Mrs. Rosalinde—who liked to be called “Rosie”—from across the street was at the door.
“I hate to trouble you boys,” she said kindly, her elderly voice cracking, “but could I borrow a cup of sugar?”
Mrs. Rosalinde had lived here for years. She had been widowed, and old, before the boys were born—but the old men told stories about how beautiful she had
been when she was young.
Josh and Ric exchanged a look. They were clearly thinking the same thing.
“Sure, Mrs. Rosie—but we don’t know exactly where mom keeps it,” Ric lied. “Do you mind waiting for a few minutes?”
“Not at all, if I can sit down a spell and rest these weary old bones.” They invited her in, and sat her at the kitchen table.
They left the kitchen, found the sugar without any trouble, and huddled over the book. Within a few minutes they found a spell they thought would do what they
wanted. They hurriedly cast it.
They waited a few more minutes, impatiently, to see if the spell had taken effect, then walked back into the kitchen with the sugar.
Their jaws dropped to the floor.
A stunningly beautiful young woman sat at their kitchen table. The old men had not been exaggerating—Mrs. (or was it Miss, now?) Rosie was a hot chica. She
was barely 21 years old. The spell had zapped away her clothes, too, leaving her wearing nothing but form-hugging lingerie, in the form of a bra and panties.
Ric recovered—barely—first. “H-here’s y-y-your sugar, M-m-m- … Miss Rosalinde,” he stuttered out.
“S-s-sorry to keep you waiting,” Josh added.
Miss Rosie got up and walked over to them, taking the cup of sugar out of his hand. The spell apparently affected her perceptions as it had affected Mr. Mendes
when they changed him into a 13 year-old boy; she didn’t seem to notice anything strange about her sudden youth, or her lack of clothing, or that Ric had called
her “Miss.”
She bent over so that she was face to face with them—giving them an excellent view of her cleavage. “Thank you boys very much,” she purred—her voice had
changed as well, becoming softer, more sultry. “You’re so sweet.” As she always had when she had been an old woman, she kissed each of them on the
cheek—something that had always disgusted them before, but which they now enjoyed immensely.
“Awa! Awa!” came an insistent little voice.
Ric and Josh looked at each other. They had both forgotten the infant Mr. Mendes.
“He’p me! He’p me!” he squeaked at Miss Rosie. “T’ave me!”
Miss Rosie’s beautiful face broke out into a smile. “Why, who is this little cutie?” she asked, walking over and scooping up the naked little Mr. Mendes. She
wrapped him in her arms, and snuggled him next to her ample, newly firmed bosom. “Aren’t you the most adorable little baby?” she cooed.
“I no bay-bee! I no wittle!” he protested.
“Of course not,” Miss Rosie complacently agreed. “You’re a BIG boy, aren’t you?” she teased, tickling his little naked tummy.
Mr. Mendes giggled helplessly in spite of himself.
“Your mommy doesn’t let you run around naked, does she?” she asked gently. “No, you can’t do that! Your little naked bottom needs to be covered,” she said,
carelessly patting his little baby butt. “Your cute little pee-pee needs to be in a diaper.”
Mr. Mendes was horrified—to be held by such a beautiful young woman, so near to her soft bosom—and to be stuck in a baby’s body, naked, and hear her coo
over his manhood, about how cute his little wee-wee was … It was torture.
In spite of himself, he started to cry.
“Oh, is wittle baby hungwy?” Miss Rosie asked in baby talk. “I can fix that.”
Then she pulled the bra strap off her shoulder.
Ric and Josh gave each other shocked looks.
Gently but firmly, Miss Rosie guided the head of the struggling little Mr. Mendes to her nipple. She did not seem to see anything strange about the fact that she was
lactating, or that she was trying to breast-feed a two year-old. “Come on, come on.”
Ric and Josh snuck out of the room. They found the book, and quickly cast another spell.