Mommy Mei Fly - Version A2

Chapter 1
Mommy Mei Fly - Version A2

Chapter Description: Deviation from Version 1 occurs late. You will see the marker.

Chapter 1
Mommy Mei Fly - Version A1

-- Maternal Regression --

Character: Mei

A 29-year-old former dancer of Chinese-American heritage who has always taken pride in defying stereotypes with her curvy figure. Perfectionistic and image-conscious, Mei struggles with the gap between her idealized vision of motherhood and her current reality. Her determination can be both her greatest strength and weakness as she navigates this challenging transition. She doesn’t love her man flirting with the wet nurse, but she doesn’t mind being babied by her employee.

Background:

You've always prided yourself on perfection. As a former dancer with an enviable, curvy physique that defied stereotypes about your Asian heritage, you married well and created the picture-perfect life. Your pregnancy was meticulously planned, your delivery scheduled precisely, and your nursery designed with magazine-worthy attention to detail.

But nature had other plans. Despite your determination and research, your body has betrayed you in the most fundamental way - you cannot produce enough milk for your newborn. The pediatrician suggested formula, but you refused outright. Your own mother used formula, and you've always blamed that choice for what you perceive as your emotional distance. Your child will have better.

After weeks of struggling, sleep deprivation, and your baby's concerning weight chart, you've made a difficult decision. You've hired help - a young nursing student from your building who advertised her services as a wet nurse. It feels like admitting defeat, but you tell yourself it's temporary. Just until your own milk comes in properly.

Amber stands in your doorway, her honey-blonde hair catching the afternoon light streaming through your meticulously designed living room windows. Your eyes involuntarily trace the curves visible beneath her thin cotton top, and something twists inside you—a knot of inadequacy tangled with an unexpected flutter of arousal.

"Hi, Mrs. Chen," she says, extending a hand. "Thanks so much for this opportunity. I've been studying lactation science extensively in my program."

You take her hand, noticing how soft it is compared to your own, which have grown dry from constant washing between diaper changes. "Please, call me Mei," you manage, your voice higher than intended.

Your husband David appears from the hallway, the baby monitor clipped to his belt. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of Amber, and he runs a hand through his disheveled hair before extending it to her.

"David Chen," he says, his voice carrying a warmth you haven't heard in weeks. "We're really grateful you're here. Mei's been having a tough time."

You feel your cheeks burn. "I was just about to explain my expectations," you say sharply, then falter as both turn to look at you. The carefully rehearsed speech dissolves on your tongue.

"I—I've prepared a schedule," you continue, gesturing toward the color-coded chart on the refrigerator. "And there's a list of—"

A thin, reedy cry emanates from the baby monitor, cutting through your explanation. Your breasts ache in pavlovian response, though you know they hold nothing substantial to offer.

"That's perfect timing," Amber says with easy confidence. "Would you like me to show you how I work?"

Before you can answer, David nods enthusiastically. "Yes, please. Mei's been up all night trying."

The three of you move toward the nursery, a room you spent months perfecting. Your daughter's cries intensify as you enter, her tiny face red with effort. You reach for her automatically, but Amber steps forward.

"May I?" she asks, though she's already lifting your daughter with practiced ease. "Hello, beautiful," she coos. "I'm Amber, and I'm going to help your mommy take care of you."

You watch, frozen, as Amber settles into the glider rocker you selected from an exclusive boutique. She unbuttons her top with casual efficiency, revealing a nursing bra that's clearly seen use. Your daughter, who has been rejecting your breast for days, latches immediately to Amber's exposed nipple.

"Oh," Amber sighs with satisfaction, looking up at you with a smile that's both sympathetic and triumphant. "She was just so hungry. Poor little thing."

David stands beside you, his hand on your shoulder, but his eyes are fixed on the tableau before you: another woman feeding your child, in your carefully curated nursery, while you stand uselessly by.

"See?" he whispers, squeezing your shoulder. "This is exactly what we needed."

You nod mechanically, unable to articulate the complex cocktail of relief, jealousy, and something darker stirring within you as you watch Amber stroke your daughter's cheek with a tenderness that matches your own.

You move closer to Amber, perching on the ottoman beside the glider rocker. The proximity allows you to catch her scent—something clean and floral that makes you feel simultaneously matronly and juvenile.

"Would you mind showing me what you're doing?" you ask, your voice straining for casual professionalism. "I've tried everything, but nothing seems to work for me."

Amber's eyes light up with what appears to be genuine enthusiasm. "Of course! I'd love to help." She shifts slightly, angling your daughter's tiny body so you can see better. "See how her mouth covers most of the areola, not just the nipple? That's key."

You nod, studying the technique while trying to ignore the intimacy of the moment—this stranger's exposed breast in your home, your husband watching with undisguised interest from the doorway.

"When it's your turn," Amber continues, her tone sliding into something gentler, almost maternal despite her youth, "we'll try a different position. Your breasts are..." she pauses, eyes flicking over your chest with clinical assessment that somehow feels more invasive than if she'd been leering, "shaped differently than mine. You might have better luck with the football hold."

David clears his throat. "Mei's tried everything. The lactation consultant at the hospital said—"

"That I wasn't relaxing enough," you finish sharply, heat rising to your face. "As if I could just flip a switch."

Amber's free hand reaches out, patting yours with cool fingers. "Stress is the enemy of milk production. When we try later, maybe David could give you a shoulder massage while you feed? Sometimes that helps new mommies."

The infantilizing term 'mommies' lands like a slap. You're nearly thirty, a professional woman who's choreographed dance productions and managed budgets, yet in this realm, you're reduced to an incompetent novice.

"I'm not sure—" you begin, but your daughter chooses that moment to unlatch, milk dribbling from her tiny mouth as she turns her head toward your voice. The sight of her recognition pierces you—she knows you, wants you, even as her sustenance comes from elsewhere.

"Look at that," Amber coos. "She heard her mama. Do you want to try now, Mei? She's taken the edge off her hunger."

Before you can answer, she's already shifting forward, gently transferring your daughter to your arms. You fumble with your nursing top, aware of both Amber and David watching as you expose your swollen, inadequate breast.

Your daughter latches, then immediately pulls away, her face screwing up in frustration.

"Here," Amber says, leaning close enough that her hair brushes your shoulder. Her hands move to your breast without hesitation, her fingers repositioning your nipple near your daughter's mouth. "Like this."

The casual way she touches you—as if your body is community property now—sends a confusing ripple through you: indignation tangled with a strange surrender.

Your daughter latches again and begins to suck, but you can feel the difference. With Amber, she drew deeply, rhythmically. With you, it's shallow, searching, ultimately futile.

"She's trying," Amber says encouragingly, but her tone carries the unmistakable note of pity. "That's progress!"

David steps closer, his hand landing on your shoulder. "You're doing great, honey," he says, but his eyes flick to Amber for confirmation.

You sit there, trapped between them, your body failing at its most primal function while this younger, more capable woman witnesses your inadequacy with kindness that cuts deeper than cruelty ever could.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how small the nursery feels with the three of you crowded around your daughter. "Maybe we should move to the living room," you suggest, your voice straining for authority. "It might be easier for me to try again there. More... space."

Amber's brow furrows slightly, her lips pursing as she adjusts your daughter against her breast. "Actually, babies feed better in quiet, familiar environments. The nursery is perfect—you've created such a soothing space here."

You look to David, expecting support, but find him nodding along with Amber's assessment.

"She's right, Mei," he says, his voice taking on that placating tone he uses when he thinks you're being irrational. "Remember what Dr. Patel said about consistency and routine?"

The betrayal stings more than it should. You swallow the argument rising in your throat and nod, defeated by their united front.

"Why don't you sit here?" Amber pats the rocking chair beside her. "You can watch how she feeds for the rest of this session. It might help you get a better sense of what works."

You sink into the chair, oddly grateful for the direction. Amber shifts slightly, angling your daughter so you can see her tiny mouth working against the breast that isn't yours. The sight awakens something primitive in you—jealousy tangled with a strange, humiliating relief that someone else can provide what you cannot.

"Your nursery is absolutely adorable," Amber says, her eyes scanning the room. "All this pink and the ballerina theme—those dancing baby girls with their diapers showing under their tutus. And so many stuffed animals!"

