"I want to reward my fans," said CBlo. "That'll be nice and big."
"Um, okay," I said, wondering what she meant.
She said, "I wish my fans would always be almost as hot and sexy as I look in my videos," with a wink. She waved toward the TV and said, "And I wish I could see some of the changes."
I guess I knew my wishes had a long range -- they'd teleported her into my bedroom, after all -- but I didn't realize how long until the TV turned itself on.
An overweight teenage girl stood in front of a classroom. Suddenly her figure went from plump to curvy, her baggy sweater and jeans shrinking into a halter top and miniskirt that no school dress code would allow, her sensible shoes becoming platform heels, her slightly beautified face being painted with colorful makeup, her hair developing a definite wave and growing past her ass.
The scene changed. A forty-something woman sat typing at a computer and suddenly stopped, obviously puzzled by her fingernails growing out into an inch-long manicure. Now a ring appeared on each finger, and within seconds, she was dressed in only a leather corset, a black thong, and thigh-high leather boots, her brown hair turning black and forming into a ponytail that almost reached the floor, her skin lightening to a porcelain shade as a couple decades of lines and sun damage melted away.
The scene changed again. A college football player, it appeared, was going out for a long pass, just about to catch the ball -- and he tripped, because his cleats had become high-heeled ankle boots. As he sat on the ground and watched in horror, his uniform shrank into an undeniably skimpy cheerleader outfit, his helmet disappearing as long blonde hair tumbled out and down his back, his face and body altering to become unmistakably feminine.
CBlo chuckled.
The next scene was a businessman in a suit in a conference room. It wasn't long before he was wearing an outfit that was little more than a lace teddy and stockings, an enormous pair of breasts and wide hips seemingly threatening to burst out; the other occupants of the conference room -- including a woman -- hungrily eyeing the new voluptuous teenage girl.
Another scene change, and now a pre-teen girl, in a bedroom with a CBlo poster on the wall, was lying on her bed reading a book. Her T-shirt and jeans merged, shrank, and changed material to become a skimpy vinyl leotard that hugged her petite and nearly curve-free body. Matching stripper shoes appeared on her bare feet. Brunette hair seemed to explode from her head, cascading over the bedsheets, looking as if it might be ankle-length if she stood up. As with the other transformees, her face now appeared to be covered thickly with makeup. Finally, the book she held in her hands became a fashion magazine.
The TV turned itself off, with "some of the changes" apparently translating to five, but I knew there were more. Depending on the definition of "fans," there could be millions.
I glared at CBlo.
She shot back at me with...