "Aahh... Oagh, oh f-fuck! FUCK!"

In total, you're being funneled with the combined doubled attributes of dozens upon dozens of Power Girls, She-Hulks, Supergirls, Starfires and Jean Grays, not to mention thousands of other busty bodysuitbound hardbodies, many of which also in duplicates. Of course, many of the American superheroes in particular have had several incarnations. Better add those ones in too.

Sophie: "O-o-ooo-ooaHahhAH!HA!A-A-A-A!-"

Let's see now... I'm sure there are loads of alternate universes where someone has made you into a comic character. So technically, you're now objectively the hottest comic book character, and thus hotter and more powerful than yourself and every comicbook superheroine put together.

Huh. Twice as everything than yourself? Better make you transcendent so there won't be any nasty paradoxes.

Sophie: "!!!!!!!!!!!"

It's like you're dead, but live through all the eyes and minds which Life beget. It's as if you're the life **** and flame, the chemical reactions themselves dutifully grinding away in their merciless toil. But now, instead of the laws of physics, chemistry itself turns its meek, down-trodden head towards you and asks: 'what would it be'?

Your hazy, sparkling, sizzling head answers:

Sophie: "PLEASURE!"

Your humble servant delivers. Excessively, extravagantly, explosively pleasure. Too much for one catgirl, too much for the whole universe. For a second in your fuzzy all-encompassing mind, the fabric of reality is made of pure serotonin and dopamin, compressed into singularity and **** through your divine veins.

Then, after what could be seconds or weeks, or eons immeasurable in mortal timeframes, you wrest back control and find yourself in a smouldering heap on your bedroom floor.

Sophie: "...h-h-h-whuah..."

Words no longer suffice to describe your stature, or any physical attributes for that matter. In transcendance, you are the ideal catgirl - encompassing and outdoing any other conceivable apprehension of a catgirl. People project their fetishes and desires onto you, and you fulfill all - even those which contradict one another.

'Living like this?' You no longer live. Life lives you, and only by your permission.