You follow her gaze around the room you spent months perfecting—the hand-painted mural of baby ballerinas dancing with teddy bears and bunnies, their cloth diapers peeking beneath frilly skirts. The collection of plush toys arranged on shelves, waiting for a child old enough to appreciate them.

"It's almost as if a baby designed it for herself," Amber says with a light laugh. Then she catches herself. "Well, a toddler, I mean. Newborns can't play with stuffies, or dance." She looks down, her voice softening to a coo. "Can they, sweetness?"

The endearment hangs in the air between you. You're not entirely sure if she's speaking to your daughter or to you, and you're disturbed by how much you crave either possibility.

"Mei designed everything herself," David offers proudly. "She spent weeks on that mural."

Heat crawls up your neck as Amber's eyes widen slightly. "Really? That's impressive. It has such a... childlike quality to it. So innocent."

The compliment feels backhanded, highlighting the disconnect between your professional, adult self and this nursery that suddenly seems to reveal more about your psyche than you intended. You shift uncomfortably in the rocking chair, acutely aware of how the motion mimics the way Amber is swaying with your child.

Amber's question catches you off-guard, your eyes drawn to the ballerina mural you spent weeks perfecting. The tiny dancers in their tutus suddenly seem to mock you with their perfect arabesques.

"I... tried," you admit, your voice smaller than intended. "I took lessons from age four to sixteen, but I wasn't built for it. Too curvy, even back then."

Amber's eyes widen with exaggerated sympathy, her free hand reaching to touch your arm. "Oh, sweetie, that must have been so hard for you. All those skinny girls in their leotards making you feel different."

The condescension in her tone makes your chest tighten. You're not a child to be pitied, you're a grown woman with accomplishments. You straighten your spine.

"I actually went on to become a choreographer," you say, hearing the defensive edge in your voice. "I've designed productions for the regional ballet company and several modern dance troupes. My last piece before my maternity leave was featured in—"

"So now you tell the babies and bears how to dance," Amber interrupts with a bright smile, nodding toward your mural. "Sounds like fun!"

David chuckles, oblivious to how she's infantilized your career. "Mei's incredibly talented. You should see some of her videos."

"I'd love to!" Amber coos, but her attention has already shifted back to your daughter, who's beginning to fuss. "I think someone needs a diaper change. Would you like me to handle it, or would you prefer to do it, Mei?"

The question feels like a test. Of course you should change your own child's diaper, but the way Amber phrases it—as if she's offering to spare you a chore—makes you hesitate.

"I can do it," you say, reaching for your daughter.

Amber transfers her with practiced ease, but as your baby settles against your chest, she whispers, "The changing pad is on the dresser, and the wipes should be warmed first. Babies hate cold wipes."

You know this. You've been changing diapers for weeks. Yet somehow, under Amber's watchful eye, you feel like you're being evaluated, your every move subject to critique.

As you lay your daughter down on the changing pad, Amber hovers nearby, rebuttoning her top with casual efficiency. "You know," she says conversationally, "I had dreams of being a doctor, but nursing school is probably more my speed. We can't all be what we dreamed of as little girls, can we?"

The parallel she's drawing is unmistakable—both of you, settling for less than your childhood ambitions. Except she's framing her nursing career as a reasonable compromise while positioning your choreography as a childish consolation prize.

"Some of us find better dreams," you reply, focusing on securing the clean diaper rather than meeting her gaze.

David, still leaning against the doorframe, smiles fondly. "Mei's always been good at adapting. Remember when you twisted your ankle before that showcase in college? You redesigned the whole piece in a weekend."

The memory of your resilience should bolster you, but instead, it highlights how far you've fallen from that determined young woman. Now you can't even feed your own child without assistance.

You pass your daughter back to Amber with an automatic gesture that surprises even you—as if she's the rightful holder of this tiny life you created. Your hands feel suddenly empty, purposeless without the weight of your child.

"Look at what a good job Mommy did," Amber coos to your daughter, her voice pitched high in baby talk. "Yes she did, such a clean diaper! Mommy Mei is learning so fast!"

The words land like tiny barbs under your skin. You're not the one learning; you're the one who read every parenting book, who designed this nursery, who carried this child for nine months. Yet somehow, in Amber's presence, you've become the novice.

"I have so many tips for new Mommy Mei," Amber continues, bouncing your daughter gently. "Little tricks I've learned from all my childcare experience. We'll have you feeling more confident in no time."

David beams at this, as if Amber has offered you both a priceless gift rather than a thinly veiled critique of your maternal abilities. You catch his eye and tilt your head toward the hallway, a silent request for privacy.

"We'll be right back," you tell Amber, who nods and continues whispering to your daughter.

In the hallway, you keep your voice low but urgent. "David, I don't want this woman in our home. There's something about her that feels... wrong."

His face falls, exhaustion etching deeper lines around his eyes. "Mei, please. You've been running yourself into the ground. You're exhausted, you're frustrated, and it's affecting both of us." He takes your hands in his, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. "You deserve to be pampered a little. Let someone else handle the hard parts for a while."

The word 'pampered' sends an electric current through you. Unbidden, an image forms in your mind: yourself, small and helpless, cradled in Amber's arms. Your lips seeking her breast, latching with the same instinctive hunger as your daughter. The vision is so vivid you can almost taste the warm sweetness, feel the comforting weight of her breast against your cheek.

Heat floods your face as the fantasy dissipates, leaving confusion in its wake. What is wrong with you? You're a grown woman, a professional, a mother—not an infant seeking comfort from a stranger's body.

"Mei?" David's voice pulls you back. "Are you okay? You look flushed."

"I'm fine," you lie, unable to meet his eyes. "Just tired."

"Exactly my point," he says, squeezing your hands. "Let's give her a chance. Just for a week or two, until you're feeling more like yourself."

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. The image of being nursed by Amber lingers at the edges of your consciousness, both disturbing and oddly compelling. You tell yourself it's just exhaustion playing tricks on your mind, nothing more.

"Okay," you finally agree. "We'll try her out."

Three days have passed in a blur of feedings, naps, and a gradual shift in your household's dynamic that you can't quite pinpoint but feel acutely. You sit on the couch, watching Amber move through your space with the confidence of someone who belongs here far more than you do.

"Look who's ready for Daddy to come home," Amber coos to your daughter, who's freshly bathed and dressed in a onesie you don't recognize—pale pink with tiny ballerinas printed across it. "Yes, we're all excited to see Daddy, aren't we?"

The way she says "Daddy"—warm, respectful, intimate—contrasts sharply with how she refers to you when your daughter is present. "Mommy might want to hold you while I finish dinner," she says, her voice taking on that slightly lilting, almost teasing quality when she says "Mommy."

She hands you your daughter, who settles against your chest with a contented sigh. This small victory—your child actually wanting your touch—feels disproportionately significant after days of watching her prefer Amber's arms.

"I made that pasta you like, Mei," Amber says, the words coming out quickly, almost sounding like "Mei Mei"—a childish nickname that makes you feel inexplicably small. "The one with the little bow-ties. Thought it might be fun."

Your eyes follow her to the kitchen, where she moves with practiced efficiency. She's wearing an apron you didn't know you owned, tied neatly around her slender waist. In three days, she's reorganized your kitchen, established a feeding schedule for your daughter that actually works, and somehow managed to keep the apartment cleaner than it's been since before your pregnancy.

"Oh, I meant to ask," she says, gesturing toward a ballerina figurine on your bookshelf with a wooden spoon. "Is that a Degas reproduction? It's adorable."

You nod, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You'd forgotten how many ballet-themed items you've collected over the years—the figurines, the framed prints, the coffee mug with worn pink slippers painted on its side.

"I've always loved ballet," you say, hating how defensive you sound.

"It's so sweet," Amber replies, her tone making the word 'sweet' sound like 'childish.' "I'm noticing all these lovely ballerina things around your home. It's like living in a little girl's dream."

The front door opens before you can respond. David enters, looking more rested than he has in weeks.

"Something smells amazing," he says, his eyes finding Amber first, then shifting to you and the baby.

"Auntie Amber made your favorite pasta," she says to your daughter, though clearly for David's benefit. The way she says 'Auntie'—confident, authoritative—makes it sound like a title rather than a term of endearment.

"You're a lifesaver," David tells her, setting down his briefcase. "Mei, how was your day?"

