This next wish would certainly be out there. He’d have to be very careful with the wording, to make sure the stone wouldn’t misinterpret it in some horrible way.
“I wish that one minute from now, all my mother’s clothes will gain basic sentience and mobility, though they will exist with only a singular purpose: to have me, as long as I have the body of an adult woman, conform to my own idea of a ‘milf.’ The clothes will mainly do this by forcing myself into wearing them—though I will only be made to wear outfits that I perceive as attractive—and henceforth influence my movements in whatever ways they deem necessary. I will not be able to fully resist the strength of the clothes, nor will I be able to remove them by my own volition. Removal will only occur when the clothes decide I am a) to change outfits, b) permitted to use the bathroom or clean myself, c) performing sexual actions.”
He inhaled sharply, trying to orient himself after vocalizing what felt like a full blown contract. A contract which, if he wished correctly, left Jon unabashedly excited and terrified at the same time; in less than a minute his own mother’s clothes would be after him like birds of prey.
Time to start part 2 of the fantasy.
To anyone watching, this was undoubtedly an odd sight. It was a lovely woman, mature yet untethered to the degradation of age. She was a fine wine, elegant yet delicate, regal yet brimming with curvaceous personality. But she was dressed like a teenage boy, frantically jumping around, closing blinds and locking her door like the apocalypse was coming.
Truly an odd site indeed.
Jon sat down on the floor, appreciating the cushiony feeling of his new buttocks. But he didn’t dare survey his body further. He was too distracted, too fearful of what was to come. How long has it been since he’d made the wish? How long until his mom’s clothes made it to his room and forced their way in?
Oh, wait, right. He reached for the stone.
“I wish that my mom’s clothes will adjust to fit my body perfectly.”
Just for good measure, he didn’t want to suffocate or anything.
One second.
Two seconds.
...Nothing was happening. Why was nothing happening? He didn’t wrongly word the wish, did he?
Three seconds.
Four seconds.
Silence. Save for the jarring sound of his own heart beat, wildly pumping with pre-emptive adrenaline.
Five seconds.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Jon let out a high-pitched shriek. Knocking. Something was outside his room knocking at his door, like some sort of door-to-door salesman!
“Who is it?” Jon jokingly asked in his new sing-song voice, curious to see how the clothes would respond.
A pause. Then even more knocking.
“I’m not coming out,” the boy-turned-woman continued, slowly falling into the narrative he’d designed for himself. “No matter what you think, I’m a GUY. You can’t make me play this weird game!”
His door handle started shacking wildly, as if whatever stood outside was losing its patience. Jon adamantly sat still, holding the stone as a safety precaution in case anything became too intense.
Another pause. Then... Nothing.
Were the clothes going to break down the door? Or were they trying to bait Jon out like some diseased animal? He watched on silently, waiting for something to happen... Then gasped. A crack. Right there, between the door and the floor, just a sliver of space marginally tall enough to let an insect pass through.
Except, it wasn’t an insect passing through. It was a pair of jeans—deep blue in color and very obviously built for someone with distinct proportions—sliding along the floor with snake-light fluidity. It twisted upwards, reaching for the knob.
Oh no.
The door swung open. Underwear and tops and pants and dresses and shoes. All floating there like ghastly spirits, all eager to be the first thing worn by Jon‘s striking new body.
He gulped. They pounced.
