"You look pretty excited there," the big farmer says. "What's your name, buddy?"
"Trent Maxwood, and if you don't let me use your phone, I'll . . . I'll," Executive VP Trent Maxwood is trying so hard to stay in control, in power, but the tent in his pants, the funny feeling coursing through his blood is making him feel weak and lightheaded. A smile spreads across his face.
"Just relax." The big man places a hand on each of Trent's shoulders. "I've cast a little spell over you. It's going to make you feel very good, but very relaxed. You're going to be as horny as a teenager, and weak as a baby."
Trent collapses against the big man's chest.
"Aw," he pulls him in, runs his coarse fingers through his gelled hair. "Don't even say a word. Just let Big Poppa the Farmer hold you while you change for him." The farmer guides Trent over to a full length mirror. He feels so dizzy. Like he's walking on air. The big an stands behind him, forces him to look up.
Trent's reflection stares back, dazed and dopey looking, like he's stoned.
"Abra Cadabra! Presto Change O! Age Re-Arrange O!" The Farmer chants.
Suddenly the dizziness in Trent's head swells. He feels like's getting tickled from the inside out. "Hey!" He says. "I feel all funny!" His voice is changing. It's getting higher, scratchier. His clothes feel baggy. He sees himself growing trim, young. His face smoothing out from that of a rugged, attractive 40 year old , younger and younger. The streaks of grey are getting darker and browner. His wrinkles vanish. Soon he looks like a college boy.
The waist of his dress pants slacken, but his hard-on only stiffens further. He feels even hornier as he sees himself slip down from his 20s into his teens, and now he's getting nervous because his suit is starting to fit very poorly, like a kid wearing his dad's clothes to a high school dance. He looks about 18 years old.
Big Poppa laughes and rubs his shoulders. "What a good looking kid you've become! But we're not done yet."
Trent cries out in surprise. A tickly, electric jolt shudders through him and he drops from 18, to sixteen. His pants start to sleep more. He reaches down, brushes against his teenage cock and feels an intense rush of pleasure. His eyes are just as trained on the spectacle of himself growing younger, as they are on the hairy big man looming behind him.
"You're going to join my farm of lost little boys," the farmer promises. "I think you're going to like it here, little Trent."
Summoning very ounce of his willpower, Trent begs: "You gotta change me back, Mister! I've got an important meeting I gotta get to!" He cringest at the sound of his 15, 14, 13 year old voice, as he shrinks and shrinks with each word. He's dropping in height. Pants sagging. Sleeves swallowing up his hands. "Aw man! I don't wanna be a kid again!"
All the features of maturity and masculinity smooth away as his face grows round, skin grows baby smooth and soft. His hair lightens to dirty blond as he goes from 12 to 11 to just 10 years old again.
"There we go!" The farmer declares. "10 years old! Just a little boy to help me out with the farm chores!"
"Aw man!" Trent's voice is piping and immature. His pants flop around his ankles, but his adult sized boxer briefs are hooked on his kid-sized stiffie.
The farmer effortlessly scoops Trent up by the armpits and swings him in a circle. Laughing in a booming baritone. His shoes and socks and pants are left in a pile on the floor.
"I'm afraid there's nothing you can do about it now," Big Poppa says. "Let's get you some nice, boy-sized overalls, and you'll start your chores."