So what? Do I wish myself a daily planner or something?
No, no, no. Jon’s milf fantasy absolutely did not include following to-do lists. He wanted spontaneity, to use the stone’s potential to screw himself over—but not if it meant being railroaded.
He gazed at the captivating stranger in the mirror, wondering what he could do in her body.
She was certainly beautiful.
Did it make sense to say the stranger had a “gentle regality?” Because she had a gentle regality. Her eyebrows and cheekbones and jaw were all sharp and elegant and perfect, contrasting the rosy fullness of her lips, the delicate tenderness in her eyes. There was a maturity there, a maternal warmth, superimposed over Jon’s gangly awkwardness like a lavish curtain.
Looks enough like me to be a close relative, but unquestionably mature and womanly and sexy.
It was Jon’s reflection. He knew this was him, the same way he knew the “sun was big” or “bacteria were small”—his mind just couldn’t process it, not in any way that felt tangible.
The word “verisimilitude” came to mind. Jon’s grandpa, not Grandpa Jack, but the one who’d worked as a semi-successful magician during his youth, was always fond of it. “Everyone knows it’s a trick,” he’d say, “me, you, the audience—we’re all in on it. But here’s the thing, Jonny, they don’t like knowing it’s a trick. So you gotta make’em believe it. Make it feel real, and not just look it.”
The fantasy didn’t feel real.
It wasn’t enough to play pretend in the curvy new body. Jon wanted a full-on narrative, to be the protagonist of his own niche-fetish story... He needed obstacles. Conflict. Something to keep him busy-but-entertained—a “to-do list” certainly wasn’t gonna cut it.
“I wish for the wishing stone to be become a wishing ring. It’ll be functionally identical, with the added caveat that the wearer can’t take it off themself.”
The stone vanished, a dainty little thing taking its place on Jon’s ring finger. He hadn’t put much thought into describing it, but it came out looking like some high-class wedding ring, the sort of thing his family could barely afford to even look at.
He gave a little tug. It didn’t so much as budge. He tried pulling harder, and it stayed firmly in place. He tried putting actual force into it, but it stayed snugly still, as if he hadn’t been trying at all.
“And now... I wish that, at random intervals, I will uncontrollably make wishes that in some way shape or enforce my experiences as the beautiful and feminine adult woman I have become. They should either be the kind of wishes my new identity would conceivably make, force me out of my comfort zone, or inconvenience any attempt to appear as, or return to being, my original self. I also wish that any time I try intentionally making a wish, it’ll be skewed to fit the previously mentioned description.”
Jon wondered if making all these contract-eque wishes would bite him in the ass later.
Nah, everything was gonna turn out fine.