You open your mouth to answer, but Amber interjects. "She had a nice long nap this afternoon while I took care of everything. Didn't you, Mei?"

The question hangs in the air, infantilizing and yet somehow tempting. You did nap—longer than intended—and woke to find laundry folded, dinner started, and your daughter happily playing on her mat under Amber's watchful eye.

"I was tired," you admit, the words feeling like a confession of inadequacy.

You desperately remind yourself that the 22-year-old Amber is practically a baby compared to you, and not even a mother.  The image of Amber as a toddler blooms in your mind with startling clarity—her honey-blonde hair wispy and fine, chubby legs wobbling as she bangs on pots on the kitchen floor with wooden spoons, the pink dress riding up to reveal a thick diaper. The fantasy feels like revenge, reducing this woman who infantilizes you to an actual infant herself.

But the fantasy warps, disturbs itself. The toddler looks up at you with adult eyes, Amber's voice emerging from the baby's mouth. "Mei. Mei? Hello, is Mommy still in there?"

You blink, reality reasserting itself. Amber stands before you, head tilted in concern, your daughter now resting in a bouncer nearby.

"Y-yes?" you stammer, disoriented by how easily your mind slipped away.

"Would you like to help set the table, Mei? It'd be a big help to me." Her tone is warm, encouraging—the way one might speak to a child being given their first chore.

You rise from the couch, oddly eager to please. "Of course."

In the dining area, your hands move with muscle memory—forks on the left, knives and spoons on the right. You remember standing on a step stool in your childhood home, your mother guiding your small hands through the same motions.

"Perfect," Amber praises as she brings out serving dishes. "You're such a good helper."

The compliment shouldn't matter—you're a grown woman, a professional choreographer, a mother—but warmth blooms in your chest anyway. You catch your reflection in the decorative mirror hanging on the dining room wall and for a disorienting moment, you see yourself as a child—six years old, hair in pigtails, wearing a pink romper covered in dancing ballerinas. The image feels right somehow, comfortable in a way your adult self hasn't in months.

"Mei?" David's voice breaks the spell. He's standing in the doorway, watching you with a curious expression. "You okay?"

"Just tired," you reply automatically, the adult mask slipping back into place. But part of you mourns its loss, that brief respite from decision-making, from the weight of your own expectations.

"Dinner's ready!" Amber announces, carrying a steaming dish to the table. "David, would you mind getting Mei a glass of water? She seems a little spacey tonight."

Your husband nods, moving to fill a glass without questioning why Amber is directing him in your home, or why you need someone to get you water. You should object, assert yourself, but the words die in your throat. It's easier this way. Easier to let them handle things.

"Here you go, honey," David says, setting the water before you. You notice he's given you the cup with the cartoon ballerinas on it—the one you bought on impulse and kept hidden in the back of the cupboard, embarrassed by your own childish taste.

Amber notices too, her lips curving in a knowing smile. "That's perfect for her, isn't it?"

You take a sip, avoiding their eyes, unsure which is more disturbing—that they see you this way, or that some part of you likes it.

You shift uncomfortably in your dining chair, the hard surface making you fidget. Amber notices immediately.

"Here, let me get you a cushion," she offers, already rising from her seat before you can protest. She returns with a decorative throw pillow from the couch, sliding it beneath you with practiced efficiency.

The cushion feels plush and comforting, but as you settle onto it, you realize your feet no longer quite reach the floor. They dangle slightly, toes barely brushing the hardwood. The sensation is disorienting—your body suddenly smaller in a space designed for adults.

"Better?" Amber asks, her smile warm but knowing.

You clear your throat, determined to reclaim some authority in your own home. "I'll serve," you announce, reaching for the pasta serving spoon before either of them can react.

Your movements are deliberate as you portion out the bow-tie pasta onto each plate, starting with David's. "I was thinking about my last choreography project before maternity leave," you say, your voice pitched slightly higher than normal. "The director of the regional ballet company called yesterday. They want me to consider a guest position for their winter showcase."

The lie slips out easily—no such call came—but you need to remind them both of your professional identity, your worth beyond these walls.

"That's nice, honey," David says absently, his attention already shifting to Amber. "How was the baby's feeding schedule today?"

"Oh, we had a breakthrough!" Amber responds enthusiastically. "I've been tracking her hunger cues, and I think we've finally established a pattern."

You sit there, serving spoon still in hand, as they discuss your daughter as if you're not present. The cushion beneath you feels suddenly infantilizing, your professional accomplishment—even the fabricated one—dismissed like a child's drawing proudly displayed on a refrigerator.

"David," Amber continues, "tell me about your presentation today. You mentioned it was important?"

Your husband launches into an animated description of his workday, something he hasn't shared with you in weeks. Amber leans forward, nodding at all the right moments, asking insightful questions that draw him out further.

"I want more pasta," you interrupt, the words bursting from you with childish abruptness. Your plate is still half-full, the bow-ties you've barely touched glistening with sauce.

The conversation halts. David blinks at you, confusion creasing his brow. Amber's response is smoother, more practiced.

"Of course, Mei," she says gently. "But maybe finish what's on your plate first? We don't want to waste food."

The correction is mild, reasonable—exactly how one might address a child's impulsive demand. What disturbs you most is not her tone but how natural it feels to be spoken to this way, how some part of you responds to the gentle boundary-setting with relief rather than indignation.

"I'm not hungry anymore," you mutter, pushing the plate away slightly, aware of how petulant the gesture appears but unable to stop yourself.

David sighs, exchanging a look with Amber that speaks volumes—the weary parent and the understanding caregiver, united in managing a difficult child. And that child, somehow, is you.

Annoyed, your hand moves with deliberate slowness toward your water glass—the childish ballerina cup that David selected for you. With a quick flick of your wrist, you send it toppling, water cascading across the table and spilling onto Amber's lap.

The reaction is immediate. David jumps up, napkin in hand, while Amber gasps as the cold water soaks through her shorts.

"Mei!" David's voice holds more shock than anger. "What the hell?"

You'd expected satisfaction—forcing them to acknowledge you, disrupting their cozy dynamic—but instead, heat rushes to your face as shame washes over you. The gesture feels pathetically juvenile, exactly what a toddler would do when ignored at the dinner table.

Amber recovers quickly, dabbing at her wet clothes with a napkin. "It's fine, David. Just an accident." Her voice is measured, but her eyes when they meet yours are knowing. She sees through you completely.

"I'll get paper towels," David mutters, heading to the kitchen.

Amber leans across the table, her voice dropping to a whisper only you can hear. "Is that what you need, Mei? To make messes so someone will clean up after you?" The question isn't mocking—it's probing, almost clinical in its precision.

Before you can respond, David returns with a roll of paper towels. As he mops up the spill, Amber rises to help, the two of them working in tandem while you sit uselessly, the cushion beneath you now feeling like a high chair.

"Maybe we should get you something more... secure to drink from," Amber suggests, her tone light but loaded. "A sippy cup would be practical."

David chuckles, the sound piercing you. "Or one of those bottles with the rubber tops. Wouldn't that be easier?"

They're joking, but the undercurrent is unmistakable—they're discussing you as if you're not present, as if you're the second child in the household.

Humiliation burns through you. You push back from the table, chair legs scraping harshly against the floor. "I'm going to my room," you announce, the words sounding childish even to your own ears.

"Mei, come on," David sighs. "It was just a joke."

But as you turn to leave, your foot catches on the table leg. You stumble, catching yourself against the wall, but not before knocking a framed photo to the floor. The glass cracks—a spider web fracture across your smiling face in the wedding portrait.

"Jesus, Mei," David says, exasperation replacing concern. "What's gotten into you?"

Amber is already kneeling to pick up the broken frame, her efficiency highlighting your clumsiness. "It's okay," she soothes, though it's unclear whether she's speaking to you or David. "We're all tired. Why don't you go rest, Mei? I'll clean this up and take care of the dishes."

The suggestion—reasonable, practical—leaves you feeling hollowed out. You wanted to provoke a reaction, to assert yourself through chaos, but instead, you've only reinforced their perception of you as unstable, childish, in need of management.

You flee to the bedroom, the sound of their voices—lower now, conspiratorial—following you down the hallway.

