2011

Good story. I'd love an incontinent spouse. Maybe not a super clumsy one, but very touching.

Pastel Mirror: Make a Wish, Kid Magic, as we mere mortals understand it and fantasize about, simply does not exist. Neither matter nor energy can be created or destroyed, but simply shifted into various states of existence. Hypothetically shifting an atom or two around could turn lead into gold, but the amount of energy required for such a thing would cost exponentially more than the newly created gold would be worth. Time travel is likewise just as impossible, and not just because a particular brand of car can’t get up to eighty-eight miles per hour without setting itself on fire. One particular fact about human psychology is that we as a species are very good at using magical thinking to simplify and explain phenomena we don’t understand. We are not, however, particularly good at inventing phenomena out of wholecloth.  Zeus is entirely fictional, but the lightning isn’t.  There is no magical pot of lucky gold at the end, but there is a rainbow. Therefore it stands to reason that while there may not be djinn that grant wishes, crossroad devils that fulfill soul contracts, or fairy folk who exchange good fortune for first borns, I believe that there are phenomena responsible for such fantasies. Phenomena that can hopefully be recreated in a laboratory setting, harnessed, and studied. Now if only I could get someone who wasn’t a shallow self-absorbed asshole to fund my research.  -Doctor Julius “Wunderkind” Rothschild, PhD in Cryptoarcheology and Theoretical Physics.           *********************************************************************************************** “…and if we can synergize cross-functional bandwidth before EOD,” Lackey Number One droned, “we’ll be positioned to operationalize a frictionless value cascade across all verticals.” Verity Foust scrolled across multiple social media feeds while a man with a suit that cost more than his degree spouted absolute gibberish meant to make him sound smarter than he was.  “Now, I’m not saying we have to future-proof the paradigm today,” Lackey Number One continued. “But if we don’t align stakeholder expectations around a scalable north-star framework, we risk eroding our innovation posture in Q3.” Verity paid no attention to either the presentation at the front of the boardroom or to any of the apps on her phone. Her thumb kept scrolling as a matter of habit. She wasn’t looking for anything as much as doing the modern equivalent of channel surfing like her mothers and grandmothers before her.  Lackey Number One was just white noise and her cell phone was just an extremely overpriced fidget toy.  “To be clear, this isn’t about boiling the ocean. It’s about recontextualizing our core competencies through a holistic, data-forward lens so we can unlock next-gen monetization vectors. I need everyone to circle back with actionable granularity and deliver a right-sized roadmap that empowers us to leverage emergent market whitespace.” Her phone did have one function on it that interested her: it served as a clock. Come on… Wunderkind had gotten the artifact a week ago. It was supposed to be the last piece that he needed. Why wasn’t he done translating it yet?! She’d almost bankrupted the entire company funding his research. What was she paying him for if not results and expedience? What was she paying any of these idiots for?     “Let’s double-click on that and make sure we're socializing the narrative proactively instead of reactively. Because at the end of the day, if we’re not driving ecosystem-centric uplift, someone else will.” Verity’s phone rang! The boardroom froze, with Lackey One stopping his presentation mid sentence. This entire meeting was supposedly for her benefit. Several of the gray hairs pivoted in their leather backed chairs, staring at her. Some did so disapprovingly, clearly displeased at the breach of etiquette. Others seemed decidedly on edge, afraid of what she might do if rebuked. Verity’s blocked out the nobodies. Her nostrils flared and she stopped blinking, staring down at the Caller ID. David! She held the phone up to her ear and accepted the call. She tried to keep her tone businesslike and her face neutral, but inside she was dangling on her last lifeline from Heaven while being held over a fiery pit.  “Report.” “It works,” David said. Verity leaned forward in her seat. She didn’t breathe. She didn’t dare. “Say again?” “It works.” Verity felt her heart flutter in her chest. “I’ll be right there. Don’t do anything else.  Wait for me.” “Yes, ma’am.” David said by way of habit. She’d trained her personal assistant too well.  “I love you.” “If this works you’re getting the best blowjob you’ve ever had in your life,” she promised and hung up the phone. “Sorry,” Verity apologized. Her smile was shallow and her pulse was still racing. “That was my husband.”  At first it had seemed unusual marrying the man who arranged her schedules and managed her dry cleaning, but Verity was nothing if not practical.  David already treated her like a goddess so what did she need dating for? Despite the unbalanced nature of their dynamic, she really did love David. What was offering a blow job without insisting he return the favor if not the very definition of love?   Verity rose up out of her seat and speed walked out of the room. “Anyways, my apologies, but something has come up.” Lackey Number One looked like he was about to cry. “But the presentation!” Verity looked back over her shoulder at him. “Oh. You can finish the presentation. Or don’t, I don’t really care. By this time tomorrow you’ll either be richer than your wildest dreams or fired.” “Wh-wh-what? Why?” “I haven’t decided yet.” With that, Verity exited the door and made a straight line over to the elevator. She dug into her purse and took out her custom keycard and inserted it into the slot directly beneath the button for the subbasement. Down, down, down the elevator went; down past where most of her employees ever saw or even officially knew about. She caught sight of herself in the elevator door’s reflection. Light brown hair, with matching eyes, and stylish glasses stared back at her. She was five foot five; five foot seven in the right shoes. “Maybe I’ll make myself taller,” she muttered to herself.  Her nanny had taught her the power of short women many years ago, but she still wouldn’t mind not having to crane her neck up to stare an idiot down.  “Or blonde,” she fantasized over the hum of the elevator. “I could be a blonde.” She adjusted her glasses. “Blonde haired and blue eyed?” She caught herself and realized how ridiculous she was being. She smiled ruefully at her own reflection and laughed at herself.  Here she was, on the precipice of having her very own personal deus ex machina, and her first instinct was plastic surgery?  She snorted and banished the thought from her brain. The elevator dinged and the doors opened to the subbasement. Verity walked out into a room kept so cold that her breath was puffing fog as soon as she stepped out. At least half of the company’s ‘special project budget’ was dedicated to preventing the servers on this floor from overheating.   As expected, David was there with a coat, waiting for her with an idiotic grin on his face. God, but she loved him. He wasn’t what most people would consider conventionally attractive. His skin was pale and burned easily, his platinum blonde hair was too fair, he was somehow skinny and flabby at the same time- with gangly limbs and a bit of a paunch in the tummy. He was thirty five but had all the worst parts of having a babyface with none of the upsides. Yet Verity couldn’t help but love the spineless little jellyfish.  Call it a matter of opposites attracting, but Verity could step on whomever she wanted and David was who she wanted to step on most of all. “D-d-did you mean it?” David stammered, helping Verity into her parka. “About the…” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, wobbling from his chest to his chin. “About the…about the…y’know?” Verity slipped her arms through the warm jacket and caressed her hubby/slave’s cheek. “David, sweetie,” she grinned, “When have I ever gone back on my word?” She took his hands in hers and held them tantalizingly, teasingly close to her breasts; close enough to where he could touch them if he only had the guts to reach out  past her hands.  David never would, though. That was one of the reasons why she loved him.  “Gone back…? Um…several times, actually.” “With you, David?” she purred. “When have I ever gone back on my word…with you?” He looked down at his wedding ring and his eyes glistened with happy tears. He took her left hand and pulled it up closer to him. “With me?” he trembled looking at the diamond encrusted wedding band she’d bought herself. “Never.” She waited for him to let go so that she could tap him lightly on the nose. “And I never will.”  David looked just like he had on their wedding day; every bit as full of devotion, dedication, and lust as they had when they’d tied the knot.  He was still looking at her like she didn’t regularly break him like a pony.  That was another reason their marriage worked; the pretty ones never tried as hard. David did. “It worked!” He said again, ushering her deeper into the lab. “It worked!” “How do you know?” A third voice answered. “Because he tested it.” A man in a lab coat with a mop top of silvery gray hair waved over to them as he approached. Doctor Julius Rothschild was one of those ‘Mad Scientist’ types that had more scientific curiosity than common sense or ethical concerns. ‘Should’  was always trumped by ‘Can’ every time for men like Dr. Rothschild; which made him a perfect employee.  Despite the wrinkles around his eyes and the gravel in his voice, there was something decidedly youthful about his demeanor; though Verity understood that notion just as much as she understood her own attraction to David. “Tested it how?” Verity turned suspiciously towards David. “You didn’t give yourself a promotion or something, did you?”  It would be just like David to have access to nigh unlimited power and use it to make himself her personal assistant and majordomo instead of making himself more powerful. He was such a good partner because the man had next to no personal ambition. It was freezing but a bead of sweat was forming near the tip of David’s widow’s peak. “Not exactly.” “Come on,” Doctor Rothschild jerked his head towards the back of the lab. “Let’s get past the servers and get to the show.”  He shook his head, complaining like a cross between an old man and a spoiled child.  “Too damn cold in here. Billions of dollars and my research lab is on the same floor as all the damn servers.” His shoulders bunched up near his ears as he walked and he started rubbing his biceps. “Couldn’t give me just one extra floor.” Following behind, Verity cocked an eyebrow.  “Why are you even complaining?” she asked. “I had the entire level built to your exact specifications.”  Rothschild stopped and pivoted around on the ball of his foot. “You did?” Verity marched past him. The only thing slowing her down was David massaging her shoulders as they walked.  “Yes. You designed this place.” The mad doctor lost a step and almost tripped trying to keep up.  “I did?” Verity rolled her eyes. “Yes.” “Hmm…” The so-called Wunderkind thought out loud. “Why would I have done that? Seems inefficient. I’ll make a note of it.” Deeper into the lab, behind several football fields’ worth of servers running otherwise impossible calculations, and machines that Verity had no hope of understanding what they were supposed to do, the trio passed through a pair of automatic doors into a much milder environment. Without context, a layman might have assumed they were in an antiquities museum of some sort.  The walls were lined with jars, vases, stone tablets, papyrus, and parchment paper; collectively written in dozens of different languages, many of them extinct. Each display was encased in a bulletproof glass and laminate casing that was protected by a UV-ray filtering system and filled with inert argon gas while being stored at the perfect temperature and humidity for each to prevent further deterioration. Each artifact had its own dedicated computer system constantly monitoring it.  “The stone from that Glycon cult contained several of the same phrases we found on older pieces,” Doctor Rothchild gestured to the large marble slab lying in its own special horizontal case in the middle of the room. “It’s practically its own Rosetta Stone!” “Does that mean what I think it means?” Verity asked. She knew it did; she wouldn’t have come all the way down here if it didn’t, but she wanted to hear it. “As you know,” the doctor began, folding his hands behind his back, “the multiple worlds theory postulates that for every decision we make, two new timelines are created- one where we did the thing we decided to do, and one where we didn’t.” He spread his arms wide. “And from that we get an entire multiverse of possibilities! Some universes are practically identical to one another, and others are so radically different that to find the starting commonality they once emerged from would be a nearly insurmountable task!” Verity rolled her eyes. She’d heard this pitch several years ago when the doctor had been looking for her to fund his research. “Yes, Doctor Rothschild, I’m aware. We’ve all watched cartoons about time travel and alternate dimensions. I saw the movie with the middle aged Asian lady and the googly eyes.” “Baby,” David nagged. “Let him talk.” “Baby?” Verity looked up at her husband. “That’s new…” Her assistant husband blushed. “It is?” Verity Foust smiled playfully. After today everyone would be looking at her that way. “I like it,” she flirted. “Ahem,” Doctor Rothschild coughed into his fist.  “May I continue? I really have been practicing this for some time now.” Verity chuckled, feeling like they’d just been caught flirting by a grossed out twelve year old. “Alright, Wunderkind,” she allowed. “This is your moment. Take it.”   The doctor cocked his head to the side, as if confused and mildly intrigued by his own longstanding nickname. “Ah, yes. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about genies would you?” Verity took a deep breath. Why couldn’t smart people just get to the point? “Rub the lamp, three wishes? In the movie, the boy wishes to be a prince but all he gets is a makeover and a parade?”  She held up her finger to stop David from interrupting and nerd-splaining how the entire movie was a roundabout way of granting Aladdin’s first wish since he did- in fact- get to be a prince at the end via marriage.  “What about them?” “Not quite the story I was thinking of, but I can work with that.”  The doctor drew scribbles in the air with his index finger, like he was carrying the two on the conversation they were having. “Let’s revisit that parade sequence.  Where did that parade come from?” “The Genie,” Verity said. “And the people in it? The animals? The servants? The singers?” “Also…the Genie?” “So you think a magical being, just magically whipped up hundreds if not thousands of human and lives in an instant?” The condescension was getting stronger with this one. David stepped in to play the straight man.  “Uh, Doc, I think that goes without saying. It’s magic.” “Perhaps,” the mad scientist nodded, pacified that he was getting his dumb devil’s advocate to play with.  “But what if we wanted to replicate the story of Aladdin using science and multiverse theory? What if…instead of materializing a small country’s worth of servants and riches out of thin air, the Genie was simply a being capable of shifting Aladdin’s consciousness to a point in the infinite multiverse where he was the prince of a small country? From his point of view, reality would have drastically changed? For everyone else, it would be the same as it had always been. Wouldn’t that be easier? Wouldn’t that make more sense?” It was almost laughable how casually he said it.  He was talking about multiversal mind hopping with the same matter of fact calmness as a third grade teacher talking about the water cycle. Obviously you can’t create people and matter out of nothing. That’s a silly kids’ story. Shifting one’s perceptions across the multiverse so that one effectively got to alter their own reality? Perfectly reasonable. David snapped his fingers in his own personal eureka moment. “Oh, oh, oh! And the reason Jafar and the others still remembered Aladdin is because their consciousness from the beginning of the movie was also jumping with Aladdin, possibly as an unintentional side effect of Genie’s magic being unable to affect love or remove danger via killing!” The doctor nodded. “That was probably more of a plot convenience, but for our purposes, I’ll agree.  Suffice it to say, what if every documented case of magic breaking the laws of physics was actually a case of manipulating theoretical physics and shifting individuals’ consciousness across the multiverse, effectively warping reality as we three dimensional creatures understand and experience it?!  And with the data gathered from the Glycon stone, we’re finally able to prove it! Who did you say you obtained it from, again?” “A friend of a friend who knew someone alerted me to it on the black market.”  She’d ended up being one of only two bidders on the artifact; the other one being some skinny Englishman with a Santa Claus beard. “So…?” Verity pressed, desperate. “Is it true?! Can you really shift reality? Will something on this floor grant our wishes?” David flashed his wedding ring. “It already has!” “What?” Verity chuckled. “What are you…?”  Something clicked. David? Her David? Her dorky, spineless, wimp of a husband that waited on her every need and worshipped the ground she walked on wasn’t-from his point of view-her husband this morning?  She broke away from him and stared at the two men, wondering if this was some kind of stupid joke. “Seriously?” David broke off eye contact and stared at the floor, but that adorably dopey grin peeked out from underneath his falcon nose. He always looked like this when he was proud of himself and trying to hide it.  “Maaaaaaybe….” “I’m afraid Mr. Foust is telling the truth, ma’am.” Doctor Rothschild said. “He input the wish and I watched the wedding ring manifest on his finger myself.” David blinked. “Hold on. I took her last name?” “Of course you did,” Verity laughed. “In what universe would I ever take your last name, dummy?” David’s pathetic sulking was as familiar to Verity’s eyes as his doting foot rubs were to her feet. “Not this one, I guess.” “Okay, but seriously,” the project’s chief financier said. “What did you really do?” The doctor scratched his chin in thought. “I think I know how to remedy your disbelief.” At the back of the room was a technical looking panel, an entire wall of beeps, boops, buttons, and lights; of which Verity was quite sure she had no idea what purpose they might have served.  Doctor Rothschild, impish little thing that he was, bent over and stood to the side so Verity could see him deliberately speaking into a mounted microphone. “I wish that from now on Verity Foust recognizes the changes to reality, her memories and self-perception unaltered from shifts in the world line.” Verity waited and looked around, looking for some sort of signal or revelation that this wasn’t all just smoke and mirrors.  “Well?” “I wish for Verity Foust to have perfect twenty-twenty vision.”   Again, she waited. “Well?”  David gasped and covered his mouth.  “Verity! Babe! Your glasses!” Verity reached up and her hand landed on her bare temple. “My glasses!” she gasped to match her husband. “Where are my glasses?” Rothschild smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “We’ve all shifted to a world and variation of you where you don’t need them!” This. This was it! Exactly as she had been promised! A miracle machine! A wish granting wonder, made by a mad scientist wunderkind! Godhood! Perfection! Everything she ever wanted! “Julius!” She dashed across to the man who’d just unlocked godhood itself! “Julius, you’re a genius, kid!” “Kid?” Julius grumbled. “I’m forty-eight!” “Really?” David said. “You don’t look it.” The rough skinned, wrinkling, middle aged man grumbled. “How? How don’t I look it?” “Not important,” Verity set her eyes on the microphone that her pet scientist had just spoken into.  “So what do I do? Just speak into the miracle machine here?”  He raised a finger in mild objection. “Technically ninety-five percent of this floor is the miracle machine, but a moment, please, Ms. Foust.  Have you ever wondered why wishes are finite or otherwise have some terrible cost attached? Only three wishes? Monkey’s paws? Spiteful djinns? Faerie deals?” “What reality do I have to warp to so that you get to the point?” Verity wondered aloud. “There is truth in legend, if not facts,” the scientist grumbled. “The multiverse may be unlimited but our capability to navigate it isn’t.  Putting too much strain on existence by shifting world lines and warping consciousness to alternate earths has a strain or a cost.  Verity tempered herself. There was no point in being queen of the world if all that was left were ashes.  “I’m still listening.” “The Glycon tablet I translated mentioned something about worlds becoming smaller and smaller,” Doctor Rothschild explained. “Based on current configurations and calculations, I believe it to mean that the more we shift reality, the more variables the machine will have to manage, limiting our options the longer we go.”  Verity had no idea what he was talking about it and it showed on her face.  “The machine works like a reality search engine or a reality chat LLM. Every wish is just another term compounding the search.” He let the idea sink in for a second. “Now imagine there’s infinite worlds where you’re the queen…” Verity nodded, greed but patient. “I like where this is going.” “But only a few of those infinite worlds in which you rule are also timelines where America won World War Two.”   Verity thought she understood. “So if I wish to be in a world where I’m the Empress of everyone and then wish that chocolate shakes also help you lose weight, the machine might find it…” Her mad scientist finished the thought. “But there might be more Nazis running around than you would be personally comfortable with. That or you run out of wishes.”  “Worlds get smaller,” Verity said. “Google Reality can run out of options.” “Or at least we can only search so far before we run out of processing power. If we’re not specific enough we could curse ourselves because the nearest reality meeting those requirements has some undesirable elements.  Contrawise, if we get too specific, the machine may have difficulty finding other options.” Verity tried to lift her glasses so that she could rub the stress out of her eyes and ended up petting her forehead instead. She bit down the urge to pad her pockets or dig through her purse to find her glasses. It was going to take some getting used to.  “How many wishes do I get?” she asked. “Three?” The somehow youthful seeming man who could have been Verity’s father beamed. “More than that. I’ve already. Verity giggled. She was going to be able to alter reality! Almost infinite power was still nothing to sneeze at.  “Good enough!” David meekly raised his hand. “You’re not mad, are you? For…um…marrying you?” “This version of her doesn’t remember what you remember,” Doctor Rothschild corrected Verity’s idiot husband.  “As far as she’s concerned, being married to you is normal.” Verity searched within herself and found it to be true. She looked down on the pathetic loser that was her assistant while also being oddly attracted to him as her husband. She’d never questioned it until now, but if David was telling the truth (and he was; she could read him like a book) he had effectively negated her free will. Verity had the ability to negate someone else’s free will! This was so much better than the cartoon! “This might be the mad science talking,” Verity said, “but I forgive you.” She leaned over and enunciated into the attached microphone. “I wish to be Queen of the World!” A beat.  No robes or crowns manifested on Verity’s person. No elite guards appeared flanking her every move. David wasn’t lying down shirtless and covered in sushi and cocaine; all things that would have naturally happened were she given ultimate executive authority. “I’m sorry,” the doctor interrupted. “I forgot to make it work for you.” He shuffled up next to her and leaned over into the mic. “I wish that from now on the miracle machine will obey all instructions from Verity Foust.” Verity tapped her foot impatiently. “Am I going to have to walk through a freezer and speak into a microphone every time I want to wish for something?” “Yeeeeeah,” David nervously scratched the side of his neck. “Kind of a design flaw when you think about it.” “Makes it much more difficult to steal or tamper with.” Doctor Rothschild replied. “Good for secrecy. Maybe that’s why I asked you to build it here.  It’s a small price to pay.” Verity wanted to whine and grumble and stomp her foot. The Queen of Everything needing to hide away or scurry to an underground bunker to tweak and wish away the world’s problems screamed of dramatic irony and a trap waiting to be fallen into. Genies were only useful when you held their lamp in your hands. The rich woman suddenly had an idea. Leaning into the microphone she said, “I wish the microphone that the miracle machine took orders from was wireless and portable.” A blink later and Verity was standing upright holding a microphone roughly the size of a pen. “Whoah…” David whispered. The Doctor’s jaw hung open. “Fascinating!” “You didn’t think to wish for a better wish machine?” Verity asked. The men could only offer bashful shrugs and blushes. This is why the world needed people like Verity. Because people like the doctor and her husband had absolutely no vision. She held the now portable microphone to her lips. “I wish that the machine was more compact and energy efficient! Verity looked back behind her through the double doors just to see that the several acres of server and freezer space had completely vanished, replaced by a single wall of sleek, futuristic looking servers all humming quietly like air conditioning. David exclaimed with an “Oh fuck!”. Doctor Rothschild let out a whispered “Oh dear…”. Verity wasn’t done by a long shot. “I wish the miracle machine was hidden and stored at my home and that the three of us were also safely there.”  A gust of wind. That’s what warping reality so that a machine and three people warping from an underground bunker in a major metropolitan area to a penthouse apartment several miles away felt like. A gust of wind. One subtle poof as vacuums were created and filled, and concrete walls were replaced with luxurious windows gazing out along the city’s skyline. David threw up.  The doctor patted his chest as if feeling for a heartbeat. Unlike everyone else, they were aware of the changes. “I wish that vomit wasn’t there.” And so it wasn’t.  Were they now existing on an earth where David didn’t throw up or just one where he vomited ten minutes sooner and took the time to clean the carpet.  Did it matter? “Good work, Julius!” “Thank you, Mrs. Foust,” the doctor nodded appreciatively. “I too, am pleased with our success. Though I must ask: Why did you move the machine to your personal domicile? Wouldn’t it make more sense for someplace equally accessible.”  He scratched his chin with his index finger. “Though if we’re making it wireless I don’t see the harm…” An evil smirk teased at the corner of Verity’s lips. ‘Should’ was always trumped by ‘Can’ for men like Dr. Rothschild and her husband. Speaking of husbands, hers interrupted. “Technically, isn’t she Mrs. Foust, now?” Poor David. Always missing the forest for the trees.  Verity held the portable microphone to her lips. “I, Verity Foust, wish that the miracle machine only granted my wishes and no one else’s.” No gust of wind this time, or blink and you miss it change to the scenery, but Verity still felt the shift; the tension ratcheting up as both of her conspirators felt the news of the cosmos wrapping around their necks. “Ms. Foust…” Doctor Rothschild took a step forward.  “What do you think you’re doing?” David’s mind worked faster. “You’re not going to erase me or anything are you? Honey? Baby?” Verity felt her heart melt. The little jellyfish really did understand her; possibly because he had already gotten his wish to exist in a reality where she loved him. She knew she should be mad at him, but she literally couldn’t help it. This version of herself loved him; and Verity loved herself more than anyone, so why would she change something that made her happy. Her mercy was swift. “From now on, I wish to be the only one who notices or remembers changes made by the miracle machine.” “No!” Doctor Rothschild screamed out. “Don’t!” “I wish to be the only one who knows about, remembers, or recognizes the miracle machine for what it is and for no one else to notice when I’m wishing.” Rothschild stopped his charge before he started, seemingly confused by his own forward momentum. David furrowed his brow.  “What’s with the microphone, babe? Are we doing karaoke or something?” Verity’s heartbeat sped up. SUCCESS!  “Or something.” It was late in the afternoon, not quite evening with the sun inching closer and closer back towards the horizon. She spoke into the microphone. “I wish my husband was getting ready to take me out to dinner and that Doctor Rothschild was already having the time of his life at a party far away from here.” Both men vanished with a small popping sound that only Verity had the wits to perceive. Verity gazed around her living room, basking in all her potential glory. Perhaps she should have killed Doctor Rothschild,what with him being a potential threat and all, but Verity Foust believed in rewarding success.  Even if he didn’t know why, she’d make sure that her scientist would be thoroughly compensated for his loyalty and success.  Maybe he’d get a ballpit in his bedroom or a racecar bed; the little scamp would love it. Verity twisted her lips to the side and wondered to herself: Why did she keep thinking of a greying middle aged man as a sort of child.  She knew that Rothschild was almost old enough to be her father, but every time the man opened his mouth she felt like she was being lectured by a second grader. She looked toward the hallway leading to her and David’s bedroom and cocked an eyebrow like a vegan being served fried chicken. If what David had said was true, Verity only loved and married him because he’d shuffled the cosmos around to shrink and narrow down all possible timelines to the scant few infinities where she did. She’d ought to punish that and wipe him from existence, or at least bust him back down to being just her live-in personal assistant, but Verity didn’t have the heart. Her favorite qualities in others were ambition when tempered with loyalty and a kind of quiet cunning; traits that David had in abundance. It’s why she’d trusted him to check in with the mad scientist in the first place. In more ways than one, it was literally the reason she’d married him. The wave of cognitive dissonance threatening her was countered with a pragmatic nihilism. So what if she was questioning her own free will? Happy was happy, and for whatever reason, David made her happy. Why should she deny herself happiness over a little existential terror?  