The golden aura wrapped tighter around Blue Boxer, humming with arcane energy that crackled against his skin like a living storm. Suspended mid-air like a prize caught in a spellbound net, he could feel the magic worming its way through him—rewriting him.
Big Daddy Pharaoh paced beneath him with exaggerated grace, every jingle of his bangles and every sashay of his silks choreographed to theatrical perfection.
“Ohh, here we go,” he announced, rubbing his hands. “Time to peel off the years like old bandages from a mummy. Let’s start with… say, thirty?”
It began at his core. Blue Boxer gasped as a burning sensation rippled through his chest—not pain, but a peculiar lightness, as if gravity itself were loosening its grip.
His sculpted pecs slowly deflated. The thick, matured mass he’d earned over decades of battle and training began to soften, then lift, as his chest narrowed and the slope of his shoulders slouched ever so slightly.
“What—what the hell is—ugh!” he grunted, watching as his arms, once thick with sinew, smoothed into leaner, wirier versions of themselves. The gloves around his hands creaked as his fingers thinned. Veins faded from view. Hair along his forearms receded with a ticklish tingle.
“Ohhh yes,” cooed Big Daddy Pharaoh. “Adieu to the Adonis! Hello to awkward adolescent! Your body’s still figuring things out now, hmm? That peach fuzz on your jaw? Let’s pluck that next.”
Blue Boxer felt it vanish. His stubble dissolved like sugar in tea, his once-square jaw softening at the corners. A mirror shimmered into being in front of him, summoned by the Pharaoh’s magic.
“No… no, no, no…” he muttered.
Reflected back was a leaner, younger face. His features had sharpened and lifted with youth—his brow uncreased, his eyes wider, lashes thicker. His domino mask looked oversized now, sagging awkwardly on his face. His hair had lightened a shade, thickening with the luster of youth.
“And look at that,” the Pharaoh giggled. “Cheekbones! Dimples! The kind of face you’d see on a prep school fencing champ. Not Grit City’s brooding bad boy.”
His shirt slipped lower on his shoulders, the once-tailored fit now too large for his teenage torso. His belt drooped. He could feel the seams of his adult costume swallowing his smaller frame like a hand-me-down Halloween costume.
“I’m not… I’m not a kid…” he whispered, voice shaking and, worse—cracking.
“Ohohoho!” Big Daddy Pharaoh twirled a finger in delight. “That’s the sound of voice cracks! We’ve hit the hormonal twilight zone!”
Blue Boxer’s knees buckled midair as his thighs slimmed, pants sagging below the waist as muscle gave way to lanky teen proportions. He felt his legs shorten, balance shift, and coordination waver. His confident fighter’s poise vanished, replaced by the clumsy sense of being too tall and too new in his own skin.
Blue Boxer floated midair like a puppet in golden strings, body already shrunken to that of a lean teenager. He panted heavily, chest rising and falling beneath his loose uniform, his muscles slackening by the second.
But now… something deeper was happening.
A chill raced down his spine—not from cold, but from a strange, electric sensation rippling outward from his core, like time itself was digging in.
“No—no no no—not more!” he gasped. His voice broke awkwardly, a tremulous teenage bark. “Y-you’ve already—just stop it!”
“Ohh, my little tough guy,” purred Big Daddy Pharaoh, circling him like a lion around a tethered goat. “That was adolescence arriving. But now? Now we watch it… retreat.”
The Pharaoh snapped his fingers with a wink. “Let’s turn back the puberty clock.”
Blue Boxer convulsed midair as his body began to change again—but now it wasn’t just shrinking. It was un-maturing. All the slow gains of youth—voice deepening, muscle tone, body hair, growth spurts—began to unwind, as if time were inhaling.
It started in his throat.
His Adam’s apple, once prominent, slid back into his neck with a strange, sliding tickle. His voice, already cracked and unsure, squeaked in protest.
“I—I sound like a—” His sentence ended in a high-pitched gasp as his vocal cords tightened. “Like a kid! Nngh!”