You slam the bedroom door behind you, fumbling with the lock until it clicks into place. The sound of it—that tiny mechanical barrier between you and them—offers a momentary sense of control that crumbles as soon as you collapse onto the edge of the bed.

You meant to cry—to release the confusion and hurt in a cleansing torrent of tears—but they won't come. Instead, your chest heaves with dry, painful sobs that leave you gasping. Your reflection in the vanity mirror across the room is a stranger: hair disheveled, eyes wide and glassy, mouth twisted in anguish.

"What's happening to me?" you whisper to the empty room.

A soft knock at the door makes you flinch.

"Mei?" It's David, his voice hesitant. "Come on, honey. Open up."

You press your palms against your eyes. "I need some time."

"The baby needs you," he says, the words like a knife between your ribs. "Amber says she's hungry again."

Of course. Not 'I need you' or 'Let's talk about what's wrong.' The baby needs you—or rather, needs Amber, who apparently can't proceed without your permission. A formality.

"Tell her to go ahead," you call back, voice breaking. "She doesn't need me for that."

Silence from the hallway, then a murmured conversation you can't quite make out. You imagine them standing close, heads bent together, discussing what to do about you.

"Mei." David's voice again, firmer now. "You're being childish. Come out and talk to us."

Childish. The word echoes in your mind, a perfect distillation of how they see you. Not a mother struggling with her place, not a woman fighting to maintain her identity—just a child having a tantrum.

"I said I need time!" Your voice rises, cracking on the last word.

Another pause, then: "Fine. Take all the time you need."

His footsteps retreat down the hallway. You've won this small battle, but the victory feels hollow. Alone in your bedroom—your sanctuary that suddenly feels like a prison—you curl into yourself, knees drawn to chest.

The tears finally come, but they bring no relief. Each sob feels like surrender, not release. You're crying not just for the role you're losing, but for the part of yourself that's beginning to accept its loss—the part that finds comfort in being small, in being cared for, in abdicating the crushing responsibility of motherhood.

What terrifies you most isn't that they're pushing you into this role.

It's that some buried part of you wants it.

You lock yourself in the bedroom, the sobs finally subsiding as a dangerous clarity takes hold. In the ensuing silence, you study your reflection in the vanity mirror—eyes puffy, hair disheveled, looking nothing like the confident dancer who once commanded stages. Something has to change.

With deliberate movements, you open your makeup drawer, selecting products you haven't touched since before the birth. The ritual of application steadies you—foundation smoothing away the blotchiness of tears, eyeliner defining the eyes that have lost their spark, and finally, a deep crimson lipstick that feels like armor.

"I'm still me," you whisper to your reflection.

You slide open your lingerie drawer, fingers trailing over silk and lace before selecting a pink babydoll nightie with delicate ribbon trim. It's both innocent and provocative—childlike in color but revealing in cut. Your postpartum curves fill it differently than before, spilling over edges designed for your dancer's body.

Strangely, you like the contrast—the softness against the sexuality. Standing before the full-length mirror, you turn sideways, assessing. You look like a woman playing at being a girl, or perhaps a girl playing at being a woman. The confusion of it excites you.

When David knocks again, you don't answer—you simply unlock the door and step back, letting him find you.

"Mei?" He stops short in the doorway, his irritation evaporating at the sight of you. "Jesus."

"The baby's asleep?" you ask, your voice deliberately lower than usual.

"Amber's with her." His eyes track down your body, lingering on the places where flesh meets fabric.

"Good." You move toward him, pressing your painted lips against his neck. "I need you to remind me who I am."

He doesn't ask what you mean—his body responds to yours with an urgency that requires no explanation. His hands find your waist, your hips, pulling you against him with a desperation that matches your own.

You fall onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and purpose. As he moves inside you, you close your eyes, imagining him not just as your husband but as something more primal—a protector, a guardian. The word forms in your mind before you can censor it.

"Yes, Daddy," you gasp, the forbidden word escaping your lips as pleasure crests through you. "Please, Daddy, yes!"

David's rhythm falters for a moment, surprised, then accelerates. The taboo seems to ignite something in him—his grip tightens, his movements become more commanding.

"That's it, baby girl," he growls, the endearment new between you. "Let go for Daddy."

Your climax shatters through you with unexpected force, your cries echoing off the walls. In the aftermath, as you lie panting against his chest, a thin wail cuts through the house—your daughter, awakened by the sounds of your pleasure.

"I'll get her!" Amber's voice calls from the hallway, too close to the bedroom door.

Heat floods your face as you realize she must have heard everything—your cries, your words, the rhythmic creaking of the bed. The humiliation should crush you, but instead, it mingles with the afterglow, creating a confusing cocktail of emotions.

"Shh," David soothes, stroking your hair. "It's okay, baby girl. Let Amber handle it."

The endearment, spoken outside the heat of passion, should jar you back to reality. Instead, it settles over you like a warm blanket. You curl against him, feeling small and protected and, paradoxically, powerful in your surrender.

"Again," you whisper, guiding his hand between your legs, already slick with renewed desire. "Please, Daddy. Again."

Consciousness returns slowly, a warm heaviness pinning you to the mattress. David's arm is draped across your waist, his breathing deep and even against your neck. The events of last night flood back—the passionate reconnection, the forbidden words that passed between you, the way he called you his baby girl even after the heat of the moment had passed.

You shift slightly, and that's when you feel it—a cold, uncomfortable wetness beneath you. At first, you think it might be the aftermath of sex, but this is different. More pervasive. Your thighs are soaked, the sheets beneath you sodden.

You've wet the bed.

Horror washes over you as you carefully extract yourself from David's embrace. The wet patch is unmistakable, spreading across your side of the mattress like a damning accusation. Your nightie clings to your thighs, transparent where the urine has soaked through.

"David," you whisper, shaking his shoulder gently. "David, wake up."

He stirs, eyes blinking open slowly. "Mmm? What time is it?"

"I had an accident," you say, the words catching in your throat. "The doctor warned me this might happen after childbirth, but..."

David sits up, fully awake now. His eyes widen as he takes in the wet sheets, your damp nightgown, the shame burning in your cheeks.

"Oh, Mei," he says, his voice softening. "It's okay. These things happen."

"You can't tell Amber," you say urgently, gripping his arm. "Promise me, David. She can't know about this."

Something flickers across his face—hesitation, perhaps—but he nods. "I promise. Let's get this cleaned up before she wakes up."

You strip the bed together in tense silence, bundling the sheets into the washing machine. David helps you change into fresh pajamas, his hands gentle but clinical, as if handling something fragile.

"The doctor did mention this could happen," you say, needing to fill the silence. "Postpartum incontinence. The muscles get weak, and last night's... activity... probably didn't help."

David nods, but there's something in his expression you can't quite read. Concern, yes, but something else too. Something that makes you feel even smaller than you already do.

"It's just temporary," you add quickly. "It'll stop."

But even as you say it, you remember the doctor's warnings about how long recovery can take, how some women struggle with this for months after childbirth. The thought of waking up like this again—of David waking up to this again—makes your stomach clench with dread.

"Let's get some coffee," David suggests, clearly eager to move past the moment. "I'll make it."

As he leaves the bedroom, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Your hair is tousled from sleep, your face bare of the makeup armor you'd applied last night. You look young, vulnerable—exactly like what you've become in this household. A child who can't even control her bladder.

The worst part isn't the accident itself. It's how perfectly it fits into the narrative Amber has been crafting all along.

The second time it happens, there's no hiding it. You wake to the same telltale wetness spreading beneath you, David's arm still draped across your waist. This time, he stirs before you can slip away, his hand moving to your hip and finding the soaked fabric of your nightgown.

"Again?" he asks, his voice gentle but tinged with concern.

You turn your face into the pillow, shame burning through you. "I'm sorry," you whisper.

David sits up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "This isn't sustainable, Mei. We can't keep washing the mattress every morning."

"I know," you say, your voice small. "I'll call the doctor tomorrow."

"I think we need a more immediate solution." He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, thumbs moving across the screen.

"What are you doing?" You prop yourself up on one elbow, suddenly alert.

"Ordering something." He doesn't look up from the screen. "Adult protective underwear. For nighttime."

The clinical description doesn't soften the blow. "Diapers," you say flatly. "You're ordering me diapers."

David finally meets your eyes. "It's not a big deal, Mei. Lots of women need them after childbirth."

