You stand up, swaying slightly. Head buzzing, feet aching, you stumble towards the exit on the far side of the fountain. You wander, losing all sense of time and direction.
Your dark hat shifts as you walk, and you reach up with a thin, pure white arm to adjust it. It feels somewhat different. Your fingers brush against fuzzy spots that you assume are white spots like those on your dress. The edge of the hat has grown wider and is ruffled to match the style of your skirt’s hem.
You continue onward, taking a left and trying to stick close to the right hedge wall in hopes of getting some shade but it’s no use. The sun seems to beat down from every angle no matter how long you walk through the maze.
This leaves you not only hot but unable to get sense of time passing. The sun couldn’t sit up in a noon position forever, could it?
After what felt like another hour of walking, your shoes are feeling agonizingly tight again. I just readjusted them, you think to yourself, your thoughts moving like molasses. You try to soldier on but after another ten minutes of walking you stop, unable to go any further due to the sensation.
You stop and bend over, reaching toward the straps of the Mary Janes. You find you can’t reach them; your arms don’t even get to your knees. The divide between the gloves and your skin has lost distinction, and the pure white color and velvety texture have begun encroaching over your shoulders and torso.
You stomp a foot in frustration a strange mixture of pleasure and pain flowing through you as your foot spasms in the tight shoe, but the stockings just creep higher on your thighs, the fabric gaining the same unnaturally soft texture that your new arms have become as it turns organic. The sensation of your new skin rubbing against your petticoats elicits a tiny moan from you.
The awkward sensations, and your own headiness, cause your knees to buckle and you awkwardly tumble to the ground. You strain your shrunken arms, a combination of merging and shrinking white fingers reaching towards the tight shoes to no avail.
You kick your legs on the ground in a bout of girlish frustration. You begin trying to use one foot to peel off the shoe on the other. Your soles throb, protesting having to move in the too tight footwear, but you feel the first Mary Jane begin to shift and after another bit of straining, it pops off.
You gasp in delight as it falls away, your foot feeling much better in the open air. You waste little time pushing off the other shoe. Finally free of their crushing prisons, you stretch your feet out, clenching and unclenching them, not even minding the heat from the sun as the tightness fades away.
You gaze down at them, trying to clench your toes. The ends of your feet move in a similar fashion, but all as one. Your toes don’t seem to be visibly distinct in what your hazy mind still assumes are stockings. While they seem to move and spread like toes in stockings, you find you can’t feel them individually anymore.
You think this is odd, and a stray bit of concern begins to worm through the haze of the mushrooms and the headiness of the day’s heat. Before you can regain awareness however, the velvety white skin from your former gloves and socks has nearly finished flowing across your torso. The ends swirl and meet each other…right at your pussy.
You bit back a moan as pure white coloration overtakes your folds and flows inward, intensely pleasurable sensations rolling through you. You reach downward, but your increasingly tiny arms have no hope of reaching down far enough to get under the hem of your dress.
They barely go to your navel now, and you watch as your now-miniscule thumbs begin to shrivel away, taking what looked like white mittens and turning them into featureless caps at the ends of your shrunken arms.
The strange fog in your mind has returned in full force, so rather than react in horror to the loss of your hands and your dwindling arms, you feel only frustration at not being able to see to your needy cunt.
You rub your velvety white legs together and buck your hips slightly, but it’s no use. The tingles remain, the need is unfulfilled, and your mind is even more addled.
Cold. Dark. Dank. Spores. The fourth word is added to your mind’s repertoire, and you dutifully acknowledge the need to get out of the maze and the harshness of that evil fireball in the sky overtakes you again.
Your vestigial arms act as the barest support as you struggle to push yourself to your feet. You get upright on your knees then get one soft foot beneath yourself and push up. Standing straight, you sway dangerously. Soft sounds and pops ensue as what remains of your arms begins to dissipate further, shrinking up towards your shoulders until little more than biceps remain.
You continue walking forwards, not even pausing at forks anymore to consider a direction. Your Mary Janes lay discarded on the path behind you.