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Get Tipsy! [Female Age Progression, Female and Male Age Regression]

Author’s note: Even the most open-minded reader might find this story a little offensive. I felt it only fair that I should warn you. Otherwise, please enjoy.



Monica arrived to the shoot five minutes early. You start earlier; you get done earlier. That’s what her mother had always said. Of course, that was in reference to homework, but it seemed to be a good policy in general. She smiled at the thought of her mother‘s gentle scolding. “You should finish college,” she had said to Monica when they last saw each other. But adult video was easy money, and the thought of going back to school seemed unbearable.

Monica stepped out of the hot California sun and into the dark, slightly musty coolness of the back of the studio. A man’s head poked around the corner. “Hi Monica,” the head said cheerfully. “Go ahead and go on in. I’ll join you in a second.”

Bob, the owner of the studio, always seemed busy. She’d worked with him several times before, but she couldn’t remember a time when he’d stopped to have an actual conversation with her, even about something silly like the weather or how video sales were doing. Actually, she couldn’t really remember anything about her shoots with Bob. He did hypnosis or something that made her forget. She would probably been more bothered by her lapses in memory if she didn’t always wake up feeling relaxed and wonderful. Hell, she felt great for a week after one of her shoots with Bob. That’s why she took every opportunity to make videos with him even though he paid slightly less than other producers.

She walked into the brightly-lit studio and set down her purse. Starting to take off her suit-coat, she realized Bob would probably want it on for the shoot. Or, for the beginning of the shoot at least. Perspiration dripped from her forehead, and she was starting to move out of the heat of the bright spotlights when Bob entered the studio holding out a water bottle. “Take a minute. Cool off,” he said.

“Thank you.” She took the water bottle gratefully, downing half of the ice-cold drink in one swig.

“Go ahead. Finish it,” said Bob expectantly.

“No, that’s alright.” Monica didn’t want to drink too much. The shoot was only supposed to last an hour, but a bathroom break would be inconvenient and a waste of time.

“No really. It’s okay. We can take a potty break,” Bob said as if he knew what she was thinking. He looked a little impatient so she finished off the bottle, pondering his use of the term “potty break.” Funny guy, this Bob.

“Okay,” Bob said when she had finished the bottle. “Go ahead and get comfortable on the couch, and I’ll finish setting up the camera.” After the cold drink, Monica was feeling a lot better. As she arranged herself on the sofa, Bob explained what they would be doing for the shoot.

“So we’re going to do a drinking clip this time. I’ll give you some juice or something, and you pretend like it’s making you drunk.”

Monica waited expectantly for him to continue.  He looked up from his camera. “That’s it!” he said. We’ll get some reaction shots of you trying to walk a line, maybe I’ll tell some jokes that you’ll laugh really hard at, and you just in general act like you’re drunk.”

Monica was a little confused. Not because of the drunk fetish clip thing. She’d long ago stopped being surprised at what people could fetishize. The clip just seemed different than Bob’s common fare. “Aren’t you a hypno-video producer?” she asked incredulously.

He chuckled. “I’m just trying something different. There will be hypnosis at the end of session as we discussed; sort of like a drunk hypno kind of thing. If you don’t want to do it, that’s fine.”

When Monica heard that there would be hypnosis after all, she remembered the great feeling she had at the end of Bob’s shoots, and decided to stay. She could use the money anyway, she reasoned. “It sounds interesting,” she said after a pause. “Let’s try it.”

Bob smiled. “Great. I hoped you’d say that. I’ll be right back.” He walked out of the studio. Things were going exactly as planned. Bob felt like a pro at this by now. He would use a special powder to make Monica younger, video-taping the whole thing to sell to fans of age regression. The powder was highly illegal, but Bob had a good, trust-worthy supplier. Staying under the radar was a difficult proposition, but he had achieved it by hypnotizing his models to forget the whole shoot while they were still too young to resist. Monica’s last visit had been a couple months ago, and with any luck, she’d be back in a couple more months.