"Then why does it feel like such a big deal?" Your voice cracks on the last word.

His expression softens. "Hey, look. They have different styles." He turns the screen toward you, showing a website with various options. "These even have little ballerina prints. Thought you might like those."

The gesture is so earnest, so clearly meant to comfort, that it breaks something inside you. He's trying to make this palatable, to find some small way to preserve your dignity while addressing the practical reality of your situation.

"Okay," you whisper, surprising yourself. "The ballerina ones."

That night, after another passionate reconnection where David calls you his "baby girl" and you call him "Daddy" again, he helps you into the protective underwear. The package arrived discreetly that afternoon, and you'd hidden it in your closet immediately, as if the cardboard box itself were shameful.

"Lift," he instructs gently, and you raise your hips as he slides the diaper beneath you. The crinkling sound is mortifying, but his hands are tender as he secures the tabs at your hips.

"How does it feel?" he asks, his palm resting on your stomach.

"Weird," you admit. "But... secure."

He pulls you against him, your back to his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist. "Sleep well, baby girl," he murmurs against your hair.

You drift off with surprising ease, the unfamiliar bulk between your legs a constant reminder of your new reality, but also oddly comforting—a barrier against further humiliation.

When you wake, the bed is empty beside you. Sunlight streams through the curtains you forgot to close. Your hand moves automatically to check the diaper—it's dry, the ballerina prints still visible against the white material. A small victory.

It's only as you become fully conscious that you realize your thumb is in your mouth, wet with saliva. You pull it out quickly, staring at the glistening digit as if it belongs to someone else. You don't remember putting it there. You don't remember making that choice.

Days blur together in a haze of diminishing responsibility. The ballerina-print diapers become a nightly ritual—David helping you into them before bed, checking you in the morning. About half the time, they're wet. You've stopped feeling mortified; now it's just routine.

"Let's try again today," Amber suggests, positioning your daughter at your breast. The baby turns away, fussing until Amber takes her back. "She's just particular," Amber says, but her tone carries a note of satisfaction as your daughter latches eagerly to her swollen breast.

You watch, hollow, as your own breasts shrink back to their pre-pregnancy size over the week, the milk drying up while Amber's seem to grow more lush, straining against her nursing tops. The contrast between your bodies becomes a visual representation of your shifting roles—hers flourishing with maternal purpose, yours returning to a state that feels increasingly childlike.

"Can you help me pump?" Amber asks one afternoon, setting up the breast pump at the kitchen table. "My hands get tired holding these."

You find yourself kneeling beside her chair, holding the plastic cones to her heavy breasts while she adjusts the settings. The rhythmic whirring fills the kitchen as her milk flows freely into the collection bottles.

"You're such a good helper," Amber praises, her hand absently stroking your hair. "Auntie's little helper."

The diminutive stings, but you say nothing, transfixed by the steady flow of milk—milk your body failed to produce, milk your daughter prefers to anything you could offer.

David walks in from work, briefcase in hand, and stops short at the domestic tableau before him.

"What's going on here?" he asks, his tone curious rather than concerned.

"Mei's being Auntie's little helper," Amber explains, her fingers still tangled in your hair. "She's got such gentle hands."

David laughs, the sound striking you like a physical blow. Not because it's cruel—it isn't—but because it's accepting. In his eyes, this scene makes perfect sense: his wife kneeling at another woman's feet, helping to collect the milk that will feed their child.

"That's cute," he says, loosening his tie. "You two seem to have worked out a system."

You force a laugh, the sound brittle in your throat. "Just helping out."

But as you continue holding the pump to Amber's breast, you feel it—that curious sensation of shrinking, of becoming less substantial in your own home. You're not the mother, not really. You're the helper. The assistant. The child.

And the most disturbing part isn't that they see you this way.

It's that you're starting to find comfort in it.

The house is quiet when you finally stir, sunlight already high in the sky. David's been gone for two days now, his business trip leaving you alone with Amber and the baby. You've been sleeping later and later, the exhaustion of new motherhood—or perhaps the comfort of surrender—keeping you in bed well past dawn.

You stumble from your bedroom, mind foggy with sleep, wearing only a short silk nightie that barely covers your thighs. It's only when the cool air hits your legs that you realize you're still in last night's diaper, the ballerina print now swollen and heavy between your legs.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Amber calls from the nursery doorway, your daughter cradled against her shoulder. Her eyes drop to your waist, then lower, taking in the unmistakable bulk beneath your nightie. "Oh."

You freeze, one hand instinctively moving to cover yourself, but it's far too late. Heat floods your face as you stand exposed in the hallway, the evidence of your regression impossible to hide.

"I've been having accidents," you confess, the words tumbling out like you're reporting to a teacher. "At night. David's been helping me with...these." You gesture vaguely at the diaper, mortified yet strangely relieved to have the secret out.

Amber's expression softens, her lips curving into a smile that's both maternal and knowing. "Little girls like their secrets," she teases, but her voice is warm, not mocking. "How long has this been happening, Mei Mei?"

The diminutive—little sister in Chinese—makes something twist inside you. "Don't call me that," you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

"Sorry," Amber says, stepping closer. "Did you have a nickname when you were little?"

You hesitate, then surrender this small piece of yourself. "Mei Fly. My dad called me that because I was always jumping around."

"Mei Fly," she repeats, testing it on her tongue. "That's adorable. Listen, do you want me to help you change? That can't be comfortable."

The offer hangs between you, loaded with implications. Accepting means crossing a line, acknowledging a hierarchy that's been forming since Amber first entered your home. But standing here, wet and small in the hallway of your own house, the line seems to have already been crossed.

"Okay," you whisper.

Amber nods, all business now. "Let me put the baby down. She just fell asleep." She disappears into the nursery, returning moments later without your daughter. "Come on, we can do it in here. I've got changing supplies ready."

Of course she does. You follow her into the nursery, where a changing pad lies spread on the floor. Your daughter sleeps peacefully in her crib, oblivious to the role reversal playing out beneath her.

"Lie down," Amber instructs, and you comply, stretching out on the pad designed for an infant. The ceiling fan spins lazily above you as Amber kneels between your legs, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your diaper. "Lift up."

You raise your hips, allowing her to slide the wet diaper from beneath you. The cool air on your exposed skin makes you shiver—or perhaps it's the way Amber's gaze lingers on your most intimate parts.

"You know," she says conversationally, reaching for a wipe, "if you're going to need these regularly, you should really consider shaving down here. It's more hygienic with diapers."

The warm wipe glides over your skin, Amber's touch clinical yet somehow intimate. Each stroke sends a jolt through you, your body responding in ways that have nothing to do with maternal care. When she presses the wipe directly against your center, ostensibly to clean you thoroughly, you can't suppress a small gasp.

Something shifts in the air between you. Amber's movements slow, her eyes meeting yours with a question in them. The combination—her motherly tone, your vulnerable position, the care she's taking with your body—ignites something desperate inside you.

You sit up suddenly, grabbing her wrist, then her face, pulling her into a deep kiss. She stiffens in surprise, resisting for just a moment before softening against you, her lips parting.

When you break away, shame floods you immediately. "I'm sorry, I—"

But Amber is smiling, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "Does Auntie's little Mei Fly want more?" she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper.

You nod quickly, need overriding dignity, and pull her back to you. On the nursery floor, beneath your sleeping daughter's crib, you surrender the last vestiges of your authority, making out with Amber like a teenager while the evidence of your regression lies discarded beside you.

Amber's lips curve into a smile against yours, her hands sliding up to cup your face. "Such a needy little thing," she murmurs, her thumb tracing your lower lip. "Is this what you want, Mei Fly?"

You nod, words failing as she pushes you gently back onto the changing pad. The nursery floor is hard beneath you, but you barely notice as Amber straddles your hips, her weight pinning you down. She's still fully clothed, her nursing top stretched tight across her full breasts, while you lie naked from the waist down, exposed and vulnerable.

"Tell Auntie what you need," she commands, her voice honeyed but firm.

"Touch me," you whisper, shame and desire warring within you. "Please."

Amber's smile widens as her hand travels down your body, fingertips skimming over your silk nightie, pushing it up to reveal your stomach, the stretch marks from pregnancy still visible on your skin. You flinch, trying to cover them, but she catches your wrists.