“Getting squeaky there, champ,” Pharaoh teased. “Soon you’ll be my obedient servant boy.”
The sensation spilled downward. His broad chest narrowed again, nipples rising slightly as his ribs compressed and his heart beat faster—like a child who’d just finished recess.
His armpits prickled—then cooled. The sparse body hair he’d earned in his youth with such pride melted away like steam. A ticklish warmth slid over his limbs as fine fuzz on his forearms and legs vanished with it, leaving his skin smooth, pale, and soft.
Blue Boxer shivered. “I—I can feel it—everything’s—reversing—” A strange tingle spread on Boxer's groin as he felt his manhood shrinking and shrinking inside his pants.
“Oh yes,” Pharaoh sighed blissfully, watching like a painter admiring his masterpiece. “Those teenage hormones are packing up and going bye-bye. Bet you're feeling lighter... less manly... maybe even a little helpless?”
The ache in Blue Boxer’s bones deepened. Growth plates that had once fused in young adulthood now popped softly in reverse. His legs shortened again. His spine crunched with a nauseating twist. He lost another two inches, then three.
His boxer briefs, which had been tight just minutes ago, began to slide down. His hips were now boyish and narrow. The elastic waistband sagged off his shrinking frame.
His stomach gurgled audibly—digestive strength gone, replaced by a smaller, weaker gut that seemed to protest the adult meal he’d eaten earlier.
His posture slumped—not in fatigue, but because his center of gravity had shifted. His shoulders pinched inward. His arms dangled more freely now, not because they were longer, but because they had less definition. The strength of youth—those knobby, awkward years—had taken hold.
“Ahhh,” mused Big Daddy Pharaoh, wagging a finger. “Welcome to ten. Just a little more off the top…”
Blue Boxer clutched at his sagging gloves, which slipped off with no resistance. “You’ve got to stop this! Please—I’m—I’m disappearing!”
“You’re not disappearing,” Pharaoh said. “You’re becoming. Just look at you. Smooth skin, no facial hair, tiny limbs. That’s not a vanishing man. That’s a perfect little servant.”
Blue Boxer’s face flushed, not from heat—but shame.
He could feel the last bits of puberty leaving. The faintest tickle down low—his manhood itself, once a source of confidence—dwindling. Not just in size, but in presence. That hormonal buzz that had always buzzed beneath the surface—anger, desire, strength—was gone, replaced by the uncertain quiet of prepubescence.
A yawning, unfamiliar emptiness settled in its place.
His cheeks bloated ever so slightly into boyish softness. His neck shortened. His chin rounded. His voice, now fully that of a 10-year-old, trembled as he whimpered:
“Please… I don’t wanna be a kid…”
Big Daddy Pharaoh cooed. “You’re already a kid. All that bluster, all that brawn—poof. Gone like sand in the wind.”
Blue Boxer’s oversized shirt now hung like a nightgown, sliding off one shoulder to reveal pale, hairless skin. His shrunken shorts dropped entirely, pooling at his ankles.
Hovering barefoot in the air, clad only in too-loose underthings, he looked like a child lost at a costume party.
“Look at you.” Pharaoh leaned in, voice buttery. “Not a man. Not even a teen. Just a scrawny little helper.”
With a final gesture, Big Daddy Pharaoh lowered the boy gently to the ground. His boots were behind him, too big to wear. His gloves and belt were strewn around him like artifacts of another life.
And in front of him, the Pharaoh held out a small servant’s tunic.
“Well, short stuff? Are you going to get dressed in your new outfit, or do I have to summon my tickle demons?”
Blue Boxer said nothing. His lip trembled. His tiny fists clenched, but not with strength—just helpless frustration. He stood barefoot and furious, small fists clenched at his sides. His baggy costume sagged around his tiny frame—shirt draping like a nightgown, underwear threatening to slip past his narrow hips.
Before him floated the servant’s tunic: soft linen, trimmed with gold thread, clearly designed for a boy no older than ten. It hovered mockingly just inches away, swaying gently in Pharaoh’s conjured breeze.