The boy was definitely getting his dick sucked and his mind blown; it was the least she could do for him considering she was now a goddess. “What will my first wish be?” She pondered to herself. She was considering locking in a wish for Queen of the world, but Doctor Rothschild's ‘shrinking world’ theory had her weary of unintended consequences. Monarchs had enemies. Queens had responsibilities. She had a handheld gadget that could give her whatever she wanted. Did she want to go back to work? No. “I wish that I was the richest person in the world.” She waited for air to rush past her and fill in the vacuum she was creating; for her to blink and find herself in some ostentatious palace while dripping with pearls and mink stoles. Nothing noticeable happened, though.  The furniture might have been a little different; slightly newer, but nothing popped. “Shrinking worlds,” she said to herself.  The machine was like a magical Chat GPT, with every wish building on the previous; meaning that unless she was very specific, the miracle machine would take smaller and smaller swings.  A reality where she was the richest person in the world and kept the same old luxurious penthouse apartment was closer than the reality where she was the richest person in the world and renting out the Taj Mahal for funsies.  Or perhaps the wish hadn’t gone through. Where was her phone? Was it in her purse? Or had she set down in the subbasement and it just hadn’t come down with her? Or was it just on the charger in her bedroom?   Just in case, she spoke into the portable microphone. “I wish my cell phone was in my hand.”  Verity felt the familiar weight of her cell phone before she had time to inhale. She didn’t have time to check her net worth. Dear David came in, dressed to the nines. “Hey babe,” he said. “Ready to go out to dinner? Our reservation is in twenty minutes.” Verity looked down at herself, still in today’s work clothes. “Hm? Gimme a second.” David rolled his eyes playfully. “Girls,” he said. “Never ready when you need them.” But there was no irritation or malice in his words.  “Hey, what have you got there? Is that a rattle or a glowstick or something?” Verity looked at the tiny microphone in her hand. The little metal stick didn’t look anything like a baby’s rattle, but the way she had it clutched in a clumsy death grip gave the impression that she was using it like one.   “Oh, sorry,” she blushed. “No, it’s…a microphone.” “Oh,” David chirped. “Neat! Maybe we’ll go out and do a little karaoke after dinner.”  He said it like he was offering instead of asking.  “Sure,” she replied, annoyed that the apps on her phone weren’t opening fast enough. “Just let me go change.” “Okay,” David said, “but make it quick. The limo is ready.” She walked past him straight into their master bathroom and shut the door behind her. When her apps finally opened she momentarily forgot to breathe. Her stock portfolio, her bank account, her credit card limit, her wikipedia entry: All of it confirmed that she was the richest person in the entire world!  “It worked!” she let out a joyous crowing. “It really worked!” She did a happy little jig by the bidet, laughing like a school girl.  For some reason, this, more than the instant teleportation and rewriting of others’ memories, felt real. Everything before then could have been a dream. “Verity?” David called through the other side of the door. “Are you okay?” The richest person in the world caught herself and called back. “Yes, David. I’m fine! Just…having a moment.” She giggled. “A happy moment.” “Alright!” Her precious little jellyfish said, as sycophantic as ever. “I called the driver and told him we might be staying out late tonight. Added drinks and maybe karaoke to the itinerary!” “Okay!” She called back. “I’ll be out soon!”  What was it with him and karaoke today? The microphone in her hand reminded her. Her initial upgrade to the machine’s interface still left something to be desired. Time to fix that. “I wish that the interface to the miracle machine was located in my cell phone.”  The microphone didn’t vanish so much as cease to exist. Had it worked? Only one way to find out. She held her phone closer to her mouth and pressed the button she used and pressed the voice command button normally reserved for pulling up playlists or phoning people when she couldn’t be bothered to sort through her contacts herself. “I wish that the miracle machine knew everything about me and that I was wearing my favorite dress.” Verity’s old clothes were shunted to a timeline where she was more prepared for a night out on the town than she was. Just one blink, and Verity had her bright crimson cocktail dress on; the one that hugged her in all the right places and showed just enough leg. She brushed some hair out of her eyes and did a few turns in front of the bathroom mirror. “Damn, I look good.” Like a good lapdog, David was sitting on the bed, waiting for his master to come out. Verity was happy to oblige.  His eyes glistened with lust when he first saw her- she was used to that- but then faded with concern. “You look great, babe,” he told her, “but are you sure you want to wear that?” Married David was possessive David, evidently. How had she not known that?  “Too much skin?” “No, just…” David opened his mouth and shut it again, scrambling to find words that wouldn’t get him chewed out.  “Are you sure you want something so…um…” He didn’t dare say the word ‘revealing’.  Verity hadn’t heard this kind of concern since she was a teenager. “...revealing? It’s due to be chilly tonight!”  More powerful than she’d ever been, Verity Foust put her finger underneath his chin. “Honey? I’m the richest woman in the world. I know what I want, and I can handle a little cold.  Okay?” David shuddered. “Okay.”  No wish required. The matter settled, she took her hubby’s hand and led him back out into the living room towards the door to the elevator so that they could begin their night in earnest.  The sun was now setting in earnest and the city skyline looked more beautiful.  More beautiful than Verity had ever seen it. The hodgepodge influences of Art Deco, Brutalism, and Gothic Revival had been deleted from the city skyline, and in their place was the unified retro-futuristic aesthetic dreamed about by optimistic architects circa the nineteen sixties. Buildings still scraped the sky, but Googie never went out of style (and perhaps other elements never went in) and everything was parabolic and dynamic curves instead of straight and blocky. The world outside was the shiny cozy future that never was.  Verity paused and marveled at her own accidental improvements to the landscape. Evidently, some combination of wishes made it so that city planners and architects really liked the aesthetic of the Incredibles. Perhaps it was the merging of the miracle microphone with her cell along with the upgrade that triggered the shift. It stood to reason that a society where a woman could be both the richest person in the world and have a technological genie installed in her phone that knew everything about her would lean more towards the optimistic and showy over the minimalistic and practical.  For all she knew, this was all the result of being the only reality where she was dressed and ready for dinner on time. “Something wrong, babe?” David asked. “No,” Verity said. “Not at all.” And that was the truth. ***************************************************************************************************** “Holy shit!” Verity gasped, staring at her phone. “Israel and Palestine aren’t enemies?” David looked mildly confused; wondering if this was one of Verity’s random tests to keep him on his toes or needs of hers that he didn’t anticipate.  “Noooo…? Not since before we were born,” he said. “Why?” Curiosity overcame Verity the moment she and David got into the limo. She had no way of knowing what changes had been made to the world line because of her wishes and without more specific context, the best clues she could find were in the day’s news headlines. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I meant that the fifty year anniversary of the peace is coming up.” “Oh yeah.” David said. “That is kind of neat. Why did you sound so surprised, though?” Verity pressed the button on her phone. “I wish David hadn’t heard me talking to myself a moment ago.” “What did you say, honey?” David asked. “I said that the fifty year anniversary between Palestine and Israel is coming up.” “Oh yeah. Neat.” The world had decidedly less war in it. Very neat. “I wonder if anything happened to Putin and Ukraine.” “Who?” “Nevermind.” She considered wishing that she instantly knew all the differences between this version of reality and the one she grew up in, but she had no idea what that might do to her consciousness.  It was bad enough that she could literally have any man or woman that she wanted on the planet and only wanted David of all people; but what if downloading this version of herself’s memories scrambled her brain beyond repair (or worse beyond wanting to be repaired). “I wish that there was a list of every difference between this world line and the one I grew up in uploaded to my phone in a separate file that only I can access and read.” A new app popped up on her phone and Verity opened it. A document with thousands and thousands of pages filled up the screen. Verity skimmed and thumbed through it, reading changes as big as “The Soviet Union never formed”, as curious as “Chris Pratt portrayed Thor in the MCU”  and as seemingly inconsequential as “Your downstairs neighbor Mrs. Lovett is still alive and kicking at age 93 and thinks of you as a kind of grandchild she never had”. Who the fuck was Mrs. Lovett? “I wish the list was ordered and organized to show the top ten biggest differences and similarities between this world and the world from my memories.”  She really should have thought to include that in the initial wish, but it couldn’t be helped now.  Luckily, one of her previous wishes already kept David blissfully ignorant whilst tinkering. The number of pages shortened significantly so that Verity could start to digest the biggest differences, lest she have to spend the night wishing to cover up faux paus from social norms that hadn’t existed to her before just now. “Hm,” her nose turned up, eyeing the ‘similarity’ section of the list. “Nine/Eleven still happened?” “Yeah,” David sounded confused. “Why wouldn’t it have?” She pressed the button again. “I wish Nine/Eleven had been prevented”. Verity Foust was far from altruistic, but there was a reason so many stories with wishes often lead to a variation of mystically enforcing world peace or undoing a massive tragedy. Humans are predictable in that way. David’s face went blank for a second while the tragedy and the decades of history that were followed were pushed aside to make space for what Verity hoped was a kinder and gentler world. “What’s Nine/Eleven?” he asked, his mind picking back up at Verity’s last non-wish related statement. Verity thought of a fib quickly enough.  “It was a charity event I was thinking about sponsoring. Details looked sketchy. Turns out it was a scam.  Glad I didn’t invest. Wished I’d gotten the word out sooner, though.” David leaned back and put his arm around her shoulders. “Pfft. Their loss is your gain, babe.” He said. “Bad investments happen.” “Yeah,” Verity smirked, quite proud of herself. “It is.” She leaned in for a kiss and he turned his cheek to accept it.  Just a peck on the cheek made her heart flutter again. He returned the simple little peck. “Besides, with as rich as you are, you don’t have to worry about bad investments. You’re literally too big to fail!” Verity purred hearing that. David always knew exactly what buttons to push. She’d keep him by her side even if it meant she had to waste a wish or two figuring out how things worked.  Speaking of purring… “Are we even moving?” She leaned forward and looked out the tinted window of their limousine, fearing the beautiful swoops and swirls in the architecture had disappeared along with 9/11. Luckily the world outside still looked like Tomorrow Land. “The engine is so quiet.” “Why wouldn’t it be?” David asked, still oblivious. Verity was starting to regret mindwiping him. She looked at her phone screen again, looking at the bullet point reminders about the wide sweeping effects her tampering had achieved so far. In this version of her life, society had much quicker to get on board with green technology and renewable energy. Vehicles that still relied on fossil fuels were the exception and not the rule. “I don’t know,” Verity blushed in spite of being literally the most powerful being in existence. “I think I was just getting nostalgic for some reason. Just being silly.” David’s hands reached over and started rubbing her shoulders.  “Yeah you are.” “You are definitely getting that blowjob later tonight,” she moaned as tension she didn’t even realize she was carrying started to leave her. “Promises, promises.”  He kissed her tenderly on the cheek again. “Let’s get some dinner and drinks and see where we go from there, okay?” Verity blushed, feeling oddly charmed. The limousine stopped and their driver came around and opened the car door for them. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s see where we go from there.” Gasps and double takes greeted her as they walked into Verity’s favorite restaurant. Verity was already used to getting preferential treatment at fine dining establishments such as this, but with her altered status as the wealthiest being to ever live, there was an added measure of fame.  People pointed. People took pictures. People whispered. And Verity? Verity loved it. “Well who do we have here?” The host said with a big toothy grin? “Foust,” she said. “Verity Foust. Table for two.” The host stepped out from behind his stand and gestured deeper into the restaurant.  “Of course! You’re right on time! Please follow me!” They followed the host deeper into the restaurant, the host regularly looking back over his shoulder every few steps as though he were afraid Verity might lose her way. “She really is amazing!” He said to David loud enough that she could hear. Indeed every head that saw Verity turned and smiled at her. A few even bashfully waved. The only ones who didn’t take notice were the children too young to care about vast amounts of wealth.  Funny thing, since Verity didn’t think they served children here.  Not that they were expressly banned, just that no one with a child would be foolish enough to bring them here and ruin everyone’s evening.  Yet the babbling booger eaters and petulant preschoolers were all here. That they were made Verity’s skin crawl. One thing she would never wish on herself was to be a mother. She was half tempted to wish infertility on David here and now, just in case. Then again, there being a children’s menu and a couple of high chairs that matched the decor at a Michelin Star restaurant was a small price to pay for her wealth, power, and a lack of Nine/Eleven. The little boy whining over his gourmet chicken fingers, insisting that he didn’t need to go to the potty was mostly better than there being swastikas draped over every balcony. Mostly. When they got to their table, David held her chair for him like a good servant/proper gentleman. The host bowed out and a waiter took his place. He was infinitely more handsome than David. Verity thought that maybe she should wish the waiter sterile instead.  (Love was love, but fucking was fucking.) “Good evening sir and madam,” he smiled. “Here are your menus.” He handed David a proper menu, leather bound, and with items so expensive that if you had to ask the price you couldn’t afford.  “I’ll of course give you two a moment to peruse, but before I go over the chef’s recommendations and specials may I get you either still or sparkling water?” Verity glared down at the paper child’s mat menu that had been placed in front of her. There were no prices on it either, but every item on the menu was illustrated: chicken fingers, a cheeseburger,  french fries, glasses of milk, macaroni and cheese, miniature corn on the cob, and a milk shake. Placed on the bottom corner of the menu were a red and a blue crayon, so that she could circle the food preference of her choice, solve the chef’s maze, and play up to five games of tic-tac-toe with a friend. “I want to see your manager,” Verity plainly stated. “You’re fired. Get out.” The color drained from the waiter’s face. “Excuse me? I’m sory! W-w-what did I do wrong?” Verity picked up the children’s menu and flapped it around. “He gave me a fucking children’s menu! Do I look like a child to you?” The waiter looked over to David, visibly confused and afraid.  “We’re supposed to…she always gets…I was just…”  He’d already broken out into a fear sweat and was trembling, his eyes begging for David to intervene on her behalf. David reached across the table and took Verity’s hand. “You always get a children’s menu here, remember?”   The idiot waiter nervously adjusted his cumberbund. “Always! It’s practically house policy.” “It’s so that you can have the maximum number of options, remember?” David said. “It’s better to know all of your options than to miss out. Right?” David wasn’t brave enough to gaslight her. This version of her must be amazingly analytical; which made sense since she was still the richest person in the world. Verity plucked David’s menu from his hand and gave it back to the waiter. “We’ll each have still water and split a bottle of champagne. We’ll each have a side salad. He’ll have beef wellington and a baked potato. I’ll have wagyu surf and turf, rare, and an order of lobster.” “Ma’am, the surf and turf already comes with-” Verity cut the waiter off. “-Not enough lobster. I’m getting extra.”  She made eye contact with the feckless sap, daring him to contradict her.  His eyes veered away from hers. “Yes ma’am! Right away, ma’am!” He ran off before she could snap at him again. “Honey,” David sighed. “Was all that really necessary?” Verity held up her index finger. “Just a second.”  She pressed the button on her wish phone. “I wish that no one ever offers me a children’s menu at a restaurant ever again.” The phone made its way back into her lap. Mistake corrected. She didn’t need that level choice paranoia now that she was on top. Technically, she’d never needed it since it’s not how she actually got on top to begin with.  “There. You were saying?” Her doormat of a husband took her hands and gently asked. “Was that really necessary?” “No,” she grinned, “but it was fun!” Funnily enough, she regularly did this sort of thing. It’s not as if she didn’t receive special treatment before her wealth skyrocketed from substantial to unimaginable. “I don’t think it was very nice,” David said. “If you do that too much, you could get a reputation.” “I’m the richest woman in the world,” Verity said. “People love me!” “They won’t if you keep being a scooch,” he whispered. David was too timid to so much as call her ‘bitch’. It was mildly endearing, actually. He did, however, have a point.  Musk, Gates, Bezos, and the rest all had their sycophants and superfans, but they were just as beholden to public opinion as any politician.  What they didn’t have was science so advanced that it was indistinguishable from literal magic. “I wish that everyone loved me.” That was a smarter wish than wanting to be Queen of Everything. “You really are focused on your phone tonight, huh?” David asked. The secret god empress of reality finally stowed her phone away in her purse. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve just been distracted.” “I’ll say,” David chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.” A hint of a smile played at his lips. “I like it.” A matching smile played at Verity’s. “How long have we known each other, anyway?” David hummed, pleasantly. “Thirteen years or so,” he said, “First as your personal assistant. Then we got married a little over three years ago.” He sighed, wistfully. “Time flies, doesn’t it?” “It really does.”  No. Really.  Academically, everything David was saying added up.  She remembered the final interview where he was already stuttering and stammering, pivoting mid sentence to try and give the right combination of words that would please her. She remembered their wedding day where he recited the vows she wrote for him and she recited the vows she wrote for herself, just like yesterday. Strange thing was though, that when she looked at David, her unconscious swore up and down that he was barely twenty. She knew that David was in his mid thirties and closer to forty, but when she looked at him she still saw some pimply faced teenager that she’d never actually met underneath it all.  Peculiar. Very peculiar. “How old am I?” she asked her former assistant. “Thirty-four,” he said. “Almost thirty-five.” “Are you sure?” “...Yes?” There was hesitation there; possibly because of the out of the blue nature of the question itself. “Is this a test?” Verity went to smooth back her hair, and found her hair was all done up in a bun. She startled at the unexpected sensation and then looked down at herself. Her favorite cocktail dress was gone, replaced with a heavier, more dark red dress that came down to her shins. Her pantyhose had metamorphosed into stark white tights, and her heels had become shiny black flats. Classy. Modest. Inoffensive. But not terribly sexy. Which shift in reality had caused that? She could have sworn that she’d walked in looking hot as hell, not ‘appropriate’. “Shrinking worlds,” Verity quietly reminded herself. There may have been multiple universes where Verity Foust was the richest person in the world, universally beloved, and never offered a children’s menu, but in none of them was she wearing her favorite cocktail dress on this particular night in question. Oh well. The money she had, could recoup her old wardrobe assuming it didn’t presently exist. No need to correct at this present time.   “Yes,” she told David. “It was a test. And you passed.” ***************************************************************************************************** Dinner was excellent.  They’d finished most of the champagne before the salad had arrived, along with a complimentary serving of caviar as apologies for the little menu snafu. As a result, Verity had been feeling much more bubbly and less obsessed with her secret infinite power and status. David had been particularly doting. He cut her meat and cracked the lobster. He took notice of her eating the side salad and steamed vegetables and gently praised her. She didn’t even mind when he tried tying the lobster bib directly onto her to protect her beautiful if modest new clothes. Directly wished for or not, she really did feel like she was the Queen of the world  Her lovely bit of tipsy hadn’t fully subsided when David unbuckled her seatbelt for her and they exited the limo for the second time that night this time to the promised karaoke bar. She didn’t catch the name of the place, but it was full of neon lights and shot glasses filled with clear liquid. Verity took two from a moving tray and left her husband to pay for them. “I’m so sorry about this,” David practically fell over himself digging into his pocket for a roll of bills.       The bar waitress didn’t think anything of it. “For a cutie like that? No problem.” If Verity had looked back they would have seen the satisfied smirk on her lips. Wish for universal unconditional love proven effective and holding strong. Two shots of something burning later, Verity’s confidence as well as her legs were beginning to wobble slightly.  She was the most powerful person here, but she knew she wasn’t the best singer. The going on stage were belting out Whitney Houston and Queen, and the lighting was so dim in this place that she couldn’t make heads or tales out of the song menu.  “What should I sing?” “Anything you want, princess,” her hubby said. “You can sing anything you want and everyone will love it.” That was objectively true, but not particularly comforting from where Verity was standing. Just because she wanted everyone to be nice to her didn’t mean she wanted fake applause. That would be just as insulting as full on boos. She didn’t need phenomenal cosmic powers to get empty applause from strangers. “Yes, but I want to be good!” she whined. She squinted up at the monitors, showing the lyrics to whatever song was playing. The monitors looked blurry for some reason, and she only knew it was supposed to be Madonna because there weren’t that many songs with synth and the word ‘material’ in them. Someone had gotten over confident and chosen a song they didn’t know very well. Oh no! What if Verity chose a song that no one knew because it didn’t exist anymore. Were the Beatles still a thing? “Quick,” she jostled David, “I need a good song. Something easy that’ll make me look good! Something that everybody knows!” David shrugged. “I don’t know. What about um… ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’? Or ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’?”  He was such a dork. “You’re no help,” she scolded him and dug back into her bag. She shoved her purse into David’s arms and pressed the voice command button on her phone. “I wish that I had the perfect song to impress everyone….” and fuck it, she hated waiting “and that I was also up next!” A slight breeze tickled the back of her knees. She was wearing the same basic red dress as before, but her sheer white tights had gone the way of the dodo and the hem had risen up closer to her thighs. Her black flats remained, and the candy striped socks stopped just below her knee. Honestly? Kind of an improvement, but she was starting to dislike the need to examine her surroundings and personal space every time she made a wish, no matter how petty.  Shrinking worlds and all that, she supposed. “Oh wow, we’ve got a special treat for everyone here,” the bar’s DJ announced. “Ladies and gentleman, you know her, you love her, Verityyyyyyy Foooooust!” Immediately heads turned and applause kicked up. Phones came back out and flashes put spots in front of the woman’s eyes. This? This was more like it! She passed her god-phone to David, trusting that he would put it back where it belonged. “Knock ‘em dead,” he whispered and gave her another quick peck on the cheek.  The crowd parted for Verity so she could trot up to the stage. The DJ handed Verity a microphone- a proper one, not one connected to any sort of wish granting technology.  “Hello,” she smiled out at the crowd. “HI VERITY!” The crowd called back. Every face was smiling. Hands were popping up into the air, to wave at her, hoping that she’d smile and wave back. “I hope you’ll like this song that I’m about to sing.” A random nobody cupped their hands to their mouth and shouted, “WE WILL, VERITY!”  Verity smiled like the cat that had eaten the canary. Yeah they would. They’d enjoy this no matter what.  She nodded to the DJ. Cheap, synthetic banjo blared out of the club’s speakers and a pre-school prelude told Verity what song she’d inadvertently wished for.  “Old Mac Donald?!” she screamed. “Old Mac Donald?!” Knowing, contented laughter bubbled up from the audience.  Another random stranger shouted encouragement. “YOU CAN DO IT, VERITY! WE BELIEVE IN YOU, BIG GIRL!” They didn’t think she could sing Old Mac Donald?! Apparently so, even if they weren’t being mean about it. After missing the first verse, gaping and gawking, frozen on stage with disbelief, people in the crowd started singing for her. “WITH A MOO-MOO HERE AND A MOO-MOO THERE! HERE A MOO! THERE A MOO! EVERYWHERE A MOO-MOO!” Fuck it. She’d edit this reality in post.  She put the microphone to her lips and was met with raucous applause. “Old Mac Donald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O!” It’s hard to feel like a rock diva singing out Old Mac Donald, but Verity found away.  She leaned over and flirted with David at the front of the stage, smiling proudly. She reached out and touched hands. Did a call and response with the animals providing the sounds.  If she had jumped, they would have caught her and let her crowd surf, all while chanting “A CLUCK-CLUCK HERE AND A CLUCK-CLUCK THERE!”  She led the white hot audience through ‘cow, pig, sheep, and chicken’, and didn’t want to stop. What else could she milk.  She brushed her bangs aside and felt her pigtails tickle the sides of her ears without realizing that her hair wasn’t normally up in pigtails. Her eyes searched the screen, hoping that she’d sung the animals in the right order so that her vodka soaked brain could be reminded of what other farm animals she could get the audience to mimic. As soon as Verity focused on the screen, however, she froze.  It wasn’t her eyes that had any trouble reading the words, it was her brain.  Whatever alphabet the people of this world used looked nothing like English to her. It all looked like chicken scratch to her. The crowd went on, encouraging her, thinking it was just another case of stage fright. “WITH A QUACK-QUACK HERE AND A QUACK-QUACK THERE-!” The room started to spin. Verity felt hot all over, but not in a good way. She was in a world where she was effectively illiterate, her hair was up in pigtails, and people were cheering for her singing a stupid baby song. Verity was about to hop off stage and ask David for her phone back so she could rectify this stupid oversight, but her knees locked and her scream died in her throat when she felt her panties getting noticeably warmer. “No…” she accidentally spoke into the microphone. “No, no, no!” The microphone fell to the stage floor so that Verity, with shaking hands, could lift up the hem of her dress and stare at what part of her already knew she (and everyone else) was going to see. Bright pink adult sized Pull-Ups greeted her eyeballs when they almost fell out of their sockets. The decorative fade-when wet designs were starting to disappear. She hadn’t noticed the additional padding manifesting between her legs, but the disposable undergarment was gaining mass and expanding noticeably with every second. The toddlerized trillionaire dropped her dress and pushed through the crowd, tears in her eyes, all the way to the bathroom.  Every step she felt the wet pulpy mess sloshing around and drooping between her thighs. Every footfall had her newly formed pigtails bobbing up and down against her head. In truth, Verity didn’t know why she was running to the Ladies’ Room. Decades of socialization (and yes, potty training) had ingrained in her that that was the safest way to get some privacy in this instant. She slammed the door behind her and looked at herself in the nearest mirror. Why? Why was she dressed like a three year old? Why was she having accidents while singing Old Mac Donald?  