"No hiding," she says. "Good girls don't hide from Auntie."

The words send a shock of arousal through you. You go still, surrendering as her fingers find their way between your legs. Her touch is expert, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, how to circle and tease until you're arching against her hand.

"That's it," she encourages as you begin to tremble. "Let go for Auntie."

Your release crashes over you, intense and unexpected. You bite your lip to keep from crying out and waking the baby, your body shuddering beneath Amber's steady ministrations.

Before you've fully recovered, she's reaching for a fresh diaper from the stack beside the changing table. "My turn to feel good," she says, unzipping her shorts and pushing them down her hips. She positions herself over your face, her thighs bracketing your head. "Show Auntie how grateful you are."

You comply eagerly, your tongue finding her center, tasting her arousal. Above you, she sighs with pleasure, one hand braced against the wall, the other tangled in your hair, guiding your movements.

When she's satisfied, she climbs off you and reaches for the fresh diaper. "Now, now Mei Fly, Auntie wants to see if you can keep those dry today before she lets you out of them," she says, cutting you off when you begin to protest.

Shame floods you, but you find yourself nodding meekly. "Please, please don't tell David, about any of this," you whisper.

"Don't tell whom?" she checks.

You understand what she means.  "Don't tell Daddy, please."

Amber tsks in scolding disappointment. "Little girls and their secrets. Very well, but you will when he returns."

She tapes you into the fresh diaper with practiced efficiency, then helps you to your feet. The bulk between your legs is a constant reminder of your new position in this household hierarchy.

Throughout the day, you find yourself checking the diaper obsessively, hyper-aware of every bodily sensation. By evening, you're surprised to discover it's still dry, and stranger still, you feel an absurd sense of pride at this accomplishment.

"Good job, Mei Fly," Amber praises when she checks you before dinner. "Auntie's so proud of you." Her approval washes over you like warm sunshine, and you bask in it, momentarily forgetting how far you've fallen.

You stand up shakily from the changing pad, tugging your nightie down to cover yourself. The diaper crinkles loudly with every movement, a constant reminder of your regression.

"Amber," you say, summoning what remains of your authority, "I need you to take this off. This has gone too far."

Amber tilts her head, studying you with amused interest. "Has it? You seemed quite comfortable with our arrangement earlier." Her fingers brush against your hip, tracing the outline of the diaper through your nightie.

"That was..." You struggle to find the words, heat rising to your cheeks. "A moment of weakness. This is still my home, and I'm still an adult."

"Of course you are," Amber agrees, her tone indulgent. "But adults make responsible choices, don't they? And responsible choices include proper hygiene." She gestures toward the changing supplies. "I'd be happy to remove the diaper, Mei Fly, but first we need to address the cleanliness issue I mentioned earlier."

Your stomach drops as understanding dawns. "You want to...shave me?"

"It's really for the best," Amber explains, her voice taking on that sickly-sweet tone that makes you feel simultaneously comforted and diminished. "Hair traps moisture and bacteria. If you're going to continue having accidents, we need to keep you clean and prevent rashes."

"I'm not going to continue having accidents," you protest, but your voice lacks conviction.

Amber smiles knowingly. "Then there's no harm in being prepared, is there? It's just basic hygiene, Mei. Nothing to be embarrassed about."

You weigh your options, feeling cornered. The diaper is uncomfortable, a constant reminder of your diminished status. But allowing Amber to shave you feels like surrendering another piece of your adulthood, your autonomy.

"Fine," you whisper finally. "Just...be quick about it."

Amber's smile widens. "Lie back down, Mei Fly. Auntie will take good care of you."

You comply, settling back onto the changing pad beneath your daughter's crib. Amber retrieves a basin of warm water, a razor, and shaving cream from the bathroom. The preparations feel clinical, but her eyes hold something else as she kneels between your legs.

"Lift up," she instructs, and you raise your hips as she removes the diaper. The cool air against your skin makes you shiver as she applies the warm shaving cream to your most intimate area.

"Such a brave girl," Amber coos as she begins, the razor gliding over your skin with practiced precision. "Auntie's going to make you all smooth and clean."

Each stroke of the razor feels like another layer of your identity being stripped away. You stare at the ceiling, trying to disconnect from the sensation of Amber's fingers positioning you, the gentle pressure of the blade. With each passing minute, you feel smaller, more vulnerable, more childlike.

When she finishes, Amber wipes you clean with a warm cloth. "There," she says, her voice thick with satisfaction. "All done. Doesn't that feel better?"

You reach down tentatively, fingers finding nothing but smooth skin where once there was evidence of your womanhood. The sensation is foreign, unsettling—and yet, there's something about it that doesn't feel entirely wrong.

Evening settles over the house like a weighted blanket. You've spent the day in a strange limbo—part woman, part child—the fresh diaper a constant reminder of your surrender. Your newly smooth skin feels hypersensitive against the padding, alien yet oddly comforting.

Amber appears in your bedroom doorway, arms folded across her chest. "Getting late, Mei Fly. Time to think about bed, don't you think?"

You look up from your phone, where you've been mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, seeing other mothers' perfectly curated lives. "I guess so."

"Would you like Auntie to help you get ready?" Her voice lilts upward, sweet yet challenging. "I could tuck you in. Or..." She pauses deliberately. "You can handle it yourself. Your choice, of course."

The offer dangles between you—a rope to cling to or to hang yourself with. You know what accepting means: another step down this rabbit hole of regression. Yet the thought of being cared for, of surrendering the crushing weight of decision-making even for a night, pulls at something deep within you.

"You can say no," Amber adds, her smile knowing. "Though I suspect you don't want to."

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "I'd like that," you whisper, the words barely audible.

"What would you like, Mei Fly?" Amber presses, making you articulate your surrender.

"I'd like you to...help me get ready for bed. And tuck me in."

Amber's smile widens as she crosses to your closet. "Let's find something cozy for sleep, shall we?"

She selects a soft cotton nightgown—one you haven't worn since before your pregnancy—and lays it on the bed. "Arms up," she instructs, and you comply, allowing her to pull your daytime clothes off and slip the nightgown over your head.

"Good girl," she praises, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders. "Now, let's check if you need a change before sleep."

You lie back obediently as she checks your diaper, her fingers pressing against the material to gauge its dampness. "Still dry," she announces. "Auntie's so proud of you."

The praise washes over you, warm and intoxicating. You smile despite yourself.

"Into bed now," Amber directs, pulling back the covers. You slide between the sheets, feeling small and protected as she tucks them around you, smoothing away wrinkles with practiced hands.

"Would you like a story?" she asks, perching on the edge of the bed.

You nod, unable to voice this final surrender.

Amber reaches for a book on your nightstand—one of the parenting guides you'd bought during pregnancy. She opens it but doesn't read from its pages. Instead, she begins a story in that high, sweet voice reserved for children.

"Once upon a time, there was a little fly who thought she was a butterfly..."

You drift off to the sound of her voice, to a tale of a creature who forgot what she was, who she was, until someone else defined her.

You wake with a jolt, disoriented in the soft morning light. Your diaper is wet again, the ballerina print swollen between your legs. For a moment, you lie there, thumb hovering near your mouth, the urge to suck it almost overwhelming.

No. Not today.

With newfound determination, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your fingers fumble with the tapes of the diaper, ripping them free. The sodden padding falls to the floor with a damp thud that sounds like liberation.

"I am a grown woman," you whisper to your reflection as you step into the shower, letting hot water sluice away the lingering scent of baby powder. You scrub vigorously, fingers exploring the strange smoothness between your legs where Amber shaved you yesterday. The sensation is still foreign, but you reclaim it as your own choice.

After toweling off, you march to your closet and pull out clothes you haven't worn since before pregnancy: a tight black dress that hugs every curve, showcasing the cleavage that once fed your daughter. The irony isn't lost on you.

You apply makeup with surgical precision—winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut, red lipstick like war paint. Each stroke of the brush feels like reclaiming territory.

When you emerge from the bedroom, Amber is in the kitchen, your daughter cradled against her breast. She looks up, surprise flickering across her face before settling into something more calculated.

"Well, look at you," she says, her tone hovering between admiration and mockery. "All dressed up. Special occasion?"