When Bob finally reemerged from the back of the studio, he was carrying a clear glass of what looked like white wine. Monica could see the drops of condensation on the outside of the glass. “Here you go,” Bob said as he handed it to her.

“This isn’t actually alcohol is it?” Monica asked.

“It’s just grape juice.” Bob smiled a little impatiently. He walked back to the camera. “What I need you to do is just take a few sips at first and act like it’s really strong stuff.  Pretend you’re tipsy at first, and then we’ll go from there. Got it?”

Monica was still a little hesitant, and Bob must have noticed. “Just try to relax, okay?” he said. “3-2-1, action.” When the camera was on, Monica forgot all else. She became a different person. “So tell everyone what we’re doing today.” Bob said from behind the camera.

“I’m going to get tipsy!” she said enthusiastically.

“Just tipsy? We’ll see what we can do about that.” He chuckled. She tried not to give him a look. The camera was rolling after all. “So that’s some of California’s best white wine,” he intoned. “Take a few sips. Tell me what you think.”

Monica tilted her head back and let the liquid enter her mouth. It certainly didn’t taste like grape juice. It was much too sweet. Yet also somehow tart, she realized.

“How is it?” Bob was asking.

“Mmmm, that’s great! Strong,” she said, making a face for the camera. So maybe it was a blend of grape juice and something else. No need to ruin the take by asking. She felt a tingling centered above her right temple, but Bob didn’t give her much of a chance to focus on it.

“Yeah, there’s a lot of alcohol in that. You shouldn’t be too tipsy yet, though. Why don’t you try walking that line over there.” Bob swung the camera towards another corner of the studio.

Monica stood up and walked towards the line feeling strangely clumsy in her heels. She couldn’t be actually getting drunk. She was sure that the drink she was holding wasn’t alcoholic.

“Go ahead and set that drink on that table,” Bob said. Monica carefully set the drink down and continued to the white strip of tape that had been stuck to the floor of the studio. Oddly, her feet kept sliding around in her heels.

“Can I take my shoes off?” she asked abruptly.

Bob chuckled. “That tipsy already, huh? Why don’t you keep them on just so we can see how you do.”

Monica would normally have held her tongue, but she was feeling bolder than normal. I’m really getting into this whole tipsy thing, she thought. “It’s not that,” she said loudly. “They just don’t fit right.” She lifted her leg and slid the shoe up and down on her foot so the camera could see she was telling the truth.

Bob seemed amused. “They fit when you came in today.” Monica was about to retort when she realized that he was right.

“I know…” she trailed off, perplexed.

“You can do it,” Bob encouraged before she could continue. “Walk the line.”

“Of course I can do it,” Monica said, her confidence returning. She took a few steps on the line without a problem then remembered that she was probably supposed to be tipsy. How long does it take to get tipsy? She couldn’t quite remember.

Taking a few more steps, she purposely veered off the line. Bob motioned for her to tone it down, though, so she continued on, confidently walking the line with ease. She felt a sense of accomplishment when she finished, and Bob seemed pleased as well.

“Okay, take a seat on the couch, and you can drink some more.” Monica felt slightly perturbed that Bob kept telling her what to do. I’ll show him, she thought rebelliously, and kicked off her shoes when she thought he wasn’t looking. Damn! He looked so tall without her heels on.

Padding over to the couch on bare feet, Monica took a seat, being careful to cross her legs so the camera couldn’t see up her skirt. The stripping part of the clip hadn’t started yet, after all. Thinking about having to strip on camera disgusted her, and she really hoped Bob wouldn’t ask her to take anything off.

“You know, your shoes aren’t the only thing that doesn’t seem to fit,” Bob said smugly. Monica looked down. Disbelief etched itself over her face. The sleeves of her suit-jacket were much too loose, hanging open on her wrists. The bottom of the coat reached past her waist – where it should have ended – to her upper thighs.

“It fit!” she exclaimed much too loudly.