Blue Boxer glared at it like it was radioactive. “I’m not putting that on.”
Big Daddy Pharaoh arched a brow, lounging once more on his massive throne of gold and silk, head resting on one broad hand.
He sighed dramatically. “You were almost being a good boy. But now you’re doing that pouty, rebellious thing that kids do when they think they still have agency.”
“I’m not a kid!” Blue Boxer barked. His voice cracked at the word, high and squeaky. It didn’t help his case.
Pharaoh grinned wide. “Even your tantrums are precious.”
Blue Boxer took a stubborn step back, folding his arms over his chest. “You can’t make me wear that dumb outfit.”
The golden linen tunic shimmered a little brighter in the air, as if offended.
Big Daddy Pharaoh chuckled softly, then slowly, delicately, snapped his fingers.
“Very well,” he said. “I did warn you.”
And then—it hit.
A warm, invisible sensation slithered over Blue Boxer’s bare feet and ankles like curling smoke. It crept up his legs, through the baggy shorts puddled at his knees, and coiled around his waist. For a second, he stood blinking.
Then he yelped.
“YAH—what—HEY!”
The tickling began as a soft prickle behind his knees. Then under his arms. Then along his sides and ribs—places no one had touched since he was a kid. The sensation was maddening, like a thousand tiny feathers dancing along his skin, impossibly precise.
“AH-HA! STA—HA! STOP! HA-HA-HA!” Blue Boxer broke into helpless giggles, swatting at the air, hopping in place. “NOT FAIR—YOU—YOU CHEATER!”
“I prefer ‘sorcerous genius,’” Pharaoh said smugly. “But yes, yes I cheat. It's fun.”
Blue Boxer stumbled backward, arms pinwheeling as the tickling intensified. The giggles turned into full, squealing laughter, high-pitched and boyish.
“AHH-HA-HAAA! OKAY—OKAY—STOP—NOHO MORE!”
“Say you’ll wear the tunic,” Pharaoh said, crossing one leg over the other.
“NEVER! I—I'M—AAAAAHH!!”
The tickle-spell redoubled its efforts. Now Blue Boxer was squirming on the floor, legs kicking wildly as phantom fingers danced under his arms, behind his ears, along his belly, and—worst of all—right on the soles of his tiny feet.
“NOOOO!! NOT MY FEEEET!” he shrieked.
“Oh, yes. The feet,” Pharaoh purred. “Always the feet. It’s a classic.” Pharoah flicked his fingers, and the oversized clothes tugged and yanked away from the writhing, giggling boy, leaving him stark naked, twisting in tickle torment.
The servant tunic floated closer. Blue Boxer, red-faced and breathless from laughing, rolled onto his stomach and tried to crawl away—but the spell followed, tickling relentlessly.
“I—I CAN’T—I CAN’T TAKE IT—HAAA!”
Pharaoh draped an arm lazily over his knee and yawned. “Say you’ll wear it, little boy. Or shall I send you to the tickle dimension?”
“F-FINE! FINE! I’ll—HAAAH—I’LL WEAR IT!! JUST STOP!!”
The tickling vanished instantly.
Blue Boxer collapsed flat on the marble floor, panting, cheeks flushed and limbs limp. After a long, silent moment, the servant tunic gently draped itself over his back.
With trembling fingers, he sat up, wiped his eyes, and began pulling it over his head.
It fit perfectly.
Of course it did.
“There we are,” Big Daddy Pharaoh said with a satisfied clap. “So much better. Don't you feel lighter? Less weighed down by all that masculinity?”
Blue Boxer scowled, cheeks still pink, voice breathy. “You’ll never get away with this.”
Pharaoh winked. “I already have.”
Blue Boxer tugged at the hem of the tunic and gave the sorcerer a glare that was more pout than threat.
This wasn’t over.
But right now, he was just a little boy in a servant’s outfit—standing in a gilded palace with no shoes, no gloves, and no way out.