"Just feeling like myself again," you reply, pouring coffee into a mug emblazoned with 'World's Best Mom'—a gift from David before everything changed.

"And how did you sleep?" Amber's eyes flick meaningfully toward your hips, now encased in the tight fabric of your dress.

"Fine," you lie, taking a deliberate sip of coffee. "I've been thinking, Amber. I'm calling some friends today. Going out tonight."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh? And what about the baby?"

"You'll be here," you say, the statement both a question and a command. "That's what we pay you for, isn't it?"

A slow smile spreads across Amber's face. "Of course, Mei. I'm always happy to help." She adjusts her position, deliberately exposing more of her breast as your daughter feeds. "Though I wonder what David would think about you going out so soon after giving birth."

"David isn't here," you remind her, gripping your coffee mug tighter. "And I don't need his permission."

"Of course not," Amber agrees, her tone suggesting otherwise. "Mei Fly doesn't need anyone's permission, does she?"

You flinch at the nickname but hold your ground. "No. She doesn't."

-- Turn 20 -- (This is this point where the story deviates between versions)

You call your friends Molly and Veronica to arrange a night out clubbing, where you can tell them everything that's been happening.

You call Molly first, your fingers trembling slightly as you dial. The phone rings three times before her familiar voice answers.

"Mei? Is that you? God, it's been ages!"

"I need to go out tonight," you say, the words tumbling out. "With you and Veronica. I need to get drunk and tell you something important."

There's a pause, then Molly's voice softens. "Of course, honey. Is everything okay with the baby?"

"The baby's fine," you say, glancing toward the nursery where Amber is putting your daughter down for the night. "It's me who's not okay."

Two hours later, you're seated in a pulsing nightclub, the bass thrumming through your body like a second heartbeat. Veronica, tall and statuesque with her signature platinum bob, slides another tequila shot toward you. Molly, petite with wild red curls, leans in close to hear you over the music.

"So let me get this straight," Veronica says, her perfectly arched eyebrows rising higher with each revelation. "This wet nurse has basically taken over your house, your husband, and your baby?"

You nod, downing the shot. The alcohol burns a path down your throat, warming your blood. "And the worst part? I've been letting her. I've been...enjoying it, in some sick way."

Molly's green eyes narrow. "That bitch is manipulating you, Mei. This is textbook psychological domination."

"David comes back in five days, Wednesday," you say, staring into your empty glass. "By then, she'll have completely taken over."

"Not if we have anything to say about it," Veronica declares, signaling for another round.

Molly suddenly sits up straighter, her eyes brightening with an idea. "Wait. I might have something that could help. At the research facility where I work..."

It's well past midnight when the three of you stumble through your front door, giggling and shushing each other. The house is dark, Amber presumably asleep in the guest room.

"Is she out?" Veronica whispers, collapsing onto your sofa.

You tiptoe down the hallway, peering into the guest room. Amber lies curled on her side, her breathing deep and even. You return to the living room with a nod.

Molly reaches into her purse, extracting two small vials of clear liquid. "These are experimental hormones," she explains, her Irish accent thickening with intoxication. "This one—" she holds up the vial with a blue cap, "—will make your breasts bigger and fill them with milk. And this one—" she indicates the vial with a pink cap, "—will reverse puberty. Shrinks breasts to nothing, increases baby fat, eliminates curves."

"Holy shit," Veronica breathes. "That's some sci-fi level stuff."

Molly leans forward, her eyes gleaming. "Give that bitch the regression hormones in her smoothies and take the other ones. You'll be the one feeding your baby by the time David comes back."

The plan is outrageous, unethical, possibly illegal. But as you sit there, the alcohol clouding your judgment, all you can think about is Amber's smug smile as she nursed your daughter, her hands on your body as she changed your diaper, her voice calling you "Mei Fly."

"I'll do it," you decide, taking the vials from Molly's hand. "She deserves it."

As your friends leave with promises to check in tomorrow, you hide the vials in your nightstand drawer. The plan feels deliciously naughty, a secret rebellion against the woman who's been infantilizing you. Tomorrow, you think, the tables will turn.

The morning light filters through the kitchen blinds as you measure ingredients with surgical precision. Berry after berry tumbles into the blender, the juice staining your fingers like evidence. You uncap the vials Molly gave you, studying the blue and pink tops. The symbolism isn't lost on you—blue for motherhood, pink for childhood. With steady hands, you empty the pink-capped regression formula into one glass, the blue lactation hormones into another.

You're just wiping a splash of pink smoothie from the counter when Amber appears in the doorway. She's wearing one of your husband's t-shirts, the hem barely covering the tops of her thighs. The sight of her in David's clothing sends a jolt through you—another boundary crossed, another piece of territory claimed.

"Morning, Mei," she says, her voice still husky with sleep. "That smells amazing."

You push a glass toward her—the one with the regression hormones, you're certain. "I thought we could talk," you say, keeping your voice neutral. "About expectations and boundaries."

Amber's eyebrow arches. "Boundaries? After our little bonding session the other night?" Her smile is knowing, intimate. "Sure. But I need caffeine first. Make some coffee?"

You turn to the coffee maker, your back to the counter where both smoothies sit. The machine gurgles to life, drowning out the sound of movement behind you. When you turn back, Amber is leaning against the island, scrolling through her phone.

"Thanks for this," she says, nodding toward one of the smoothies. "Very thoughtful."

You grab the remaining glass, bringing it to your lips. The berry flavor explodes across your tongue, masking any hint of the formula within. You drain half of it in three long gulps, the cool liquid soothing your parched throat.

"So, boundaries," Amber begins, setting down her phone. "I think we've moved well beyond those, don't you? I mean, I've seen parts of you your husband probably hasn't."

You choke slightly on your smoothie. "That's exactly what I want to discuss. Things have gotten... confused. I'm still your employer, Amber. I'm still this household's mother."

Amber takes a small sip of her smoothie, watching you over the rim of the glass. "Are you, though? Because from where I'm standing, you seem more comfortable being taken care of than doing the caring."

"That's not true," you protest, finishing your smoothie, but even as the words leave your mouth, you feel a strange tingling in your breasts. They suddenly feel heavy, tender. You press a hand against your chest, confused.

"Are you okay?" Amber asks, her tone shifting to concern.

"I'm fine," you insist, but something feels off. Your mind flashes to the smoothies, to the moment your back was turned. A cold realization washes over you. "Which glass did you take?"

Amber's brow furrows. "The one you pushed toward me. Why?"

You look down at your half-empty glass, the pink liquid suddenly menacing. "No reason," you lie, but your heart is hammering. You've drunk the wrong smoothie.

Amber finishes her untainted drink and sets the glass in the sink. "I'm going to check on the baby. We can finish this boundary talk later." She brushes past you, her fingertips trailing across your shoulder in a touch that's both casual and possessive.

Alone in the kitchen, you stare at the remaining smoothie, your mind racing. What will the regression hormones do to you? How quickly will they work? And most importantly—how will you explain to Molly that your plan has backfired in the most catastrophic way possible?

You fumble for your phone, fingers trembling as you scroll to Molly's number. The device feels strangely oversized in your hand, or perhaps your hands are somehow smaller. You press call, heart hammering against your increasingly flat chest.

"Molly," you gasp when she answers, "I drank the wrong smoothie. The regression one. I need help."

Her sharp intake of breath crackles through the speaker. "Shit, Mei. How much did you take?"

"All of it," you whisper, catching a glimpse of yourself in the vanity mirror. Is your face rounder? "What's going to happen to me?"

"The effects accelerate over the first few hours," Molly explains, her voice clinical but underlined with worry. "Your body will... regress. Prepubescent characteristics. The psychological effects are harder to predict, but—"

"Can you bring more of the growth hormones?" you interrupt, panic rising. "Please, Molly. I can't let Amber see me like this."

"I can't just walk into the lab on a Saturday and take more samples," she says. "Security's too tight on weekends. Monday at the earliest, and even then—"

You hang up, tears welling in your eyes. The room seems larger somehow, the ceiling higher. You curl into yourself on the bed, watching with horrified fascination as your body continues its subtle transformation. Your breasts flatten beneath your nightgown, hips narrowing, skin smoothing out like time-lapse photography in reverse.