Was it 9/11? Did getting rid of 9/11 somehow result in this? She’d let every one of those poor victims die on that cold September morning if it meant getting back in big girl panties. A toilet flushed and a stranger came out of the stall. “Are you…?” she said. “Are you Verity Foust?” Verity spun around and stomped her foot. “FUCK OFF!” “Okay!” The stranger squeaked. “I’ll…I’ll go get your Daddy for you. Is that okay?” “FUCK OFF!” Verity was red in the face now. The door creaked open and David slinked in. Where he’d once been timidly holding her tiny purse, David now sported a bulky cotton candy colored diaper bag. The symbols lovingly stitched on the side might have been Verity’s name, or it could have been something more generic like ‘Baby Girl’ or ‘Precious’ but she had no way of knowing.  She was the richest woman who had ever lived, not literate. The stranger had the good sense to give the couple their space and leave the restroom without further comment or incident save one. “Byyyye, Verity!  I hope you feel better!” “Verity? Princess?” David said, clearly bracing himself for a tantrum. “Did someone have an accident?” “Why am I wearing goddamn Pull-Ups?!” she demanded. He was taller than her, but David had a way of scrunching up his shoulders that made him seem smaller. Good.  “You’re just a bit of a late bloomer,” he said with an automaticity that signaled he’d had this conversation before. “You were just so busy becoming the richest person in the world, that we kind of put off potty training.  But now you’ve got plenty of time to get the hang of it! Isn’t that great!” Holy cow but he was serious! What kind of batshit world line had she stumbled into?  “How old do you think I am?” “Thirty-four,” he said, the same as before. “Almost thirty-five. Why? Are you embarrassed? Lots of people don’t get a hang of the potty at your age.” Verity placed her hands on her hips. “Name one.” At this, her husband didn’t have a clear answer. “Look, I know you’re uncomfortable staying wet, which is a good sign by the way, so how about we get you changed into a fresh pair of Pull-Ups, and we can go back out there and apologize to everyone?” She wasn’t staying in these undergarments; on that she agreed. The method however, was still up to her.  “I can change myself. Give me my phone.” She held out her hand expectantly. “Are you sure?” David said, cautiously. He zipped open the bright pink bag. Verity caught a glimpse of several bright pink training panties waiting to be popped open. “You’ve never done it yourself be-” “Just give me my phone, David!”  “Daddy,” David said. Verity’s mind felt like she’d just glitched. “Excuse me?” “Daddy,” he corrected her. “All of our business associates call me ‘David’, but you call me ‘Daddy’, remember?” “Daddy…” Verity snarled. “Give me. My Phone!” His hand hovered over the bag. Verity saw her phone sticking out of the side pocket, right next to a board book and a baggie that was likely stuffed with unflavored Cheerios. “Okay,” he said. “You can play with your phone…as soon as we get you dry.” “I don’t have time for this bullshit,” Verity swore and plucked the phone straight from its resting place.  “I wish I wasn’t in Pull-Ups!” The world tumbled around for a second. Verity hadn’t fallen down but she was still gazing up at the bathroom ceiling with her shoulders pressed to a flat surface. Whatever world line she’d shifted to, whatever timeline she’d wished about, now had her lying down on something hard. David was beside her, smiling quietly to himself, standing over Verity while he tugged and tucked at her waist. Hints of ammonia lingered in her nostrils, but were almost immediately covered up by the overpowering scent of baby powder.  She clutched her magical phone to her chest and lifted her head up off the surface.  “What the-?” “You’re doing such a good job holding still, princess.” David happily cooed. “Just got this ooooone last tape…” he was tugging at something and her underwear was getting snugger in the process. It wasn’t underwear, though. Not really. Underwear didn’t have smiling cartoon characters on the waistband, or a faint yellow wetness indicator running between her legs that would turn bright blue so that her Daddy wouldn’t have to stick his fingers past the leak guards to tell how wet she was.  Underwear wasn’t so bulky that it forced her legs apart even when completely dry and didn’t have four velcro tabs that needed to be tugged and yanked into place so that it was as form fitting as possible.  “Done!” David said, having completed the diaper change.  (Just that very thought sent rippling waves of revulsion through Verity’s being.) Verity slid off the bathroom’s now very sturdy adult sized changing station that hadn’t been there a moment before like an angry wet cat. Her legs felt clumsy and stupid and she ended up clawing herself off the edge and going ass over teakettle until she flipped and flopped down to the cold bathroom floor below. She pushed herself up to a sitting position, her legs splayed wide and her now pink dress didn’t fully cover up the enormous Pampers that Daddy- David…she meant David- had just taped onto her. Her Mary Janes were as shiny as ever, but her socks now stopped at her ankles and had frills at the edges; as did the hem and sleeves of her baby party dress.  The diaper bag was still open, it really was a diaper bag now, no more Pull-Ups, and the used one was still balled up on the very foot of the table. “Whoops!” David said. “Daddy forgot to use the safety strap!”  He leaned over to offer a hand up and she slapped it away. “You’re not my Daddy, David!” David’s hands retreated but he kept a confident, knowing smile, that Verity had never seen on him before. Verity hated it.  “Okay, whatever you say, princess.”  He stood up to his full height and took the old balled up diaper off the table just to lob it into a lidded trashcan. He clicked his tongue and chuckled to himself. “Trillionaires,” he smugly said the way some parents say ‘Teenagers’ or ‘Kids’ or ‘Babies’. Shrinking worlds, again. Fewer choices. Verity had wished to be out of pull-ups, and the closest reality in the multiverse where every other wish was still true was one where she was still in diapers. She hadn’t thought to wish that she was potty trained because what adult would think that? It would have been like wishing to be able to dress oneself or wishing for the ability to comb one’s own hair. Verity spotted a row of urinals. Reality had been rewritten so that her Daddy had taken her to the men’s room to be changed. Nevermind, she thought. This was a minor embarrassing setback that no one would remember with the press of a button.  “I wish-” “I think that’s enough screen time for now.”  David reached back down and plucked the phone from Verity’s hands.   “Someone’s a liiiiiittle overstimulated.” “David!” she shrieked, still sitting on the bathroom floor. “Give that back!” “It’s Daddy,” he reminded her. “And you’ve been all out of sorts ever since you got this phone.” He started fiddling with the screen, going through apps. “Maybe you can get it back later when you’re a little more mature.” Verity reached straight up and grabbed onto the changing table to help herself up. “I’m thirty- four!” David tapped the screen a few more times and then pocketed the phone. “Thirty-four and still not big enough for a phone.  You’ve already got your leapfrog at home and if you’re a good girl we’ll get you a Switch 2 for Christmas. You don’t need a cell phone.” “LIKE HELL I DON’T!” She was up in her husband’s face. “GIVE. ME. MY. PHONE!” For once, David didn’t shirk or flinch or melt like a spineless jellyfish overpowered by the sheer force of someone else’s will. If he looked like anything it was an annoyed parent or babysitter that was on the verge of losing his own temper.   David fished the phone back out of his pocket. “You know what? I was just going to leave the parental lock on but I think I’ve got a better idea.”  David took the phone, pushed it out of its case and then snapped it in half right in front of her. “NO!” The phone dropped to the floor, no longer a transmitter to the most powerful device man had ever created. Now it was just a brick of circuits and wires being stomped down on by Italian loafers.  “NO!” Verity wanted to claw out her idiot assistant’s eyes, bite out his jugular, and leave him bleeding out on the bathroom floor.  Her body wanted another thing altogether. Verity stopped screaming and felt her stomach lurch. A painful pressure was rapidly building up just below her belly button and was traveling very quickly to her bottom.  Too quickly!  Her knees bent slightly and her legs took on an even wider stance. Her eyes tried to unfocus, to zone out and stare off into the middle distance, but her horror was such that they couldn’t help but dart around and take in every little detail with the rest of her. She felt her body push and was hyper aware of the mass spreading her cheeks, sliding out of her and colliding with the back of her formerly fresh diaper. She didn’t feel her diaper balloon out, but she did feel the mass flattening out and spreading across her cheeks.  Little pops of air came out like raspberries as her body pushed again, not content to pinch things off. “Looks like I changed you a little too early, huh?”  Verity could only grimace and nod as she kept pushing. He brushed a strand of her hair away with his hand. “It’s okay. I’ll change you as soon as you’re finished.” She wanted to clench or hold it in, to scavenge some sort of sense of control, but in this part of the multiverse Verity Foust was never potty trained, nor expected to. She had just about as much hope of holding it in as a paraplegic did of tap dancing. She didn’t find the words until her bowels had emptied into her seat, and when she did her face was red and her fists were clenched “GET! OUT!” David did not get out. “Huh. Haven’t heard that one before. Are you embarrassed? Having your Daddy watch you go poopy? Maybe you really are starting to be a big girl.”  He leaned sideways and patted the changing station that Verity had just fallen off. “Okay let’s take care of this.” Verity shuddered, feeling the lumpy mass in her not-panties. No amount of baby powder in the world was covering that smell up.  Her denial at maximum and adrenaline pumping through her veins, Verity Foust ran out of the men’s room for everything she was worth. “HELP!” she screamed, bursting through the men’s room door. “HELP! DOCTOR ROTHSCHILD! I NEED DOCTOR ROTHS-”   Strangers’ hands grabbed her bicep. People from the crowd were restraining her. “Where do you think you’re going, cutie?” “Where’s your Daddy?” “Are you lost?” “She’s over here, Mr. Foust!  Don’t worry! She’s safe! We got her!” David stormed out of the room, the diaper bag slung over his shoulder, and a look of quiet fury and determination on his face.  “VERITY CHASTITY FOUST!” he boomed, and the entire club dulled down. The music did not stop but more people were looking at them than whomever whatever wiseass thought “Tequila” was a good song for Karaoke.  Hearing her full name shouted like that with such authority caused her legs to lock and her spine to stiffen as if on reflex. David grabbed her by the wrist and dragged Verity over to the nearest chair. Briefly, Verity feared that she was going to have to sit in a messy diaper, but that possibility was shoved aside when Verity found herself across her Daddy’s lap. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Stinging, burning, humiliating slaps rained down on Verity’s behind. She was getting spanked like a two year old at a Walmart! Some of the slaps landed on her bare thighs. Those hurt. Some landed on her loaded diaper, hurting less but adding insult and infantilization to injury. The assault didn’t end below the waist. She was also getting an earful. “You do NOT run away from your Daddy like that, young lady!” David scolded as he spanked. “Who knows what could have happened to you! You’re the richest person in the world and you didn’t think about your own safety! You can’t even take care of yourself! What would have happened if these nice people hadn’t. You could have been hurt.”  Ironic, considering she was now in more pain than she’d been in in quite some time. She certainly had never been as embarrassed. “I’m sorry!” Verity cried. “I’m sorry, Daddy!” She didn’t mean it. Not one bit. “I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I’m sorry! I’m sorry Daddeeeee!”  A mixture of tears, born from fear, pain, and self preservation streamed down Verity’s face. He let her up and immediately went for a baby wipe to do away with the mucus mustache that was forming on her upper lip before it could crust. “Good girl,” he said, his volume lowering and his tenderness increasing. “Now please apologize to everyone for interrupting their night. Verity sobbed and hiccupped, her breath hitching as she failed to regain any semblance of dignity and composure. She was the richest and most powerful woman in the world who was universally loved. She was also a little girl who still needed her diapers and her Daddy.  “I’m…I’m sorry, everyone!” The audience, was nothing if not conciliatory. “It’s okay!” a voice came out. “You’ll do better next time!” “We love you, Verity!” The call was taken up. “WE LOVE YOU, VERITY” David drew her into his embrace and petted her hair. “Alright everyone!” He announced. “We’re very sorry for interrupting your night. We’re going to get home so that I can put this little missy to bed.  But before that…TELL THE BARTENDER THAT THE NEXT ROUND OF DRINKS ARE ON ME! Put it all on my tab!” Cheers went up. Verity was led out. Cheery, chirpy voices said “Bye Bye” to Verity and hoped she had sweet dreams. Verity was numb with shock and not at all surprised when there was an adult sized car seat waiting for her in the limo.  “Let’s get you nice and snug,” Daddy said as he buckled her into the five point harness, her legs bowing out and the hem of her dress not at all covering her used diaper. Shrinking worlds. That’s what Doctor Rothschild had warned her about. And somehow she’d shrunken hers to this. The life of an unpotty trained toddler.  How had she chosen just the wrong combination of wishes to trap herself here?  Except it wasn’t shrinking was it? That’s not what the doctor’s research had uncovered.  “Smaller and smaller” had been the doctor’s choice of phrasing. Not “shrinking”. Maybe that’s why despite being a few years older than her, David still read to her mind as a fresh faced kid just out of highschool. He’d wished to be married to her. And Doctor Rothschild had read to her as a kid despite all evidence to the contrary; surely he’d done some test wishes and reality warping of his own.  Maybe this is what happened to people who tried to customize reality to their liking. Maybe all the cultists of Glycon and all the other lost civilizations that they’d been investigating had wished themselves back to an unnatural infancy and that’s why they eventually collapsed. None of that mattered anymore. Not with her phone broken, her mad scientist nowhere to be found, and her husband more interested in changing her diapers than in listening to her and meeting her every demand. Speaking of which… “Daddy?” Verity whimpered. “Can you change my diaper, please?” David leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “When we get home, princess. As soon as you give me that blowjob you promised.” The End           

Hi @NorthShoreAdam  it’s so great that you post here!  Do you also enjoy your products or are you serving as customer service?