“Clothes don’t just grow,” Bob insisted.

Well obviously. “Duh,” she said rolling her eyes.

“Anyway, you look uncomfortable. I see you took your shoes off, why don’t you take the jacket off as well.”

He noticed that she had taken her shoes off! Monica felt herself blushing. She mumbled an explanation and proceeded to take off the jacket, fumbling with the buttons. Her fingers felt so clumsy! What the hell was in that drink?

“Stand up and give us a turn.” Bob was really enjoying himself now. Monica awkwardly stood and spun around. She tried to do it sexily but it was too fast, and her hips didn’t swing the way she wanted them to. Her body just wouldn’t move right.

“You’re pretty skinny, Monica. What do you do to keep the weight off? Most women would kill have to have an ass like that.”

Monica felt her rear-end, kneading it with both hands. It was round but very tight. Almost too tight, she thought as her butt seemed to deflate underneath her probing fingers.

“Why don’t you finish your wine?” Bob suggested, eyeing the way Monica’s blouse fell over her slightly flattened breasts. She’s coming along nicely, he thought. “Then we’ll see if you can say the alphabet backwards!”

“I’m not drinking anymore of that,” Monica retorted, suspiciously eyeing the glass on the end table. Whatever was in that glass, she didn’t want even a drop more, much less a whole glassful. She didn’t feel quite herself, and it wasn’t a good feeling.

“What if you take three more swallows, and we’ll be done. I’ll salvage what I can from the footage we have, you’ll get paid, and we’ll forget this ever happened.” Monica looked at Bob, then back at the glass, then back at Bob again. Three more swallows and she’d get paid. Normally, Monica would have realized that a porn producer would never pay a model if she left half-way through the shoot. But Monica was now 16 years old, and the suspiciousness of the situation escaped her.

“Okay,” she agreed. “Three more swallows.” She hurriedly picked up the glass and chugged three mouthfuls. One. Two. Three.

Bob excitedly watched the teenage girl’s frame becoming skinnier and skinnier. Her breasts were regressing into tight, little knots underneath her dangling bra. “You know,” Bob said, “those clothes really don’t fit you. Why don’t I give you something else to wear.”

Monica uncomfortably pulled at the loose collar of her blouse. She looked down into what used to be a canyon of cleavage but was now merely a small valley, and suddenly she felt very frightened; by the enormous studio, by the bright lights, by the big man leering at her from behind the camera. “I thought we were done with the video!” she squeaked in a panicked, quavering voice.

“Oh, we are Monica, but I can’t let you go home dressed like that.  I’m not even sure how you made it here wearing clothes that big!”

Mind racing, Monica tried to think of a rational explanation for the way her shirt kept slipping off her shoulder, for the way her skirt almost fell down when she stood up and tried to stride defiantly out of the room.

Bob panned the camera, following her as she shuffled across the room with two hands holding up her over-sized skirt. “Turn the camera off!” she shrieked.

Bob just laughed condescendingly. “It is off sweetie. See? The red light isn’t blinking.” While Monica indeed could not see a red light blinking on the camera, something seemed faulty with Bob’s explanation, but her regressing mind wasn’t quite able to figure out what. She shook her head vigorously, trying to clear the growing numbness in her brain.

“I’ll go get you some clothes that fit,” Bob said, not unkindly. Watching him go, Monica was still angry at the frustratingly cool camera operator, but she was a teensy bit grateful as well. After all, he was right; she couldn’t leave the studio in the clothes she was wearing. It would be so embarrassing to be walking around like a little girl in her mother’s clothes. She suspiciously eyed the glass of liquid that she had set next to the couch. Something wasn’t right about the drink, but her increasingly inexperienced mind was unable to put two and two together.

So she stood there in front of the camera holding up her skirt awkwardly as her breasts deflated into small nubs, gentle swellings, and finally nothingness. The bra hanging from her shoulders seemed rather unnecessary to Monica as she ruefully stared at her board-like chest. But the bra was the only thing keeping her nipples covered, and she still retained enough of her adult modesty to be concerned about this.

