"I wish people treated me like a princess," Jon joked, in what would be the biggest, dumbest, most egregious mistake of his life.
But before we move ahead, let’s discuss why.
The wishing stone was intelligent. Not sentient, thankfully––but it knew and understood things about its master so deep and intimate, that he might never learn them himself. When you make a wish with the wishing stone, it recognizes exactly what you want.
That’s our first problem. Jon didn’t want anything specific. So the stone was free to take the wish in any direction.
The second problem: Jon himself, and the stone’s obsession with semantics. If it was a little girl making this wish, or, like, a historian, the wishing stone would have an easy definition of “princess” to work with. Jon was… A huge fantasy nerd, who also happened to be a young man with raging hormones.
His definition of princess was a little more insane.
And the third problem: Linda Gibson, standing right there, close enough to hear the wish. Whatever happened next, she was getting dragged into it, with all her memories of the old reality.
Jon’s pocket flashed a brilliant golden light just when he realized all of this. “Oh god—I can explain.”
Linda frowned, her grip on the laundry basket tightening slightly. “What was…”
Jon’s hair cascaded out, chestnut-colored tresses tumbling to his waist.
Linda looked baffled. “Jon. What was that light?”
“Okay, so, please don’t be mad.” Jon said, as his facial features softened and lips eased to a natural pout. “I got a wishing stone from grandpa. Which I didn’t tell you about.”
“When!?” Linda asked, sharply. “Jon, that’s not something you can just hide from me!”
“I’m sorry!” Jon’s hips stretched against his jeans. “I know it’s a huge deal! But I couldn’t decide how to—”
“You wished to be a princess!”
“That was an accident!”
“That’s worse!”
Jon was most certainly a girl now—short, tomboyish, but pretty in the same earnest, dorky way he’d been handsome. Another flash of light. The walls around began to fade away into murky colors, like paint mixed with water.
Then a third flash of light, and… Oh, they were both changing now.
Jon and Linda became prettier versions of themselves. Asses firmed, chests swelled, skin smoothed. Then they became prettier, prettier versions of themselves. The features on their faces adjusted and touched up, just enough to reach that ethereal look Hollywood seemed to love. Linda’s hair cascaded out to match Jon’s, auburn darkening to a deep ebony. And their entire bodies…
“What in the world? Why am I changing too!?” Linda gasped.
Well, let’s paint a word-picture.
Imagine a juxtaposition of soft curves and tight edges. Gentle muscles packed under the nicest skin you’ve ever felt (still freckled in Jon’s case), paired with loud, bountiful breasts struggling to break through their shirts and the sort of asses that like to cause traffic jams. Thick, powerful thighs built for movement, wide pendulum hips built for swaying; there was an elegance there, engraved into their bodies like perfect statues.
“Uh,” Jon said, smartly. “If I wished to be a princess, maybe you get to be a queen?”
A pause.
“Jon. I look like a sex worker—”
And that’s when Linda’s clothes decided to explode. Her mom jeans and well-loved sweater came apart and whipped into an intricate, regal gown that did hilariously little to hide her overwhelming curves and breasts. Deep red in color, with golden trimming weaving throughout. Linda could do nothing but gasp, eyes widening at the fat cleavage forced out by her corset.
“Jon. Please tell me you can fix this.” She yelped as her entire body hopped several inches from the heeled boots appearing around her legs.
“I can fix this!” Jon squirmed in place as his own outfit undid itself. Button-up and slacks shifted to a frilled, off-shoulder dress—more casual than what his mom had on, but of a similarly expensive, layered fabric—pairing with a nice, airy shawl. The ensemble could be described as royal librarian chic, if you ignored how aggressively it hugged his curves. “But it’ll take time. The stone has… Rules.”
Jon stumbled. His own pair of ankle boot's were as tall as his mom's.
“Rules.” Linda didn’t seem to notice how her laundry basket faded from existence. Or how the foyer quadrupled in size. Or all the gold and paintings and statues lining the walls. “What are the rules?”
Jon stopped. Was… Was that a maid who dashed by?
“Jon!”
“You can’t undo wishes!” He squeaked (God. His voice was high and pretty enough to squeak now). “Or, uh, you can—as long as you don’t contradict the wording of other wishes. I checked.”
“What.”
“It’s not that bad, I swear!”
Both shuddered, and both realized they’d been accessorized. In Linda’s case, it was striking and definite. Her new crown was immaculate metalwork with too many diamonds to count. Her makeup was perfect to the faintest detail, from the flawless smokey eyeliner to the deep wine-color on her lips.
It was the kind of makeup that took a team of professionals half a day to manage.
Jon’s was simple. Dainty. A pearl tassel wrapped around his head and draping along his flawless hair. The makeup was there, and perfect, but subtle. Soft and pink tones, simply enhancing the beauty already present.
The kind of makeup that only took hours to get right.
They shared a moment to stare at each other in shock, then Linda cleared her throat. “Turn everything back. Now.”
“Yes. Right. Sorry.” Jon’s grip on the stone tightened. “I wish…”
