Sympathetic Magic - 3/5 (Patreon)

Contains: Breast Expansion as Weight Gain, Stuffing

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Sympathetic Magic

IV

I spent the weekend binge-watching anime and video games with a few short homework breaks. The assignments and reports I turned in during those three days were some of the worst of my entire college career. I did whatever I could to drown out the nagging voices in my head—Grandma’s, Aunt Myra’s, and the loudest, my own—reminding me of the dangers of using magic irresponsibly. As I lay in bed Sunday night, letting my earbuds pour soothing white noise into my brain, I told myself for the hundredth time that what was done was done—worrying about it was useless. Monday morning, I would see. I would find out what my hubris had wrought, and I would face the consequences.

In retrospect, I was being fairly dramatic.

After spending my first class struggling to maintain stoic fatalism, I slunk into the back of the lecture hall for Chem 201. Cold sweat dripped down my neck. Then I saw Barbara and her coterie waltz into class like normal. She was wearing a fluffy pink top that created the illusion of more boob than she had and a knee-length white skirt. She wasn’t fat. I saw no ghetto booty stretching that skirt. Most important of all, her tits were every bit as small as they’d always been.

I was so relieved that the sight of Carla following in Barbara’s wake didn’t faze me. I melted into my seat. A few students eyed me as I heaved a loud sigh, but I didn’t care. Everything was fine. The magic hadn’t worked. My hands shook from the aftershocks of adrenaline as I pulled my laptop from my bag and set up for class.

I resolved to put Barbara, Carla, the simulacrum, and Sympathy altogether out of my mind. Barbara was just Barbara. I should never have tried to fuck with her using magic, and if the worst that came of it was accidentally turning her on in class, I’d gotten off easy. All I had to do now was keep my head down and ignore the platinum princess for three more months.

Easier said than done, of course.

Over the next few weeks, things started to get… weird. Okay, that’s not the best word, considering I’d already performed real-life “Voodoo” on my supposed nemesis and had my magic act on its own.

Barbara started bringing snacks to class. It was noisy, and I couldn’t help glancing over at her little entourage several times during the lecture. She seemed to always have a chip in her mouth or a cookie in her manicured fingers. Snacking during lectures wasn’t unusual—plenty of kids did it. It went against school policy, but most of the professors turned a blind eye for the sake of getting through their lessons without having to play nanny to alleged adults.

Chem Lab was a different matter. Twice in the first month, Barbara was verbally reprimanded by our lab supervisor. The third time he said, “Miss Calhoun. If I see food on your lab bench one more time, I’m sending you to the Dean’s Office.”

Barbara mumbled an apology as she shoved the remaining half of a candy bar into her mouth in one bite, stuffing the wrapper into her bag. I heard Britnee whisper, “What’s your deal?”

“I don’t know!” Barbara shot back in a less-quiet whisper. “I’ve just been hungry all the time lately. I think I have some kinda hormone imbalance.”

“Well, go get your shit checked at the HC or something. I don’t wanna fail Lab because you’ve got the munchies.”

“Watch your tone, Britnee. I’m stressed enough right now without you dragging me.”

The lab super interrupted their whisper-fight, “Is there a problem, Miss Calhoun, Miss Bell?”

Barbara and Britnee shook their heads, and the lab period proceeded as normal, but I could feel the bad vibes all the way at my end of the lab bench.

***

Magic, as the old saying goes, works in mysterious ways. Despite my intention to ignore her and ride out the semester, I found myself watching Barbara more closely. Aside from watching her snack through Chem lectures and sneak candy during Lab, I even went so far as to change my routine so I had a better chance of being in the cafeteria when she was.

Although I only saw Barbara a few times a day at most, I could tell she was eating way more than normal.

“That’s –um– a lot of food, Barbara…”

“–homf– Fuh’ you, bish. –ulp– I’m hungry!”

To be fair, I have no idea what her diet was like before, but I don’t think too many working models eat two full plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes for lunch, then top it off with a bowl of soft-serve.

The effects were far from instantaneous, but I started to notice small changes about a month after my little incident with vodka and clay. Barbara had always had an expensive and ever-changing wardrobe, but now I never saw her wear the same thing twice. Her tight jeans and shorts were gradually replaced with loose skirts, like she was trying to hide something below her tiny waist. She wore cardigans and hoodies even as the weather got warmer. Again, like she was hiding something.

