“I suppose we can see if anything survived the fire in my laboratory,” Lauren suggested. “I had some important things locked away in a safe.”
“There were no fire trucks,” I remembered.
“I didn’t have any fire alarms; no one knew where I was, and I wanted to keep it that way. I was a little paranoid about security; there are a lot of people who would
do terrible things to get their hands on the Fountain of Youth.”
She looked at herself, clad only in an oversized shirt, and me, similarly clad. “We’ll need more appropriate clothing if we’re going out in public.”
A few minutes later, a search had turned up:
1. A really old pair of jeans that I had worn when I was considerably younger, but had grown too big to wear now—and which, being a guy, I had never thrown out.
2. A dress shirt.
The old jeans, too tight for me to have worn at age 25, fit her perfectly—after she cut off the legs, to make them a pair of cutoff shorts, which showed off her
excellent legs. The shirt was too big for her—but she tied it off, in the fashion young, busty women have, around her bosom area. Which exposed her thin, teenaged
midriff. She had even found an old makeup compact than an ex-girlfriend had left behind, and used it to pretty herself up.
Yeah, you heard me. An ex-girlfriend left it. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
The point is, she suddenly looked quite fetching.
Of course, there was nothing that could in any way remotely fit me.
“No matter,” she told me, as she wrapped me up in a blanket to hide the fact that I was only wearing an oversized shirt. “We’ll just go out and find something.” She
plucked my wallet and keys from my pants, picked me up, and carried me out of the house, to the car.
I was more than a little peeved that she simply appropriated control of my money and my car without even asking, not to mention picking me bodily up—but I decided
to keep it to myself. I certainly needed something to wear, and it was a given that it would be easier to let Laurel do the shopping, not to mention the driving. I was of
decidedly mixed feelings about being picked up. It emphasized how helpless I now was—and yet, when Laurel held me against her, I felt … comforted. Safe, as
though she would protect me.
I shook those feelings off as best I could. This situation was disturbing enough; the last thing I needed to do was to be identifying Laurel as my surrogate mommy.
Laurel drove us to a local store, and found the children’s clothing section. There were several rather beautiful young salesgirls on hand, all of whom cooed over how
cute I was. A couple even asked to hold me, which Laurel quickly consented to, again without asking me (though I decided it was more forgivable in this context.) I
tried to simply take pleasure in being cuddled and cooed at by beautiful females.
I had what I considered to be the enormous advantage of not being an actual three year-old because A. He probably would have hated “stupid-head gurls! B. I had an
adult mind. I am ashamed to admit that I played to my advantage, and purposely said and did things I knew that they would find “absolutely precious” or “adorable!” I
said they were as pretty as my mommy. I told them that I thought they were so pretty, they had to be angels from heaven—I stole that from Star Wars Episode I. I
told the blonde that I thought the “Rumpled-man” from the story, who could spin straw into gold, must have made her hair. (I’m particularly proud of thinking that one
up.) I sang a few songs for them, at their request—I confined it to the ABC’s, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, and other children’s songs, though I knew many others. I
hugged them by the neck, since that was all that I could wrap my little arms around. I even kissed a few of them on the cheek, which they seemed to enjoy immensely.
When they held me, I got to lay my three year-old head against their breasts, which, not knowing that they were actually holding a lecherous 25 year-old male in a 3
year-old’s body, they had no problem with.
Hey, I had to find some measure of satisfaction to make up for being stuck in this rotten situation.
Laurel spun a surprisingly good story, about how she was watching her older brother’s nephew because an emergency had come up, and how because of that
emergency I had been dumped on her without even the most basic supplies—such as clothes. She told the story smoothly and glibly; none of the salesgirls seemed to
suspect for a moment it was anything but the truth. I was impressed—but none too pleased to be wearing training pants. I kept my comments to myself, though.
She took the opportunity to pick up some undergarments for herself as well—lingerie, bras and panties. Of course, she used my money for this, again without asking,
but I, seated on the lap of a very pretty young thing, snuggled up next to her bosom, decided not to make an issue of it. Surprisingly, however, once we got back into
the car, she looked at me, winked, and promised that, if we got through this and back to our rightful ages, she would not only reimburse me, but give me a cut of the
profits from the development of her youth-inducing technology.
She drove back to the burning building I had found her at, taking care not to speed, and to obey all traffic laws—seeing as how she didn’t have a driver’s license with
her, and the registration of the car was in my name, the last thing we needed was to be pulled over by the cops. A minor miracle occurred, and we made it to the
scene of her burned-out laboratory/house without incident.
She picked me up again—I felt only slight irritation; I was getting used to this (besides, this time I leaned my head against her ample bosom, and she didn’t complain at
all,)—and carried me to the burned-out remains of her house/laboratory.
The basement was, fortunately, made almost entirely of stone, so most of it seemed to have survived. There had obviously been a lot of flammable furnishings, though,
because there was smoke and ash everywhere.
The window that had been broken out was still there, and there were no shards of glass remaining in the frame, fortunately. Laurel put me down and lowered herself
into the lab. Once there, she could not initially reach me, just as last night, when I was the adult and she the child, she had been unable to reach my hand, and I was
unable to reach her. But now she was a grown-up. She was big enough to move a fairly heavy piece of metal furniture, that hadn’t burned, and stand on it, so that she
could reach through the window and pull me in.
We looked around the lab a little. Shattered test tubes and burned circuitry littered the floor and the few metal furnishings that had survived. Obviously, nothing here
had survived.
“Let’s try the next room,” Laurel suggested. She carried me over to the door, which also appeared to be made of metal, just as the front door to her house had been.
She reached under a nearby table, and pulled open a secret drawer. She pulled the key out of the drawer, and put it in the lock. It clicked.
She turned the doorknob, opened the door, and we both saw …