Bob returned to the studio carrying a pink shirt, jean skirt, and panties with little hearts all over them. Stopping short, he realized that the girl that now stood in front of the camera looked to be around 10 years old. The clothes in his arms were for a younger girl, but they’d have to do for now. I must have diluted the drink too much, he mused.

When she saw Bob enter the studio, Monica clasped one arm over her chest, trying to hide her bra, and Bob had to stop himself from laughing at the adult-looking pose coming from a clearly non-adult girl. “I got some clothes for you, sweetie,” he said in the most child-friendly voice he could muster. Monica stared at the clothes with a sour look on her face.

“Those look like little girl clothes,” she spat out vehemently.

“I know, but they’re all I could find!” Bob said, shrugging his shoulders.

There was an awkward pause, and Monica seemed to be thinking. “Do you want them or not?” Bob finally blurted out. He hadn’t been around kids much in his adult life, so he wasn’t exactly sure how to deal with kid-Monica.

Fortunately for him, Monica really was quite uncomfortable and had no intention of passing up the opportunity to get out of her tent-like clothes. She snatched the outfit from him, trying to hold up her skirt with one hand. “Where can I change?” she asked hesitantly.

“Um.” Bob scratched his balding scalp. He’d really thought she’d be younger and that modesty wouldn’t be an issue. “I don’t…Can you just change right there?”

Monica thought for less than a second before replying. “Turn around,” she said emphatically. Bob did as he was told, grinning to himself. He heard Monica pause behind him. “What about the camera?”

“I told you. It’s off,” he replied, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“Okay,” she said. The rustling of sounds behind him resumed, and Bob let himself relax. The shoot wasn’t completely ruined at least. And he couldn’t stop seeing dollar signs as he contemplated the nude tween behind him.

“These don’t fit,” was the next thing Monica said. Exasperated, Bob turned to see a girl in a much too short skirt and mid-riff baring top shifting from bare foot to bare foot uncomfortably. “And I need to go to the bathroom.” The pressure in her shrunken bladder had been building for some time, and it might have been the full bottle of water she had downed or just the constraints of the under-sized panties and skirt, but Monica realized the situation was becoming urgent.

Bob realized it too from the panicked look on her face, and being the opportunistic producer that he was, he saw a chance to salvage the shoot. “You can go to the bathroom,” he said, measuring his words carefully. “But first, you have to finish your juice.” The trap had been set, and Monica seemed to sense it. She walked towards the drink hesitantly, displaying her heart-covered panties every time she took too big of a step. Suddenly, she stopped.
“What if I don’t wanna?” she said scornfully. Bob’s heart froze. He couldn’t actually force a 10-year old girl to pee her panties. Could he?

“Um.” Bob could feel himself starting to sweat. “Why don’t you want to sweetie?”

“It’s making me feel funny,” Monica said, avoiding eye contact.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Bob contemplated his situation. The man who’d sold him the regression powder had warned him that this might happen if the solution wasn’t concentrated enough. “Their brains shrink temporarily,” the salesman had said. “All the memories and skills they learned are suppressed while the solution remains in their bloodstream. But if the juice isn’t strong enough, some memories might remain; not exactly clear thoughts but a feeling of paranoia, that things aren’t quite right.”

“You need to drink that,” Bob said sternly. At his insistence, Monica seemed to be growing more suspicious.

“No,” she said defiantly. Bob knew he had pushed too hard, but what other choice did he have? True, in 15 minutes, Monica’s memories of her former self would probably have vanished, but Bob didn’t have 15 minutes. Much like alcohol, the regression powder would wear off. And it would wear off much more quickly than alcohol. Bob almost thought he could the young girl’s nipples pushing out against the tight fabric of her pink shirt. The sooner he got the solution into her, the better.