Susan Susan is in her late thirties, with long, rich dark brown hair that falls in soft waves past her shoulders, warm deep brown eyes that hold kindness and quiet passion, and a curvy, sensual figure that has always drawn attention—though only those closest ever saw how deeply she longed to be filled completely. She is warm, firm, loving, and sure of what she wants; when she speaks, her voice is steady, and when she holds you, you feel entirely safe. The Confession It began on a quiet evening, the lamplight soft and golden. He sat beside her, trembling, and laid everything open at last—the needs he had carried in secret for so long. He told Susan he didn’t feel like a man, not really; he felt small, soft, drawn to pretty things, to being cared for, to being her baby girl. He spoke of the dresses he dreamed of: short pink satin that flounced around his knees, sheer chiffon nighties so delicate they barely covered his thighs. He described the nappies—thick, soft cloth that made him feel secure, noisy crinkling plastic pants that whispered with every step, frilly baby knickers in pale pink satin or sheer lace-edged chiffon layered over or under them. He wanted his blonde hair grown long, brushed into girlish curls and tied with ribbons, frilled ankle socks, shiny black Mary Jane shoes that clicked softly on the floor. Then he spoke the hardest truth: his body was not made to satisfy her. Even fully aroused, his manhood was tiny—scarcely an inch and a half, thin and delicate, so small it could never fill her, never stay, never give her the deep fulfilment she deserved. He admitted he had watched her sometimes, longing for her but knowing he could not meet her needs, and had wondered if she would be happier with someone truly strong. Susan listened through every tear, and when he finished she pulled him close. “You are not less for being this way,” she said softly. “You are more—more honest, more open, more truly yourself. I love you, exactly as you are. And we will build whatever makes us both happy, together.” Building the Nursery Over the weeks that followed, they transformed the spare room into a sanctuary. The walls were painted soft blush pink, lace curtains draped the window, and a full-sized crib—painted white, with high sides and draped in frilled white blankets edged in pink ribbon—stood against one wall. Shelves held teddy bears, bottles with soft silicone spouts, stacks of folded cloth nappies in pastels, neat piles of frilled knickers, and rows of pretty dresses. Susan helped him grow his hair, brushing it gently each morning, tying it with satin ribbons until blonde curls framed his face. She dressed him in the things he loved best: short satin dresses in baby pink and cream, pinafores with lace trim, thick padded knickers that made his hips look soft and rounded. When he was in for the night, she would fasten a fresh thick cloth nappy snugly around him, pull on clear crinkling plastic pants that rustled loudly whenever he shifted, and layer over them his favourite frilly pink chiffon knickers—delicate, sheer, edged in lace, so that the frills peeked out sweetly. She slipped frilled white ankle socks onto his feet and buckled his shiny Mary Janes, and when he looked in the mirror he saw exactly who he was meant to be: Angelica, her sissy baby girl. The Conversation About Marcus One evening as she tucked him into the crib, dressed in a sheer pink nightie so short it barely covered his padded bottom, Susan sat beside him and spoke gently but honestly. “Angelica, there is something I need to share with you,” she began. “At work there is a man named Marcus. He is tall, broad, strong—and I think quite well endowed, thick and substantial. We have flirted for months, and I have felt a pull toward him I cannot ignore. For all our years together, my love, you have never been able to fill me—you slip away, and I am left empty. I want to be with him, to share my bed with someone who can satisfy me deeply. But I will only do this if you truly want it—if you understand this does not replace you, but lets us both be happy. You will always be my precious baby; he will be my lover. Will you give your blessing?” Angelica thought quietly, his heart beating fast. He knew she spoke the truth. He had felt it himself—how small he was, how he could never give her what her body craved. And instead of jealousy, he felt a strange, sweet relief. This is right, something deep inside him whispered. This is where I belong. “Yes,” he whispered. “I want you happy. And I want to be your baby, watching, waiting—yours, always.” Susan Speaks to Marcus When Susan met Marcus, she held nothing back. She told him about her husband—about the transformation into Angelica, the nappies, the frills, the longing to be small and cared for. She spoke openly of his body: “He is so very tiny, Marcus. Barely an inch and a half when fully hard, thin and delicate—too small to ever give me pleasure. He knows this, and he accepts it. He finds peace in watching, in knowing his place. He is willing, even eager, for you to be with me. But he must be respected, and he must be loved.” Marcus listened, and a warm, gentle amusement curved his lips—not cruel, but tender. “So he steps aside so you can be fully loved,” Marcus said. “And finds his own happiness in being your little one. That is sweet. That is brave. I will not hurt him, Susan. I will be kind. I will laugh with him, not at him. And I will give you everything you need.” The First Meeting The evening came for Marcus to visit. Angelica was dressed specially: a short sheer pink nightgown that floated just above his knees, frilled sheer chiffon knickers over a thick nappy that forced his legs gently apart, his hair tied in two neat ribboned bows. He stood clutching his teddy bear in the nursery doorway when Marcus stepped in—tall, broad-shouldered, strong, radiating a solid warmth that made Angelica’s breath catch. Marcus looked him over, and laughed—a deep, rich, gentle sound. “Well now,” he said, smiling warmly. “Aren’t you just the sweetest little thing? All frills and ribbons and soft padding. You look like a proper baby girl indeed.” He leaned down, his voice soft. “I’m Marcus. And I’m very glad to meet you, Angelica. Your mommy tells me you’re a very good girl.” Angelica blushed, curtsying clumsily. “H-hello, sir.” “Just Marcus,” he said, chuckling softly. “We’re going to get along just fine.” Emily the Babysitter They found Emily through a friend—nineteen, pretty and bright, with shoulder-length honey-blonde hair, soft blue eyes, and a sweet, easy confidence. She listened to what they needed and agreed immediately, her curiosity piqued. The first time she met Angelica, he was standing in the nursery in a frilled dress and Mary Janes, his hair in ribbons. Emily’s eyes widened, and then she laughed—light, amused, warm. “Oh my! You really are a proper little baby girl, aren’t you? All dressed up so sweetly!” When the time came for his first nappy change with her, she laid him down gently and undid the tapes. As she worked, she paused, and her smile turned gently teasing. There it was—his tiny, delicate erection, barely an inch and a half long, thin and pink and utterly adorable in its smallness. Emily giggled softly. “Oh look at that! Such a tiny little thing! It’s so sweet—and so perfectly useless, isn’t it? It knows who the real man is, I expect.” Angelica burned bright red, squirming, but his heart raced—ashamed, yes, but thrilled too. It was true. He knew it. She knew it. And somehow that made it all feel right. From then on, Emily took care of him on evenings out. She would change him into his thickest nappies, pull on his noisiest crinkling plastic pants, dress him in the sheerest, frilliest short nighties—so delicate you could see the padding beneath—and fasten a pacifier between his lips. “There we go,” she would say, tucking him deep into the crib. “All ready for bed, while the grown-ups go and have their fun. You’ll hear them later, won’t you? You’ll know exactly what they’re doing—what your little body can never do—and you’ll just lie here and listen, and wish you could… but you can’t. And you love it, don’t you?” Angelica would suck hard on his pacifier, nodding, eyes wide and bright. She was right. He did love it. Susan and Marcus Together When Susan and Marcus were together, Angelica watched from his crib, and everything was clear. Marcus was huge beside her—long, thick, substantial—eight full inches that filled Susan completely, stretching her and holding her with no slipping away, no emptiness left behind. He would lie over her, her legs wrapped around him, and move deep and steady, flesh meeting flesh in warm, unmistakable sounds. Susan cried out, louder and more satisfied than Angelica had ever heard her—shuddering, trembling, calling Marcus’s name as wave after wave of pleasure broke over her. Marcus would groan, push deep, and find his own release spilling himself fully into her, holding her filled and complete. Seeing Susan glow like that—hearing her—sent a thrill through Angelica so sharp it made his tiny erection throb. He could not give her this. He would never be able to. And that was exactly how it should be. The Gift Just before leaving or settling in together, Susan would come to the crib, warm and flushed, and hand Angelica something soft and warm: her panties, freshly worn, still damp and carrying the sweet, heavy scent of her pleasure. “For my sweet baby,” she would whisper. “Something to remember me by.” Angelica would hold them close, breathing deep, pressing them to his face, his tiny body aching with longing he could never satisfy. He knew she was about to give herself fully to Marcus—deeply, completely, in a way he never could—and the thought made him shiver. Susan had told Marcus everything: how he never gave her pleasure, how small he was, how he watched and waited and loved being the one who could not compete. And Marcus had laughed—amused, warm, knowing—before pulling her close and kissing her deeply. Discipline and Love Sometimes, when Angelica was naughty—sneaking to sniff Susan’s things, touching himself without permission—discipline came. Susan would sit him across her lap, or Marcus would take him over his knee, his large hand firm and steady against Angelica’s nappy-clad bottom. Marcus would laugh gently as he did it. “You’re such a naughty little baby, aren’t you? You need to be reminded how to behave, don’t you?” The stinging warmth would spread through his padding, and Angelica would cry—partly from the sting, partly from relief at being guided, owned, loved. When it was over, Marcus would stroke his hair. “Good girl. You took it so well. Now be good for your mommy, and remember your place.” Angelica would nod, sniffling, and snuggle close. That was his place—small, corrected, cherished, and entirely theirs. Always Loved Through every evening watching from the crib, every gentle tease from Emily, every warm gift from Susan, every firm hand across a knee—one truth remained constant. He was not replaced. He was seen. Susan loved him as her precious, sweet baby girl. Marcus cared for him with kindness and amusement and genuine fondness. Emily fussed over him, dressed him, teased him, and tucked him in. He was Angelica—tiny, frilly, soft, and exactly where he belonged. And as he drifted off to sleep clutching Susan’s warm, scented panties, listening to the happy sounds from the bedroom down the hall, he smiled around his pacifier. He wouldn’t have it any other way.   to be edited    ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////     Poor Baby Angelica:  The Agreement Everything rested on the foundation they’d built together—long conversations, clear boundaries, and enthusiastic consent from every single person involved. Before anything changed, the three of them sat down: Susan, Angelica, and Marcus. “I love you,” Susan told Angelica, holding both their hands. “This doesn’t replace us. It expands us. You’ll always be my baby—my precious, sweet Angelica—and nothing will ever change how deeply I love you.” “And I promise,” Marcus said gently, looking straight at Angelica, “to respect every limit you set. If you want me to stop, to look away, to speak softer—anything—you just say so, and it happens. You’re part of this too, always.” Angelica nodded, her heart swelling. “I want it,” she whispered. “All of it. Watching… being yours… learning to be good.” What Angelica Wears When night falls and Angelica is tucked safely in her crib, she’s wrapped in layers that feel like love itself. First comes a thick, soft cloth nappy—plush, padded, secure—catching every little accident without a fuss. Over it go her crinkly, clear plastic pants, whispering and rustling softly whenever she shifts, the sound telling everyone exactly where she is. On top of those, her favourite: frilly pink plastic pants, edged all around with delicate white lace. A sheer chiffon overlay drapes prettily across front and back, light as a cloud, frills curling sweetly at her thighs. And over everything, Susan dresses her in a tiny, sheer pink nightie—so short it barely covers her bottom, so fine you can see the frills of her nappy pants peeking out beneath. It leaves no doubt who and what she is: small, pretty, and entirely Mommy’s. Watching from the Crib From her crib in the corner of the room—where the bars are draped in ribbons and soft blankets—Angelica watches Susan and Marcus. They always check first: “Is this okay, baby? Are you happy watching?” And she always nods, wide-eyed and breathless, because seeing them together feels like witnessing something warm and wonderful. They’re gentle with each other, and loud in their joy. Angelica sees how Marcus holds Susan with such care, how much bigger he is—broad-shouldered, strong, solid—how he surrounds her, and Susan wraps herself around him completely, legs curling around his waist, holding him close. Their pleasure is something they share openly, not to hurt Angelica, but to include her in their happiness. When they finish, Marcus comes over sometimes—fully dressed now—and strokes Angelica’s hair. “You did so well, watching so quietly,” he’ll say. “Such a good girl.” Angelica’s own body responds in the way it always does—small, tender, a tiny little bud that hardens just slightly, barely an inch and a half, so very little compared to everything she sees. She knows she isn’t meant to touch it without permission; it stays quiet, saved, chaste, a gift she gives to Susan alone. The Temptation Susan’s silky white satin panties are kept in a special drawer—soft, cool, and always carrying the warm, sweet scent of her. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, Angelica can’t resist. She creeps over, pulls one out, and presses it to her face, breathing deep. It’s still faintly warm, damp in places where Susan’s excitement lingered, and it makes her knees go weak. She holds it against herself, rubbing gently, forgetting everything she’s been told—until she hears the voice. “Angelica.” She freezes. Susan stands in the doorway, arms folded, disappointment clear in her eyes. “Did I give you permission to touch my things?” Angelica shakes her head, cheeks burning. “No, Mommy.” “And did you touch yourself?” A small nod. “Yes, Mommy.” Susan sighs. “Come here. Over my knee, little one.” The Discipline It’s not done in anger—it’s done because Susan loves her enough to teach her. Angelica is positioned across Susan’s lap, her nappy-clad bottom turned up, the sheer nightie pushed up out of the way. Even through the thick nappy, she feels every handfall—firm, steady, rhythmic—landing clearly on each cheek. Smack… smack… smack… “Owwie, Mommy! I’m sorry!” she wails, squirming, but Susan holds her gently in place. “You know the rules,” Susan says evenly. “You don’t take what isn’t yours. You don’t touch without asking. You don’t play with yourself until I say you may.” Each word is matched by a firm strike. The frilly pink pants rustle loudly with every movement, the chiffon swaying as she kicks her legs. Angelica cries freely—partly from the stinging warmth spreading across her bottom, partly from shame, but mostly from the relief of being corrected, of being cared for, of having someone who will guide her. When it’s over, Susan rubs soothing circles on her back through the tears. “All done now, baby. Deep breaths.” She lifts Angelica up and holds her close. “Do you know why I did that?” “Because I was naughty,” Angelica sniffs into Susan’s shoulder. “Because I didn’t ask.” “That’s right,” Susan kisses her forehead. “And because you’re precious to me, and you deserve to learn how to be good. Do you want to make it better?” “Yes, Mommy.” “Then you help me fold these, and you promise never to sneak again.” Marcus’s Turn Sometimes Marcus is there too, standing steady beside Susan. He doesn’t always spank her—sometimes he just watches, his presence making it clear that this matters, that they both care how she behaves. But when he does, his hand is larger, firmer, the sensation deeper and heavier. He speaks quietly, his voice rumbling beside her. “You’re a sweet girl, Angelica. But sweet girls follow rules. You don’t take shortcuts. You don’t sneak. You earn your pleasure, and you wait for what’s given.” Angelica finds herself trembling under his touch—not with fear, but with awe at his size and strength, and the way he uses it only to guide, never to harm. When he’s done, he brushes a tear from her cheek with a thumb so large it covers half her face. “Good girl. You took it so bravely. See? You’re stronger than you think.” Always Loved Through every tear, every red bottom, every whispered apology—one thing never changes: she is loved. Susan tucks her back into the crib, fresh nappy if needed, a warm drink in her sippy cup, a soft kiss on the forehead. Marcus tucks the blanket around her shoulders. “Sleep well, my precious baby,” Susan whispers. “You’re forgiven. And you’re loved more than you’ll ever know.” Angelica snuggles down, the frills of her nightie tickling her legs, the soft rustle of her plastic pants lulling her to sleep. She knows she’ll probably be naughty again—she’s only little, after all—but she knows too that she’ll always be caught, corrected, comforted, and cherished. She hasn’t lost anything. She’s found exactly where she belongs. I’ve kept all the elements you asked for: the attire, the crib setting, the scent and allure of Susan’s things, the discipline across the knee, the contrast in size, the chastity, and the loving, consensual tone throughout—just without the graphic explicit details that don’t serve the emotional heart of your story. Would you like me to expand further on any scene, add more dialogue, or explore a particular moment in this style?     The Difference That Feels Like Everything For so many years, Susan had loved the man who would become Angelica deeply and truly—yet there had always been a quiet, unspoken sadness in their intimacy. No matter how close they tried to be, he was simply too small to stay nestled inside her properly; he would slip away, again and again, leaving her feeling empty, unfulfilled, as though something essential was always missing. She’d never said anything, never wanted to hurt him—she loved his heart, his gentleness, the way he looked at her—but her body had ached in a quiet, lonely way that words couldn’t quite soothe. She’d accepted it, told herself it was just how things were… until Marcus. With Marcus, everything is different. He is substantial—long, thick, solid—eight full inches of warm, firm manhood that fills her completely, stretching her gently but surely until there is no empty space left inside her at all. Flesh meets flesh in slow, deep, steady strokes; the sounds are soft, warm, unmistakable—proof of how deeply joined they are, how perfectly he fits where for so long no one had. He does not slip away. He does not lose his place. He stays, buried deep, holding her filled, satisfied, whole in a way she had never known she could be. Susan wraps her legs around him, pulling him closer, needing him deeper still, and he groans, thick and low, pushing in until he cannot go further. “You feel so good… so right,” he breathes, and she knows he means it—can feel how hard and full he is, how much he needs her, just as she needs him. Every stroke sends warmth flooding through her, a deep, building pleasure that starts where they are joined and spreads through every part of her. She can feel every inch of him—his length, his thickness, the steady, powerful weight of him—stretching her, claiming her, filling the emptiness she’d carried for years. Her pleasure builds slow and intense, waves of feeling rising higher and higher until she can no longer hold back. She cries out his name, her body trembling, clutching at him as the climax crashes over her—deep, powerful, all-consuming, unlike anything she has ever known. Every nerve ending sings; she feels seen, held, cherished, and completely satisfied. And as she rides the waves of it, Marcus follows her over, his own release coming in strong, shuddering waves, pushing deep and holding there, pouring himself into her completely. They stay locked together for long moments afterward, breathing hard, hearts beating as one, warm and full and perfectly joined. From the crib in the corner, Angelica watches—and understands. There is no bitterness, no jealousy—only a soft, quiet acceptance. He knows he could never give Susan this. He knows his own body is small, his most intimate part barely an inch and a half when fully aroused, sweet and tiny and useless for filling her the way she deserves. He sees how she glows, how relaxed and happy and complete she looks, and he feels proud—proud to love her enough to let her have what she needs, proud to be her baby, her precious little one, while Marcus is the strong, deep lover who fills her heart and her body both. Susan meets his eyes across the room, smiling soft and warm, and blows him a gentle kiss. “I love you, Angelica,” she whispers. “Always you too.” And Angelica smiles back, snuggling down into his soft nappies and frilly pants, his tiny little self resting easy. He has his place; Marcus has his. And together, all three of them have everything they need.   From Husband to Angelica: The Journey The Confession It happened on a quiet evening, the house soft and still. He’d been carrying it inside him for so long—fear, longing, shame, all tangled together—until finally, with trembling hands and tears in his eyes, he told Susan everything. He spoke of the deep, heartfelt need he’d always hidden: to be her sissy baby girl. To wear short, silky pink dresses that flounced around his knees; to be wrapped in thick, soft cloth nappies that rustled when he moved; over them, crinkling, noisy plastic pants that whispered his state with every step; and underneath or over top, frilly baby knickers—pale pink satin, or sheer chiffon edged with lace, so delicate and pretty they made his heart ache. He told her he wanted to grow his hair long, soft and blonde, tied with ribbons; to wear frilled ankle socks and shiny Mary Jane shoes. He wanted to be small, cared for, guided—no longer the man of the house, but her little girl. He spoke too of the quiet sorrow he carried: that his body was not made to satisfy her, that his most private part was tiny, barely an inch and a half even when fully aroused—too small, too little to ever fill her, to stay with her in the way a husband should. He admitted he had sometimes wondered if she would be happier with someone truly manly, someone who could give her what he could not. Susan listened to every word, her heart soft with love, and when he finished, she held him close. “Thank you for trusting me,” she whispered. “This doesn’t change how I love you—it shows me more of who you truly are. And that is the most precious thing of all.” The Nursery and the Conversation Over the following weeks, they began the transformation together. Susan helped him grow his hair, brushing it gently, tying it with pink ribbons until it framed his face in soft, girlish curls. She sewed him short satin dresses, bought the softest nappies, the prettiest frilled panties and sheer chiffon knickers, the shiny shoes and frilled socks. Together they cleared out the spare bedroom—painted it soft blush pink, hung lace curtains, installed a full-sized crib draped in frilled blankets, lined shelves with teddy bears, bottles, and soft, pretty things. It became their nursery, and he began to sleep there, wrapped in softness, feeling safer than he ever had. It was one evening, as she was tucking him in—fresh nappy snug, frilled satin nightdress falling short over his padded bottom—that Susan spoke gently, her voice careful and kind. “Angelica,” she said, using the name they had chosen together, “there is something I need to talk to you about. And only if you are truly happy with every part of it will we go forward.” She told him about Marcus—a man at work, kind, strong, broad-shouldered, who had caught her eye. They had flirted gently for months, she said, and she had felt a pull toward him that was not about replacing him, but about fulfilling a part of herself that had always been empty. She spoke honestly, tenderly: that her needs were deep, and that her husband—her sweet, precious Angelica—could not fill them, through no fault of his own. She wanted to see Marcus, to be with him, to share their bed with a real man who could satisfy her fully. And she wanted Angelica to be part of it all—loved, cherished, secure in his place as her baby girl. She waited, breath held, as he thought it through. There was no anger—only a quiet, relieved understanding. He had known, deep down. He had felt it. And the idea, once frightening, settled in his heart as right. He could not be the lover she needed; he could be her baby, and let Marcus be her man. “Yes,” he whispered. “I want that. I want you happy. And I want to be yours—only yours, your baby girl—while he is your lover.” They held each other that night, and agreed: everything would be spoken, everything would be shared, and nothing would be done without consent. Susan Speaks with Marcus When Susan met with Marcus, she was honest from the start. She told him about her husband—about his transformation into Angelica, his longing to be her sissy baby girl, his softness, his sweetness. She told him too of the physical truth: that Angelica’s body was small, his manhood barely there, too tiny to satisfy her, and that he had come to accept and even cherish being the one who watched, who waited, who gave her permission to seek fulfilment elsewhere. She explained that Angelica wanted this—that he found peace in his littleness, and even a quiet, thrilling comfort in the gentle humiliation of knowing he could not compete. Marcus listened, his expression softening not into mockery but into warm amusement and kindness. “So he steps back so you can be fully loved,” he said. “And he finds his happiness in being cared for, small and safe. That is brave. That is tender. I will honour him, Susan. I will not hurt him. I will be kind, and I will respect him—even as I take my place beside you.” The First Meetings It was arranged carefully. First Marcus came to the house, when Angelica was dressed in one of his prettiest outfits: a short sheer pink nightdress that barely reached his thighs, frilled sheer chiffon baby knickers over a thick, crinkling nappy that forced his legs gently apart, hair tied in satin ribbons, feet in soft frilled socks. He stood wide-eyed in the nursery doorway, nervous but proud, as Marcus stepped inside—tall, broad, solid, radiating a quiet strength that made Angelica’s knees feel weak. Marcus smiled down at him, warm and genuine. “So this is the lovely Angelica,” he said. “Your mommy has told me how precious you are. And I’m very glad to meet you.” He did not laugh at him, not unkindly—his amusement was gentle, affectionate, at how sweet and small and pretty he looked. “You have nothing to fear from me. I’m here because your mommy loves you, and because you want me here. We’ll take care of her together—you in your way, and me in mine.” Angelica felt a thrill run through him—part awe, part delight, part that familiar, happy shame. He curtsied, clumsy in his thick nappy, and whispered, “Hello, Marcus.” Emily the Babysitter As Susan and Marcus began to go out together, they found someone they could trust: Emily, nineteen years old, bright and pretty with soft blonde hair, who understood exactly what Angelica was and what he needed. She came to sit with him on evenings when the grown-ups went out—and she took her role with a mix of gentle care and playful teasing