This is a terrible idea.
Josephine missed her Simon.
Her husband wasn’t gone in any stretch of the imagination. He’d be home tonight from work, eager to share a meal with his family.
It's just more of the same.
The mother shifted her weight to and fro, her head rattling with all sorts of ifs, buts, and maybes. Wishes could be misinterpreted. Twisted and contorted beyond recognition, reduced to parodies of their original purpose. She knew that! But a small part of her, stupid and idealistic as it was, couldn’t help but wonder: what if things went her way?
Life was good. Fulfilling, even. They were working hard to raise the kids, manage finances, prepare for the future—but life was falling to a gentle sluggishness, the kind you lose yourself to. Their relationship was at a lull.
Josephine was beautiful. The ring’s magic ensured as much. She knew the looks she got from strangers, the effects her body had on men (curse the impulse wishing she’d made as a teenager). But she didn’t feel beautiful, not in any way that mattered.
How long has it been since she and Simon made time for each other? Since he had that sheepish twinkle in his eye just from looking at her? Since they’d gone to bed not just for occasional lovemaking, but to mindlessly fuck like rabbits in heat, up until they were too exhausted to move?
A squeak, her body reacting to both nostalgic rush of fiery euphoria and wave upon wave of guilt-ridden doubt.
“I wish that my husband and I both had the week off from our jobs.”
She shuddered, knowing full well she was once again losing herself to the ring’s luster. But she could barely stop herself, as if compelled by some outside force to keep going.
“I also wish that, for the next week, my husband will want to absolutely spoil me. That he’ll be incredibly passionate, romantic, and driven to make our relationship as mentally and physically fulfilling as possible.”
To say Jon was in control would be a laughable formality; it was Josephine’s body through and through.
Her heart violently pounded through her chest like a wayward drum playing to the beat of her own sinful excitement. Slow and desperate breaths forced their way in and out, carrying a soft and womanly moan despite any attempt to keep quiet. He could feel her blood pulsing, the heated blush of her face, a gentle lethargy as her body reared certain functions over others.
The young man flashed back into focus and was promptly assaulted by this absolute sensory overload, his entire self burning with Josephine’s leftover fervor. For the first time since transforming, Jon was forced to genuinely experience her curvy little body, not just parade around like someone in a costume.
There was a lot to unpack.
One one hand, the husband. Josephine’s husband. Jon’s husband, who, thanks to a certain wish, was craving as much private time with his wife as possible.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Simon, was it? What the hell happened to their marriage, if Josephine had to wish him into being more romantic? Especially when she was this freaking hot?!
A pause.
This wasn't okay.
It was wrong of him on to pretend he was Simon’s wife, completely out of line for Josephine to make wish non-consensual wishes about him, and utterly reprehensible to, what, will this guy into existence? Tear him from his own life?
Come to think of it, Jon had absolutely no clue where Josephine’s husband or kids actually came from. Did they exist before now? Were they created just now, alive and sentient, only to disappear in 48 hours?
Drowning in an introspection he couldn’t even spell, Jon gasped at answers. Then, as it all went black, he found one:
Dude. I just wanted to masturbate.
Jon Gibson was, at his core, an intelligent young man. He had fantastic grades, found interest in a wide array of topics, and already had enough scholarships to scare his college advisor.
But he was also just a horny teenager living out a horny fantasy, left hot and bothered by Josephine's own horny fantasy. He wasn't interested in this existentialist nightmare of creating sentient life, brainwashing said life to fix his pseudo-personality’s insecurities, only to banish it to the ether. He wanted to touch boobs!
Oh right, the boobs.
They were heavy. Were they always this heavy? Jon would’ve noticed sooner, right? How big and obvious they were, awkwardly jutting out and bouncing around at even the slightest hint of movement?
He looked down, the first time he actually did so in this body, and realized he couldn’t see Josephine’s feet.
He couldn’t even see Josephine’s feet.
He finally realized how distracting this body was. How her silky hair casually brushed her shoulder, shifting in tandem with even the slightest movement. How her buttocks was straining under the skirt, almost too big be contained. And her legs! Josephine was short—enough that his house felt jarringly huge—but he felt more of her legs than he ever did his own. The way their thighs kept rubbing each other, how the air touched their bare skin, how they were longer.
Jon gulped. And made a beeline for his room. Nothing mattered anymore. He was gonna get the clothes off, touch himself for a while, then worry about all the existential wishing and lovestruck-husband bullshit. Easy.
…Except it wasn’t.
The stilettos stopped him right at the door, keeping his feet planted to the floor with lady-like panache. He tried willing his leg to move, slipping his foot out, something… But the wardrobe kept him in place, translating his frustrated gesticulation to playful shimmying.
“Oh, come on! Josephine was just fantasizing about sex! Why can’t I—” A surprised squeak as his body swiveled about in an elegant flourish, coquettishly taking a step in the other direction. Jon gasped, not knowing the clothes to be capable of such independent motion. But they apparently were, and he was stuck sauntering along with casual sensuality.
What the heck!? Did Josephine have no business in a her son's room, or was there some end-goal to this?