His mind raced through his options. He could end the shoot now but there was no question his clients would be dissatisfied. They wanted diapering, babbling, cooing, not just a woman losing her curves. He had a kit to inject Monica, but that would likely require physical force, something he wanted to avoid if at all possible. A third option was growing in Bob’s mind, though: one that filled him with a sense of dread.

“It’s good for you,” said Bob as convincingly as he could. The path he was taking was dangerous, but he felt that he had no other choice

“Nu-uh.” Monica looked unsure, her eyes shifting around rapidly.

“Here I’ll show you,” Bob said, moving towards the couch, reaching for the glass. He felt himself hurtling towards disaster yet unable to stop himself. The dollar signs he had seen so vividly were evaporating, and there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to bring them back. Just a small sip, he thought. Just to show her it’s alright. Monica was staring at him with wide eyes as he took a swig of the solution.

It was a bit larger of a gulp than he had intended. The juice stung the back of his throat with its intense flavor, and he wasn’t exactly lying when he said “See, it’s yummy!” to the incredulous 10 year-old in front of him. Despite never having ingested the powder before, he recognized its effects immediately. It did feel a bit like being tipsy, he mused. The thought of the years being siphoned away was a little disconcerting to him, but at 33, he could afford to become a little younger.

Monica watched in wonder as thin fuzz coated the top of Bob’s previously bald head. “Now you drink the rest of it. Okay darling?” He held out the glass to Monica, marveling at how even his hand looked different, more youthful.

She hesitantly took the glass but never took her eyes off Bob. He felt the fuzz on his head lengthening into short hair. Noticing his pants were loose, he tightened his belt a few notches. He does look better, thought Monica in her childish way. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to finish the glass. She altogether forgot about her bathroom problem as she slowly brought the glass to her lips and downed the whole thing.

Excellent, Bob thought, rubbing his hands together with glee. He felt so much more energetic than normal as he strode boldly towards his camera to make sure he had the shot lined up right.

“What are you doing?” Monica asked suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing,” he said teasingly, not even trying to be convincing anymore.

“Yes, you are! You’re taking video of me! You said that was off!” Monica tried to run towards him, but the tight skirt constricted her movements. Her clothes fit her better, though. Even as she tried to evade the camera, Bob could see the bottom of her shirt slowly dropping to meet her skirt, the narrow strip of exposed skin getting smaller and smaller.

“Gimme!” Monica almost shouted, only half-angry now as she tried to wrest the pan-handle of the tripod away from him. She actually seemed to be having fun. Bob for his part was enjoying teasing the shrinking girl. Unfortunately, none of this was ending up on film, and Bob forced himself back into the role of producer.

“Let’s just do one more thing. Then you can go to the bathroom.”

“I really need to go!” Monica said, jumping up and down. She was out of breath now and every time she jumped Bob could see her skirt drop a little lower on her girlish hips.

“Okay, try to say the alphabet backwards,” Bob said, almost cracking up at the energetic little girl Monica had become.

“Z, X, Y, W,” Monica started. She stopped jumping for a second, and pulled up her skirt only to let it drop again. Her elementary school knowledge – and modesty – seemed to be evaporating before his eyes.

“You’re doing good, keep going,” he said grinning. Monica was only keeping her skirt up by spreading her knees wide, and she seemed momentarily distracted.

“Z, X, E, W, F,” She knew that wasn’t right, but she didn’t really care. Peeing was the only thing on her mind. She let her skirt fall to the floor and pranced around the room, holding her crotch. Bob was laughing at her and she wasn’t sure she liked that, but it didn’t bother her too much. The word ‘embarrassment’ ceased to have any real meaning to her as she dropped below the age of 6.

Bob recognized the situation was getting dire and didn’t feel like cleaning up a mess on his nice studio floor. So he picked up his camera, took Monica by the hand, and led her to the restroom, smiling at her potty-dance. The pink shirt more-or-less covered her little body by now, but she hardly noticed. She was finding it hard to think about things like clothes or covering up now as her mind simplified.