I wondered if Barbara actually was gaining weight. If her thighs were getting chunky or her tummy was getting round, it would certainly explain her recent wardrobe choices. But I knew I couldn’t be so lucky. Barbara was put on this plane to make my life hell, and my own stupidity had made the situation worse. While I spied on her, I had my suspicions, but once a week, when I saw her close-up in Chem Lab, they were confirmed. Barbara was growing to match that damn doll hidden in my underwear drawer, and her baggier clothes couldn’t hide it.

If you’ve ever seen one of those houses with a giant tarp over a sports car in the driveway, you’ll know what I mean. Nobody drives by those places and says, “Gee, I wonder what’s under that tarp?” We all know. That’s what Barbara’s gleaming white zip-up hoodie with sequined letters spelling “Pink” across the chest was like. She had the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, showing off her willowy arms, and it hung low enough to completely hide her ass. It was loose enough around her shoulders and hips that even I could tell it was a huge size, at least XL, not one of those extra-long ones made for tall, skinny girls. The letters were warped over a set of cannons, at least E-cup. It looked like Barbara was smuggling a pair of cantaloupes in her bra. Though if the wad of chocolate bar wrappers she stuffed into her designer backpack just before the lab supervisor stepped out of his office were anything to go by, she’d spent the past month indulging in far less healthy snacks.

I hadn’t committed malefaction; I’d done something worse. All those empty calories were filling Barbara’s bra, and it was my fault.

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V

Have I mentioned the Law of Unintended Consequences yet? Well, you can probably figure it out from the name. If not, just google it. I’m pretty sure there’s a Ted Talk or something. Anyway, it applies to magic even more than it applies to the social sciences, as evidenced by my story so far. Aside from the obvious ethical implications, it’s one of the biggest reasons malefaction is forbidden.

I had become a poster child for unintended consequences. When I accidentally turned Barbara’s simulacrum into some kind of anime porn star, I expected—and feared—the consequences that followed. I didn’t expect one of those consequences to be a drastic change in her personality.

Don’t get me wrong; Barbara was still herself. She was still the same competent student, the same magnetic extrovert that drew aspiring “plastics” to her. But rather than her ridiculous new assets making her even more of an insufferable snob, she actually softened… somehow.

Barbara’s body was transforming into even more of a male-gaze fantasy, but she seemed unhappy about it. I’ve described her baggy wardrobe at length, but she also stopped wearing high heels—walking around campus in flats or sneakers. Rather than strutting into class with her nose in the air, looking down on us mere mortals, she stared at the floor. She shuffled her feet and hunched her shoulders like that weird girl in high school. Yes, that weird girl was me; shut up.

During the second month of Barbara’s “curse”—maybe I should call it my curse—I started to come to an unpleasant realization. Barbara wasn’t a bitch. Looking back, the signs were all there. But humbled as she was, I finally started to notice them. After a class, I watched Barbara show her notes to one of her friends, explaining some tricky parts of the lecture. In Chem Lab, she stopped my partner Bettye from adding way too much sodium chloride to a solution. One time, at dinner, I overheard Barbara giving relationship advice to a crying friend while wolfing down three plates of spaghetti.

“Britnee’s right, Dakota. No relationship is perfect, and they all take work.”

“I know, I know.”

“You have to –ulp– put in the effort if you expect him to.”

“But—“

“But! –munch– At some point, if he’s not willing to work at it too, –urp– you have to ask yourself if you want to stay in a one-sided relationship.”

I sat in the cafeteria, pushing pasta around my plate with a fork, tuning out the rest of their conversation. I couldn’t believe it. Well, I could believe it; I just didn’t want to. Was it possible I’d misjudged her this whole time? Under the professionally styled strawberry-blonde hair, was there a functioning brain? Did that face, covered in very expensive skin treatments and sponsored cosmetics, belong to someone who actually cared about her friends? Behind the high-end disposable wardrobe, the magazine covers, and the millions of subscribers and followers, could there really be… a good person?

The thought turned my stomach. I’d eaten maybe a third of my dinner, but if I took another bite, I knew it would all come back up. I twirled spaghetti onto my fork, then let it slide off. I should have just gone back to my room. The chattering voices around me were nothing more than animal noises. Then I had a feeling—like someone was watching me.

“Hey, isn’t that girl from our lab? Um… Dahlia?” Britnee asked.

Barbara corrected her, “Danielle.”

They were talking softly, but not softly enough. I looked up in time to see Barbara breaking off from her trio to step up to my table.

“Hey, Danielle!” She smiled. “I don’t usually see you in here.”