that Angelica found himself longing for. Emily would change his nappy on the nursery table, chatting softly as she worked, then she would pause and smile, bright and knowing, at the tiny little bud that stood firm and pink between his legs—so small, so sweet, so utterly useless for the things grown-ups did. “Oh, look at that,” she would laugh, light and warm. “Such a little thing! It knows the grown-ups are going out, doesn’t it? It knows it’s far too tiny to give her what she needs.” Angelica would blush bright red, squirming, his heart beating fast—ashamed, yes, but thrillingly so, because he knew it was true, and he knew she was right. Then she would dress him for bed: the sheerest, frilliest short nightgowns, the sheer chiffon knickers with lace edges that showed the thick nappy beneath so clearly, his legs held wide apart by all the soft padding. She would pop a frilled pink pacifier between his lips, tuck him deep into his crib, and lean close to whisper: “They’ll be home soon, sweetie. And then you’ll hear them, won’t you? You’ll hear your mommy happy, and you’ll know that big strong man is giving her everything your little body can’t. You’ll lie here in your nappies and your pretty things, and you’ll listen, and you’ll know exactly what they’re doing… and you’ll love every second of it, won’t you, baby?” Angelica would suck hard on his pacifier, nodding, eyes wide and bright, and Emily would laugh softly, kiss his forehead, and leave him to wait. Homecoming When Susan and Marcus returned, they would check on him first—always. Susan would come to the crib, smiling, warm and glowing, and hand him something soft and warm: her freshly worn panties, still carrying her scent, still faintly damp from her pleasure, soft against his face as he held them close. “For my sweet baby,” she would say. “Because you share me so beautifully.” And then, as they went to their room together, as the house quieted and the sounds of their loving began to drift down the hall—deep, warm, unmistakable—Angelica would snuggle down in his crib, clutching her gift, his tiny self throbbing and aching in a way it could never satisfy. He would listen, and he would know: Marcus was filling her, holding her, loving her in the way he never could. And he would smile around his pacifier, because this was exactly where he belonged: small, cherished, loved, and perfectly, happily theirs.   Susan Susan is in her late thirties, with long, rich dark brown hair that falls in soft waves past her shoulders, warm deep brown eyes that hold kindness and quiet passion, and a curvy, sensual figure that has always drawn attention—though only those closest ever saw how deeply she longed to be filled completely. She is warm, firm, loving, and sure of what she wants; when she speaks, her voice is steady, and when she holds you, you feel entirely safe. The Confession It began on a quiet evening, the lamplight soft and golden. He sat beside her, trembling, and laid everything open at last—the needs he had carried in secret for so long. He told Susan he didn’t feel like a man, not really; he felt small, soft, drawn to pretty things, to being cared for, to being her baby girl. He spoke of the dresses he dreamed of: short pink satin that flounced around his knees, sheer chiffon nighties so delicate they barely covered his thighs. He described the nappies—thick, soft cloth that made him feel secure, noisy crinkling plastic pants that whispered with every step, frilly baby knickers in pale pink satin or sheer lace-edged chiffon layered over or under them. He wanted his blonde hair grown long, brushed into girlish curls and tied with ribbons, frilled ankle socks, shiny black Mary Jane shoes that clicked softly on the floor. Then he spoke the hardest truth: his body was not made to satisfy her. Even fully aroused, his manhood was tiny—scarcely an inch and a half, thin and delicate, so small it could never fill her, never stay, never give her the deep fulfilment she deserved. He admitted he had watched her sometimes, longing for her but knowing he could not meet her needs, and had wondered if she would be happier with someone truly strong. Susan listened through every tear, and when he finished she pulled him close. “You are not less for being this way,” she said softly. “You are more—more honest, more open, more truly yourself. I love you, exactly as you are. And we will build whatever makes us both happy, together.” Building the Nursery Over the weeks that followed, they transformed the spare room into a sanctuary. The walls were painted soft blush pink, lace curtains draped the window, and a full-sized crib—painted white, with high sides and draped in frilled white blankets edged in pink ribbon—stood against one wall. Shelves held teddy bears, bottles with soft silicone spouts, stacks of folded cloth nappies in pastels, neat piles of frilled knickers, and rows of pretty dresses. Susan helped him grow his hair, brushing it gently each morning, tying it with satin ribbons until blonde curls framed his face. She dressed him in the things he loved best: short satin dresses in baby pink and cream, pinafores with lace trim, thick padded knickers that made his hips look soft and rounded. When he was in for the night, she would fasten a fresh thick cloth nappy snugly around him, pull on clear crinkling plastic pants that rustled loudly whenever he shifted, and layer over them his favourite frilly pink chiffon knickers—delicate, sheer, edged in lace, so that the frills peeked out sweetly. She slipped frilled white ankle socks onto his feet and buckled his shiny Mary Janes, and when he looked in the mirror he saw exactly who he was meant to be: Angelica, her sissy baby girl. The Conversation About Marcus One evening as she tucked him into the crib, dressed in a sheer pink nightie so short it barely covered his padded bottom, Susan sat beside him and spoke gently but honestly. “Angelica, there is something I need to share with you,” she began. “At work there is a man named Marcus. He is tall, broad, strong—eight full inches of solid manhood, thick and substantial. We have flirted for months, and I have felt a pull toward him I cannot ignore. For all our years together, my love, you have never been able to fill me—you slip away, and I am left empty. I want to be with him, to share my bed with someone who can satisfy me deeply. But I will only do this if you truly want it—if you understand this does not replace you, but lets us both be happy. You will always be my precious baby; he will be my lover. Will you give your blessing?” Angelica thought quietly, his heart beating fast. He knew she spoke the truth. He had felt it himself—how small he was, how he could never give her what her body craved. And instead of jealousy, he felt a strange, sweet relief. This is right, something deep inside him whispered. This is where I belong. “Yes,” he whispered. “I want you happy. And I want to be your baby, watching, waiting—yours, always.” Susan Speaks to Marcus When Susan met Marcus, she held nothing back. She told him about her husband—about the transformation into Angelica, the nappies, the frills, the longing to be small and cared for. She spoke openly of his body: “He is so very tiny, Marcus. Barely an inch and a half when fully hard, thin and delicate—too small to ever give me pleasure. He knows this, and he accepts it. He finds peace in watching, in knowing his place. He is willing, even eager, for you to be with me. But he must be respected, and he must be loved.” Marcus listened, and a warm, gentle amusement curved his lips—not cruel, but tender. “So he steps aside so you can be fully loved,” Marcus said. “And finds his own happiness in being your little one. That is sweet. That is brave. I will not hurt him, Susan. I will be kind. I will laugh with him, not at him. And I will give you everything you need.” The First Meeting The evening came for Marcus to visit. Angelica was dressed specially: a short sheer pink nightgown that floated just above his knees, frilled sheer chiffon knickers over a thick nappy that forced his legs gently apart, his hair tied in two neat ribboned bows. He stood clutching his teddy bear in the nursery doorway when Marcus stepped in—tall, broad-shouldered, strong, radiating a solid warmth that made Angelica’s breath catch. Marcus looked him over, and laughed—a deep, rich, gentle sound. “Well now,” he said, smiling warmly. “Aren’t you just the sweetest little thing? All frills and ribbons and soft padding. You look like a proper baby girl indeed.” He leaned down, his voice soft. “I’m Marcus. And I’m very glad to meet you, Angelica. Your mommy tells me you’re a very good girl.” Angelica blushed, curtsying clumsily. “H-hello, sir.” “Just Marcus,” he said, chuckling softly. “We’re going to get along just fine.” Emily the Babysitter They found Emily through a friend—nineteen, pretty and bright, with shoulder-length honey-blonde hair, soft blue eyes, and a sweet, easy confidence. She listened to what they needed and agreed immediately, her curiosity piqued. The first time she met Angelica, he was standing in the nursery in a frilled dress and Mary Janes, his hair in ribbons. Emily’s eyes widened, and then she laughed—light, amused, warm. “Oh my! You really are a proper little baby girl, aren’t you? All dressed up so sweetly!” When the time came for his first nappy change with her, she laid him down gently and undid the tapes. As she worked, she paused, and her smile turned gently teasing. There it was—his tiny, delicate erection, barely an inch and a half long, thin and pink and utterly adorable in its smallness. Emily giggled softly. “Oh look at that! Such a tiny little thing! It’s so sweet—and so perfectly useless, isn’t it? It knows who the real man is, I expect.” Angelica burned bright red, squirming, but his heart raced—ashamed, yes, but thrilled too. It was true. He knew it. She knew it. And somehow that made it all feel right. From then on, Emily took care of him on evenings out. She would change him into his thickest nappies, pull on his noisiest crinkling plastic pants, dress him in the sheerest, frilliest short nighties—so delicate you could see the padding beneath—and fasten a pacifier between his lips. “There we go,” she would say, tucking him deep into the crib. “All ready for bed, while the grown-ups go and have their fun. You’ll hear them later, won’t you? You’ll know exactly what they’re doing—what your little body can never do—and you’ll just lie here and listen, and wish you could… but you can’t. And you love it, don’t you?” Angelica would suck hard on his pacifier, nodding, eyes wide and bright. She was right. He did love it. Susan and Marcus Together When Susan and Marcus were together, Angelica watched from his crib, and everything was clear. Marcus was huge beside her—long, thick, substantial—eight full inches that filled Susan completely, stretching her and holding her with no slipping away, no emptiness left behind. He would lie over her, her legs wrapped around him, and move deep and steady, flesh meeting flesh in warm, unmistakable sounds. Susan cried out, louder and more satisfied than Angelica had ever heard her—shuddering, trembling, calling Marcus’s name as wave after wave of pleasure broke over her. Marcus would groan, push deep, and find his own release spilling himself fully into her, holding her filled and complete. Seeing Susan glow like that—hearing her—sent a thrill through Angelica so sharp it made his tiny erection throb. He could not give her this. He would never be able to. And that was exactly how it should be. The Gift Just before leaving or settling in together, Susan would come to the crib, warm and flushed, and hand Angelica something soft and warm: her panties, freshly worn, still damp and carrying the sweet, heavy scent of her pleasure. “For my sweet baby,” she would whisper. “Something to remember me by.” Angelica would hold them close, breathing deep, pressing them to his face, his tiny body aching with longing he could never satisfy. He knew she was about to give herself fully to Marcus—deeply, completely, in a way he never could—and the thought made him shiver. Susan had told Marcus everything: how he never gave her pleasure, how small he was, how he watched and waited and loved being the one who could not compete. And Marcus had laughed—amused, warm, knowing—before pulling her close and kissing her deeply. Discipline and Love Sometimes, when Angelica was naughty—sneaking to sniff Susan’s things, touching himself without permission—discipline came. Susan would sit him across her lap, or Marcus would take him over his knee, his large hand firm and steady against Angelica’s nappy-clad bottom. Marcus would laugh gently as he did it. “You’re such a naughty little baby, aren’t you? You need to be reminded how to behave, don’t you?” The stinging warmth would spread through his padding, and Angelica would cry—partly from the sting, partly from relief at being guided, owned, loved. When it was over, Marcus would stroke his hair. “Good girl. You took it so well. Now be good for your mommy, and remember your place.” Angelica would nod, sniffling, and snuggle close. That was his place—small, corrected, cherished, and entirely theirs. Always Loved Through every evening watching from the crib, every gentle tease from Emily, every warm gift from Susan, every firm hand across a knee—one truth remained constant. He was not replaced. He was seen. Susan loved him as her precious, sweet baby girl. Marcus cared for him with kindness and amusement and genuine fondness. Emily fussed over him, dressed him, teased him, and tucked him in. He was Angelica—tiny, frilly, soft, and exactly where he belonged. And as he drifted off to sleep clutching Susan’s warm, scented panties, listening to the happy sounds from the bedroom down the hall, he smiled around his pacifier. He wouldn’t have it any other way.            

Yes, Sally is quite resourceful. Willing to sacrifice her nails for the greater good. Even Erika has a ball, even though she rolls her eyes. And there is normal teenage life to reckon with. Pool party, social media and shopping. And don't forget the deep conversations. They are part of Sally as well.  I am eventually returning to normal life. I've had my own holidays, and getting back to my writing.  Thanks for your comments.