When she saw the bathroom, Monica practically pulled Bob towards it, lurching forward like a horse trying to bolt from its carriage. She didn’t even let go of his hand as they entered the bathroom. Peeing in front of a stranger seemed quite normal to her by this point.

She stopped abruptly as Bob turned the light on and closed the door, pointing the camera down at the little girl. Her thought processes were short and spastic. White bowl? What’s it for? What should I do? She felt her bladder relaxing. A trickle of pee-pee started running down her leg. Bob seemed frantic. Yelling “No-no-no.” Funny. Monica looked up at him, giggling as her panties started to get soaked. He was picking her up and holding her at arm’s length, swooping her over the toilet. Wheeeeee!!

She stuck her finger in her mouth and looked at him again giggling as liquid cascaded into the toilet bowl, on the toilet bowl, around the toilet bowl. Her panties fell off at some point, floating down to land in the water below. So funny! She laughed even harder.

The man was yelling something at her: she couldn’t really understand the words. He seemed angry, and she stopped laughing. He wiped her lower body with toilet paper. Roughly. “Owie,” she said, starting to whimper. He flipped Monica over his knee, pulled her shirt up, and started to spank her exposed bottom. It hurt so bad! Again and again the hand connected with the tender flesh. Tears flowed freely from Monica’s little eyes, and she screamed as loud as her little lungs would allow, but Bob was un-phased. He wasn’t even thinking about the shoot anymore: the camera lay on its side on the bathroom counter, forgotten. Unbeknownst to him, the testosterone of an 18 year-old was now flowing through his veins, and he couldn’t have explained why he was acting so vicious if anyone has asked.

Unfortunately, no one was around to ask, and Bob tired himself out spanking the toddler raw. At a certain point Monica stopped screaming and started whimpering pitifully. It seemed like the spanking would never end. Bob only stopped when he noticed that Monica was starting to seem heavier in his lap.

And suddenly reality flooded back to him; the shoot, the juice, the strange way he had been acting. He knew he needed to hypnotize Monica, and fast. This was the way he’d always done things before: regress the girl, do whatever the shoot required, forcibly hypnotize her when she was still too young to get suspicious, and then cause her to forget the whole thing. Rinse and repeat. Only this time, Bob was having a hard time remembering how to hypnotize someone.

He hastily unbuckled his watch and dangled it in front of the growing girl’s face, swinging it slowly. “You are feeling very sleepy,” he intoned. Surely this was the way. He’d seen it done many times in movies. Monica just sniffled at the watch, the hot tears on her face not even dry yet. Why wasn’t it working? he wondered. “You will not remember anything,” he tried again. Monica still just stared at him, confused.

Bob was finally forced to face the fear that had been growing in the back of his mind. He was too young to remember how to hypnotize properly. Monica was going to return to her normal age remembering everything that had happened during the shoot! Already he could see her limbs lengthening. Her nude form was elongating in front of his eyes. There was simply no time to go get more powder and keep her young. In a matter of seconds she would be too old, and he wouldn’t be able to force her to drink anything.

Bob tried to think. Monica’s nipples were starting to poke out, interrupting the flat line of her chest. She crossed her arms over them unconsciously as the room seemed to shrink around her. Hair sprinkled itself over places she normally would have shaved. Her hands tucked under her arms, feeling the coarseness of the growth. Bob watched as her pubic area hid itself under thickening curls. Her shapeliness began to return as she continued to grow taller. She hunched over, squished her tiny breasts against her knees, vainly trying to hide the softness of her swelling curves. She looked afraid, but Bob could see an anger growing in her eyes, and he recognized the dangerousness of it.

“I’m s-sorry,” he said, as he felt his own body aging.

“You mother fucker!” Monica almost screamed. Thoughts were returning to her head, and they were not happy ones. The more she knew and understood, the more furious she became.

Bob for his part was transfixed in terror at the woman blooming before him. As her body approached maturity, she seemed to care less and less about hiding it, her adolescent awkwardness giving way to adult indignation. “You know what I could do to you?” she yelled.

