Why not both?

Giving your mom a long life and protecting her from any disease is way more important than fixing your looks. However, you have all the herbs you need collected and sitting in front of you. It will only take you a minute to cast either spell. There’s no reason you can’t cast both.

You open the page with the Journey of Morpheus spell and see that you need something your mom has held to cast it. You go into the bathroom and grab her toothbrush. She holds that twice a day, and no one else ever touches it. You chant the words for the ritual, then put the toothbrush back where you found it.

Next up is the Blessing of Adonis. You open that page and read the instructions. Then sprinkle the herbs onto your desk, run your fingertip through them to draw the magic sigil shown on the screen, and carefully chant the words of the spell. As you do, you hold an image in your mind of what you want to look like. Muscular without overdoing it, not the extremely sculpted muscles of a body-builder or the slab-like mass of a linebacker, but thicker arms, a broader chest, strong legs, and a noticeable six-pack. You picture your face as still recognizably you, but less baby-faced and more ruggedly handsome — a stronger jawline with thicker, less patchy facial hair; eyes set a bit deeper and slightly brighter in color to stand out; hair that is more flowing waves and less tousled mop. That leaves your cock, which you’ve always thought was kind of average. You don’t need to be porn-star-sized, but you envision it as what you think is about an inch longer, with a little more girth, and veinier.

When you’re done, you brush all the herbs off your desk into your wastepaper basket. You’re feeling completely wiped out at this point. Maybe its from casting so many spells at once. Maybe it’s just an adrenaline crash after this very long, very weird day. You stumble downstairs to put all the jars of herbs back in the spice rack so Mom doesn’t notice them missing. You feel yourself blinking and nodding off as you’re climbing back up the stairs. You barely make it to your bed before you pass out.

After a chaos of flashing shapes, shifting images, and disjointed scenes, the dreamscape around you settles into something more stable. You find yourself in a palatial hall with tall columns, a mosaic floor, and high-domed ceilings. It looks like something out of the Arabian Nights. Around the edges, your vision is indistinct, and distance and proportion are distorted wherever aren’t directly looking. It makes you feel a little dizzy.

You see a line of ****-girls on their knees. They have sheer scraps of silk hanging off their bodies that accentuate more than they hide the breasts and bushes they barely cover. You look at the group of kneeling women more carefully and feel yourself blushing when you recognize your mother. In her dream, she’s younger, you guess about 19 or 20, and a bit slimmer, but still very curvy. She’s on her knees and dressed as skimpily as the rest of the young women. You can’t help but notice how hot your mom looks in her dream. You try not to stare at her, there are other girls to look at, after all.

You notice your mother glance at you, then she stares with a quizzical expression on her face. “Huh?” she mutters, “My subconscious is frisky tonight.” It seems odd that you can hear her almost whispered words at this distance, but the spell is for spying on people’s dreams, so it makes sense that you can hear everything.

“If this is how my dark side wants to see Dave, who am I to say no?” your mom purrs as she gets up from her knees and sways in your direction. Her eyes travel up and down your body. “It’s been a little while since I got my Jocasta on.”

You glance down at yourself, and see you’re wearing a a vest and baggy pants. You have a large scimitar hanging from your belt. Your clothes match a few other guards around the room, who stand silently at attention. The body you see isn’t familiar though. Six-pack abs peek from under the opened vest. Your arms are muscular, and your skin is a golden tan.

Your mom walks up to you and presses a soft hand to your chest. “You’re here to rescue me from the cruel Sultan. We must flee before he arrives. I will give myself to you fully, if you protect me from him.”

You’re so surprised by all this, you can’t help blurting out, “Mom?!” You notice your voice comes out in a lower register than you are used to. Maybe when you muscle up and change your jawline, it'll affect your vocal cords too.

Her eyebrow goes up, “Oh, so it’s gonna be explicit taboo,” she murmurs to herself as her lips curl up in a sly grin. “Kinky.”

“Yes son. We must hurry. Go on the run,” she says breathlessly, slipping back into a role. “I promised your father no one who was not as worthy as him would ever touch me. Save me from the Sultan, before I have to kill myself to keep my vow.”

Her hand slides up and down your chest, feeling the firm muscles there that you aren’t used to. “We will have to go into hiding, flee to foriegn lands. I have already been given a **** mark.” she turn her head and tilts it to the side, to show a stylized tattoo on the side of her neck. You’re sure it wasn’t there until she mentioned it. “So you will have to pose as my owner to the world. Treat me cruelly, like a possession, when other are watching. But in private, you can still treat me as your beloved mother… or perhaps wife,” she adds in a pleading voice.

You blink and try to think of what to say, to go along with the dream. Maybe you can change it, you’re supposed to be able to with an effort of will. You are blanking on what to change it to though. You hear yourself just yammering, “Um… yes. I… OK. Let’s, ah, let’s go.” You take her hand and start to lead her towards a big door at the end of the room.

Your mom looks a little annoyed that the dream isn’t playing out as she expected, but she keeps trying to get into it. “You are the only man who has ever been as worthy as your father. You have grown to be so like him, strong, handsome, proud…” her voice trails off. “Like your father,” she mutters and scowls, “What the fuck? Dave, is that you? Really you?”

This can’t be good. You try to act like you're in character. You grip her hand tighter and start running towards the door. “We must hurry, Mother.”

She comes to a dead stop, not letting you pull her along. “David Jonathan Harris!” she says sternly. “What are you doing in my dream? And why do you look like that?”

The scene changes around you. You’re sitting in your kitchen, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Your mother is across the table from you, she’s dressed in a beige turtleneck sweater that conceals her body, but her face still looks young, and you are pretty sure she’s still got the body of a 19-year-old under the bulky sweater. “You’ve been messing around with magic,” she accuses you. “Why would you go into my dream? And how do you look like that? I know there’s no way a boy as shy as you has that self-image.”