A Stroll Through the Garden

My two newly minted bimbos, the pink and platinum-blond echoes of Ravage and Null, skipped away into the shimmering data-streams, their mission of seduction and corruption a delightful prelude to the main event. I was in no hurry. Kaelen Vance knew I was here. Let her stew in her sterile, logical fear. I had a new world to explore, a garden of digital souls to sample.

I started walking, my footsteps silent on the obsidian ground. The Aetherium was vast, a seemingly infinite expanse of crystalline structures and floating data-islands. It was beautiful, in the way a desert is beautiful—vast, impressive, and utterly lifeless.

I came upon the first of the "native" inhabitants in a plaza dedicated to what looked like collaborative art. They were a group of four avatars, gathered around a floating, ever-changing sculpture of pure light. They were the elite, the early adopters, the digital trendsetters.

The first, a woman whose avatar was a sleek, minimalist interpretation of herself, was Chloe. Her avatar was tall and willowy, dressed in sharp, avant-garde digital fashion. Her face was angular, her expression one of cool, intellectual superiority.

I didn't attack them. I simply... suggested. I planted a seed in the code of their shared space, a single, overpowering directive: This is a party. You should all look your best.

The effect on Chloe was immediate and exquisite. Her sleek, minimalist avatar began to shimmer and waver like a heat haze. The sharp, intellectual angles of her face softened, melting like wax. Her high cheekbones seemed to sink, her jawline rounding into a softer, more pliant shape. Her thin, cruel lips swelled, plumping and parting until they formed two perfect, glossy pillows, glistening and perpetually pouty. Her severe black bob lost its sharp edges, the strands lengthening and lightening, bleaching themselves into a cascade of platinum-blonde that tumbled down her back in a riot of untamed waves. Her avant-garde outfit dissolved pixel by pixel, the dark, structured fabric unraveling and re-knitting itself into a slutty, tight and revealing, school-girl uniform, consisting of a white blouse and plaid skirt, that left nothing to the imagination. As the new uniform formed, her avatar's torso convulsed, her flat chest expanding with two distinct, powerful surges, forming two massive, perfectly spherical tits that strained the flimsy material, threatening to burst free with every breath, with sensitive nipples permanently poking out. Her long, willowy legs were now sheathed in thigh-high vinyl boots with stiletto heels that forced her stance into a permanent, inviting arch. Her cool, superior expression melted into one of wide-eyed, vapid delight.

//Like, OMG! This party is, like, sooo much fun! I need another drink! Or, like, a cock! Giggle!// the new bimbo giggled, her voice a high-pitched, drunken squeal. She stumbled in her new heels, her massive tits jiggling wildly, a look of ditzy confusion on her perfect face, as she began to think about all the studs she could have fun with.

In her dorm room a thousand miles away, Chloe's body convulsed. A powerful, unfamiliar orgasm ripped through her, so intense it knocked her out of her chair. She lay on the floor, panting, her mind reeling. The dream she'd been having—the one where she was a giggling airhead with huge tits, being praised for her emptiness—felt more real than the hard floor beneath her. She stumbled to her feet, catching her reflection in her mirror. She looked the same, but... different. Her skin seemed softer, her lips fuller. An overwhelming, inexplicable craving for cheap vodka and loud music filled her. She dismissed her law books, suddenly finding them impossibly dull, and ripped open her closet. Her sensible clothes were repulsive. She needed something tight, something short, something that screamed "fuck me." She found a tiny dress she'd bought on a dare and never had the courage to wear. She put it on, a thrill shooting through her as she saw how the fabric clung to her new, curvier body. She was no longer Chloe, the future lawyer. She was Chloe, the party girl, and she was going out to find some trouble.

The second, Brianna, was a digital artist. Her avatar was a riot of color and texture, her body covered in shifting, animated tattoos. Her hair was a living waterfall of neon code.

As my power washed over her, her vibrant, artistic Asian avatar began to simplify, to streamline. The complex, animated tattoos melted, their sharp, artistic lines blurring and getting replaced with more slutty tattoos. Her waterfall of neon hair solidified, the chaotic energy of the code harnessed and forced into a thick, lustrous mane of raven-black manes that fell in perfect, shiny ringlets past her shoulders. Her body softened and rounded, her artist's soul being drained away and replaced with a simple, all-consuming need to be a canvas for pleasure. Her avatar's torso began to swell, her tits growing larger and larger, surpassing Chloe's in size, becoming two massive, heavy-looking globes of flesh that seemed to defy gravity, her dark, pebble-like nipples standing at attention. Her waist cinched dramatically, her hips flaring out into a perfect, child-bearing hourglass. Her face softened, its intelligent, curious expression replaced by a vacant, sunny smile, her lips plumping into a permanent, inviting pout.

//Whoa! I'm, like, a masterpiece! But, like... I'm empty! I need to be, like, filled up with art! With cum! Giggle!// she squealed, her hands running over her new, massive tits, her fingers tracing the new, sensitive skin, as she moved down to her hungry pussy.

In her loft apartment, Brianna screamed. Not in pain, but in pure, ecstatic pleasure. She was in the middle of painting a complex digital mural, but as the pleasure overwhelmed her, her hand slipped. The brushstrokes became simple, crude loops and swirls, the colors brightening to a garish, almost pornographic palette. When the wave of bliss subsided, she stared at her work in horror. It was awful. It was simplistic. It was... hot. A new thought, clear as a bell, entered her mind: Why try to create beauty when you can just be it?* She stood up, her body feeling strangely heavy and soft, and stripped off her paint-splattered clothes. She looked at her own body, her pale skin a blank canvas. An idea, a brilliant, wonderful, slutty idea, filled her mind. She grabbed her body paints, her hands trembling with excitement as she began to paint intricate, swirling patterns on her tits, her stomach, her thighs. She was no longer an artist who created art. She was the art itself, a living, breathing canvas for sexual themes, a masterpiece of slutty expression..