He did know, in fact. He was ruined. If the police didn’t get him, the man who’d sold him the powder would. His only option was to kill Monica, but Bob couldn’t even move as he watched the almost hysterical teen thicken into her adult form. She began to swing her fists at his head; breasts bouncing wildly as their weight increased.

Bob finally found the presence of mind grab her wrists, pinning them down at her sides. He shoved her against the bathroom wall and put his forearm across her throat. She was a wild animal, though, kicking scratching, biting. Her teeth found his forearm, and he cried out in pain as he fell backwards. Monica was out of the room in an instant with Bob in hot pursuit. If she gets away…he thought.

“Let me explain,” he yelled after the fleeing woman. All he could think about was how he was going to jail again if Monica got out of the studio alive. But Monica wasn’t trying to get out. She made a beeline for the sofa, and when she reached it, she abruptly stopped. Bob lunged at her. She reached into her purse, a pink bag sitting innocently beside the couch, and with a feeling of horror, he realized. He knew what would be in her hand even before she pulled it out of the purse.

And then there it was: a pistol. “Don’t fucking move,” Monica snarled. Bob hardly recognized her voice; it was so pinched and twisted with rage. The gun was small, glinting in the harsh studio light, but it completely changed everything. Bob almost tripped over himself trying to halt his momentum.

“There’s…no…need…” Bob could barely speak. The fear sucked the air out of his lungs, left him stammering.

Monica’s eyes danced dangerously. “You think I’m gonna kill you?” She lowered the gun. “I don’t need to kill you. You’re life is already over. I could go to the cops. I could tell them what you did. You’d go to prison. You’d never make porn again!”

Bob frantically looked around for something, anything that he could use as a weapon. Mind racing, he tried to formulate a plan. “You don’t have to do that either,” he stammered. “We can work something out. I have money.”

Monica laughed, and Bob shrank from the cruel sound. “I’m going to take your money,” she spat the words out. “You won’t need it.”

“But I thought you said…”

“You’re not going to die, baby. You’re going to tell me where you got the regression powder, then I’m going to buy more of it, and you’re going to drink it ALL!” Monica’s voice rose until she was shouting, and in the stunned silence that followed, Bob realized that she meant every word.

“You won’t tell anyone what I did?” Bob whispered.

Monica walked towards him, raised the gun towards his head. “Naw, I’ll just keep you as my little baby boy until I think you’re learned your lesson. Now show me where you keep the powder.”

She jabbed the gun into his back and pushed him forward. He walked, robotically, numbly. “There’s no need for the gun,” he said hoarsely. All the strength seemed to have left his body.

Monica laughed again and dug the gun even deeper into Bob’s back. “You must think I’m really stupid.”

Bob actually did think Monica incredibly stupid, but that didn’t seem like the type of thing to tell an angry, naked woman holding a gun. He led her straight into his back office, winding down the long hallways behind the main studio.  The safe where he kept the powder was in the corner beside his desk, and he wordlessly knelt down to enter the combination. It was difficult with his hands trembling so badly, but he finally managed to get the safe open.

“Slowly,” Monica warned as he reached into the safe and carefully withdrew the bottle of powder. “Have yourself a glass of booze,” she smirked, motioning at the bottles of various types of alcohol sitting on a nearby table.

Bob could barely pour himself a glass. All he could think was that this might be the last time he drank alcohol for the rest of his life. Monica had promised to let him return to normal, but a promise from a furious, vengeful woman probably didn’t guarantee anything, he thought. He would age into his 70s or 80s and finally die, all the time looking like child.

All of this and more ran through his mind as he put his lips to the glass and tilted back his head. The clear vodka filled his mouth, and he imagined he could see the little flecks of the regression powder still floating, taunting him. Monica smiled triumphantly as her victim downed the last of the powder. “That’s it,” she hissed. “Get tipsy.”