I’d been spying on her before I fell into my little reverie, so I knew Barbara’s tits had gotten even bigger. I thought they were up to around a G-cup, but up close, I revised my estimate. She was at least an H, and looking up past them to meet her eyes, they looked enormous. She was a good person, if a little oblivious, and I’d cursed her to a life of lower back pain. I probably torpedoed her modeling career, too. My self-reproach must have shown on my face because Barbara gave me a look with as much kindness as she’d shown her friend earlier.

“Hey,” she said, “You doing okay? Stressed about that test on Thursday? We have a study group Mondays and Wednesdays; you’re welcome to join us…”

My guts did another somersault. I was either going to puke or burst into tears at any moment. I tried to keep my face calm and found myself floating in the Void, which made me feel sick all over again. I held on to that anchor, though, and smiled back up at Barbara.

“I’m alright. Just personal stuff, you know?”

Barbara looked thoughtful for a moment. She was probably trying to decide whether we knew each other well enough to pry further.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll get through it. Hang in there, okay?”

Through her glossy lips and perfect white teeth, I knew her smile was genuine. “Thanks, Barbara,” I mumbled.

Barbara rejoined her friends, and I took my unfinished dinner to the tray return. I went home and blasted Iron Maiden in my headphones so I wouldn’t have to hear my inner monologue berating me.

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VI

Over the next few weeks, I decided to fix my “issues” with Barbara through exposure therapy. I talked to her during Lab; I sat a row behind her group in lectures; I even joined her damn study group!

“And this column is the Noble Gasses,” Barbara explained. “They pretty much never bond with any other elements in a natural environment.”

“They should call them Incel Gasses,” I said.

Barbara burst out laughing, and Carla and Britnee both grinned. I saw Barbara’s head-sized melons wobbling with her mirth before looking away. I thought it was a pretty lame joke, but the three of them acted like it was the funniest shit they’d ever heard.

“You’re hilarious, Danielle,” Barbara said, wiping her eyes, “I’m really glad you joined our group.”

Had I joined Barbara’s group? Surely not. People like her didn’t form groups with people like me. She was a cheerleader, and I was a goth. We were like those elements on the far edge of the Periodic Table.

That’s when it hit me. All this time, I’d been holding onto those stupid cliques and stereotypes from high school. Was I really one of those people? Was I one of those adults who lives their whole life like it’s still fucking high school‽

I pushed the thought out of my head. I had exams to study for, and anyway, I couldn’t get lost in another mental spiral sitting at a table full of girls.

***

During lab hour, we switched up the seating so that Bettye and Britnee were on the outside, with Barbara and I in the middle. I found out she’s a much more “tactile” person than I am. Seated beside me, Barbara would touch my arm to ask a question or put her hand on my back when she leaned over to show me something in her notes. I bristled at first, but after what I’d done to her, I probably would have let Barbara beat the shit out of me. Goddess knows I more than deserved it.

Still, I found it a little distracting. I noticed her doing it with the other girls too, so I don’t think there was anything to it. But every time Barbara got into my personal space, I started to notice little things. Her hands were delicate but dextrous, handling chemicals and lab equipment with measured precision. She smelled really nice, clean like a good soap, with hints of something floral but never cloying. Seen up close, her face wasn’t plastic or fake. Her blue eyes had flecks of green, her cheeks brightened when she got excited, and her smiles filled her whole face, so I knew they were genuine.

Not that I was attracted to Barbara. I said before I wasn’t into her, and I still wasn’t. But I was starting to see how she drew so many girls to her. I’d assumed it was her looks, but it was so much more than that. When I was with Barbara, I felt seen, valued, like I was the only person in the world who mattered to her.

Okay, I’m not making this point very well. Obviously, I wasn’t into Barbara. Like I said, she’s a cheerleader, and I…

Fuck! I’m doing that high school shit again!

Let me try this again. Even if I was starting to “like” Barbara—Which I wasn’t!—it wouldn’t matter. She was straight… wasn’t she? Even if she wasn’t, girls like her don’t go for girls like me. High school class system bullshit aside, she was a fucking model! Never mind my magic fucking up her body. And, really, the more I thought about it, the less bad I felt about that. Don’t get me wrong, it was a super shitty thing for me to do, even if it was kinda by accident. But really, I was sure Barbara would be fine. Her tits would stop growing eventually, and she’d switch to a different kind of modeling. Sure, she probably wouldn’t show up on any billboards, but she’d make a killing in men’s magazines and… and… whatever companies make really big bras and bikinis!

Anyway, I’ve gotten off track. What was I saying? Oh yeah, I was not into Barbara. Because… she… couldn’t possibly be… into… me?

Well, fuck.