Unknowingly regressing is a confusing ordeal, but the process is far worse when you know what’s happening. You imagine you can feel the memories slipping away. People you once knew well become strangers, and soon you forget that they even exist. Bob was frantically trying to picture his ex-wife’s face and failing. It was like a mist was slowly obscuring her face until only the outline could be seen. And then Bob realized that being married was very far from his mind, and he couldn’t imagine it, and when he tried, the thought wasn’t all that appealing.

Monica could see the panic growing in the man as entered his teenage years. He was already thinner. His arms and stomach seemed to be contracting into denser, more sinewy versions of themselves. Despite the keen unpleasantness that Bob was obviously feeling, she wasn’t satisfied. “Strip,” she barked like a military commander.

Bob imagined the room growing around him, swallowing him up. With a feeling of intense panic, he realized that Monica was already taller than him, and could probably physically force him to strip if she wished. “Isn’t this enough? You’re so heartless,” he pleaded, his voice cracking with adolescent rage.

Monica moved menacingly towards the teen, stretching herself to her full height. “I’m heartless?” she almost yelled. “Did you already forget what you did to me?” Actually, Bob had already forgotten. That’s one of the side effects of age regression. He knew he must have done something pretty horrible to this lady, though. And clearly she wasn’t in the mood to argue.

“Just leave me alone,” he squeaked, his voice wildly oscillating between registers. But he was already peeling off his oversized shirt. Dark, matted hair fell to the floor, and he saw that only a light speckling was still attached to his body. How old am I? he wondered. 14, 15?

“All the way,” Monica commanded, motioning at his pants. Bob’s whole body burned with the humiliation, but he did as he was told. His head probably only reached the pretty, naked lady’s shoulder. Though he couldn’t imagine anything much worse than standing naked in front of her, he honestly feared for his safety if he didn’t do as he was told.

Trying to act nonchalant, he slipped off the pants – they really were much too big. His shoulders were collapsing and tightening. Whisps of hair fell lightly to the floor as his chest narrowed. He felt increasingly weak and fragile as his muscles lost their definition. Awkwardness was radiating from his posture, from the way he delicately pulled down his briefs with one hand while cupping his erect penis with the other. It was shrinking in his hand, but he only half-registered the bizarre feeling.

“Jerk off,” Monica said, the thrill of power saturating her voice. “I want to watch you forget how to do it.” Though Bob still remembered what jerking off was, the concept was already becoming fuzzy in his 13 year-old mind. He wrapped his fist around his skinny penis and jerked, feeling blood rush into the already engorged flesh. His last bit of testosterone spent it itself rampaging through his body as he stared at the naked woman in front of him. Thoughts of sex, boobs, pussies faded from his mind yet still he jerked, his penis softening, flopping uselessly in his hand. He awkwardly palmed the tiny organ, no longer understanding what it was for, or what he was doing rubbing it.

Monica laughed cruelly, and Bobby felt tears coming to his eyes. “Hey, hey,” the pretty lady frowned. “You can stop now.”Bobby dropped to the floor as the tears spilled down his face at the embarrassment. He huddled in the fetal position while Monica stood over him. “You were…are a skinny little kid, you know that?” She watched the final traces of manliness wash off his tiny 11 year-old frame. Squatting down, she clasped the boy by the shoulders and held him up so that their eyes were level. “How does it feel little man?” Bobby just sniffled. As sad as he was, he couldn’t keep his eyes from flicking down to her boobies a few times. She tossed him back on the ground, snorting in disgust.

“I’m going to go get dressed. Then I’m going to figure out where to get some more of that powder. Can’t have you growing up on me.” The pretty lady turned and walked out of the room. Bobby caught one last glimpse of her ass as she disappeared around the corner, and he snickered quietly.
Once again, this got away from me. I don't particularly love male regression, but half-way into writing, I realized Bob had to go down.
:iconmonkat:
monkat Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2013
Write. More. Stories!

I loved the male AR.
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