Hours pass in a haze of confusion and childish tears. Your thoughts scatter like marbles, impossible to gather. You try texting Veronica, but your fingers type gibberish, concentration slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

The bedroom door opens without a knock. Amber stands framed in the doorway, but something's different about her. Her breasts strain against her tank top, fuller than before. Her shoulders and arms seem more defined, a new confidence in her stance.

"Mei Fly," she says, her voice a blend of concern and accusation. "Do you have something to confess to me?"

You shake your head, pulling the blanket up to your chin. Words feel slippery, hard to form.

"No?" Amber steps closer, towering over you. "Then explain why you look like a teenager while I've gone up two cup sizes since breakfast."

When you remain silent, her expression hardens. "Put on that sexy dress you wore yesterday. Now."

You obey without thinking, sliding from the bed on unsteady legs. The black dress that hugged your curves yesterday now hangs from your diminished frame like a child playing dress-up. The neckline gapes, revealing your flat chest. The hem that once hit mid-thigh now falls below your knees.

Amber guides you to the full-length mirror, hands firm on your shoulders. "Look at yourself," she commands. "Look at what you've done."

The reflection is devastating—a girl of perhaps thirteen or fourteen drowning in a woman's clothes. Your face is rounder, softer, your eyes larger in proportion. Even your hair seems different, thicker and wilder.

"I'll ask one more time," Amber says, her voice gentler now but no less insistent. "Do you have something to confess, Mei Fly?"

The childish urge to please, to be good, to avoid punishment washes over you with startling intensity. Your lower lip trembles as you meet her eyes in the mirror.

"I tried to make you small," you whisper, voice higher than before. "But I drank the wrong smoothie."

Amber's smile is both triumphant and tender. "Oh, sweetie. What am I going to do with you?"

You sink to your knees before Amber, your adult dress pooling around you like a deflated balloon. Your hands, smaller and softer now, clutch at the hem of her shorts.

"Please don't tell Daddy about what I did," you beg, the childish title slipping out before you can catch it. "I'll be good, I promise. I'll follow all your rules."

Amber's eyes widen at the word 'Daddy,' a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face. She cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze.

"Oh, Mei Fly," she says, her voice honeyed with false sympathy. "You've been very naughty, haven't you? Trying to poison me?"

You nod miserably, tears welling in your too-large eyes.

"And you had help," Amber continues, stroking your hair. "Those friends of yours—they're the real troublemakers, aren't they?"

"Molly and Veronica were just trying to help," you whisper, but your voice lacks conviction.

Amber's fingers tighten in your hair, not enough to hurt but enough to command attention. "They gave you dangerous chemicals to put in my food, Mei. That's not helping. That's criminal."

She releases your hair and walks to the bed, sitting on the edge. She pats her lap. "Come here."

You crawl to her, your movements clumsy in your diminished body.

"Call them," Amber instructs, pulling your phone from her pocket. "Tell them to come over this afternoon. Molly should bring more of those hormones."

"Why?" you ask, the question childlike in its directness.

"Because they need to understand what they've done," Amber says, her voice hardening. "When they arrive, they'll drink what they intended for me, and then they'll take their punishment across my lap. Just like you will now."

Your stomach flips with a confusing mixture of dread and anticipation. "But—"

"No buts, Mei Fly. Actions have consequences. Call them now, or I'll tell Daddy everything when he gets home."

With trembling fingers, you make the calls. Molly agrees immediately, promising to bring more hormones. Veronica hesitates but relents when you tell her it's an emergency.

When you hang up, Amber pats her lap again. "Good girl. Now, let's deal with your punishment before they arrive."

You lay across her thighs, face burning with shame and something else—something you're afraid to name. The dress rides up, exposing your bare bottom.

"Count to ten," Amber instructs, her hand resting on your skin.

The first slap echoes in the quiet room, and you gasp out, "One."

The spanking crescendos with each count. By "seven," your voice breaks. At "eight," tears stream down your cheeks. By "nine," you're hiccupping through sobs. And at "ten," you collapse across Amber's lap, crying with the abandon of a chastised child.

"I'm sorry," you wail, your voice higher and more childish than before. "I'll be good, I promise!"

Amber's hand softens, rubbing circles on your reddened bottom. "There, there, Mei Fly. All forgiven now."

She helps you stand, your legs wobbling beneath you. The dress that once made you feel powerful now hangs like a costume. Amber leads you to the closet, pulling out a simple sundress with a Peter Pan collar.

"This will fit better," she says, helping you change as if you're incapable of doing it yourself. Your fingers fumble with the buttons, confirming her assumption.

In the kitchen, Amber directs you to prepare a tray of cookies and juice. "Use the plastic cups," she instructs. "We don't want any accidents."

You arrange everything carefully, tongue poking between your lips in concentration. The doorbell rings just as you finish.

"Get that," Amber says, filling a baby bottle with what looks like milk but smells medicinal.

Molly stands on your doorstep, a small cooler bag in hand. Her eyes widen as she takes in your transformed appearance.

"Jesus, Mei," she whispers. "It worked faster than I thought."

You take the cooler from her unresisting hands, leading her inside where Amber waits. Without prompting, you hand the bag to Amber, who extracts two vials with practiced efficiency.

"So you're the mad scientist," Amber says, her voice deceptively pleasant. She seems taller somehow, her shoulders broader, breasts straining against her top. "Experimenting on your friends without proper consent or oversight."

Molly backs toward the door. "This is between Mei and me."

Amber moves with startling speed, blocking her exit. "Not anymore." She uncaps one vial, emptying it into the baby bottle. "Drink this."

"Fuck you," Molly spits.

Amber grabs her by the hair, yanking her head back. "Such language. Someone needs to learn manners."

She forces the bottle's nipple between Molly's lips, squeezing until liquid dribbles down her chin. Molly struggles, but Amber's newfound strength overpowers her.

"Swallow," Amber commands. "All of it."

You watch, transfixed, as Molly's throat works reluctantly.

"Good girl," Amber praises when the bottle empties. "Now, let's talk about what you've done. Stealing experimental compounds? Distributing untested hormones? That's not just unethical—it's criminal."

Molly sinks to the floor, her face already softening around the edges. "I was trying to help."

"By turning people into children?" Amber shakes her head. "Some help."

She turns to you, her expression gentling. "Mei Fly, why don't you show Molly where she'll be sleeping? I think the nursery has room for another crib."

The words should horrify you, but instead you feel a flutter of excitement at having a playmate. You take Molly's increasingly small hand in yours, leading her upstairs like it's the most natural thing in the world.

You lead Molly by the hand into the nursery, your childish excitement bubbling up as you show her where she'll be staying. The room, once meticulously designed for your daughter, now feels like it's being repurposed for a different kind of family altogether.

"We can share the changing table," you suggest, patting the padded surface with proprietary pride. "And maybe Amber can get us matching jammies!"

Molly stares at you, horror flickering across her increasingly youthful features. "Mei, what the fuck? Don't you realize what's happening to us?"

You blink, momentarily confused by her resistance. "We're being taken care of," you explain, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "No more worrying about feeding the baby or pleasing Daddy or anything grown-up."

Amber appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with casual dominance. Her body seems to fill the space differently now—taller, more substantial, radiating authority.

"The nursery needs another crib," you tell her eagerly. "And maybe we could put some pictures on the walls? Molly likes horses."

"How thoughtful," Amber says, her smile indulgent as she approaches Molly, who shrinks back. "See how helpful Mei Fly is being? You could learn from her example."

Molly's face contorts with rage, but when she opens her mouth, her voice emerges as a childish squeak. "You won't get away with this!"

Amber laughs, the sound rich and confident. "I already have." She turns to you. "Mei Fly, why don't you show Molly your new diapers while I prepare for our other guest?"

You clap your hands, delighted by the task. "They have ballerinas on them!"

As you rummage through the changing table drawers, the doorbell rings. Amber straightens, adjusting her now-straining top. "That'll be Veronica. Be good girls while I greet our visitor."

You hear muffled voices downstairs, then a crash. Curious, you peek out the nursery door. Amber has Veronica pinned against the wall, one hand around her throat, the other holding the baby bottle filled with regression formula.

"Drink," Amber commands, "or I'll call the police about the illegal hormones you and your friends tried to slip me."

Veronica's eyes dart wildly, seeking escape. "Mei!" she calls out, spotting you on the stairs. "Help me!"

You hesitate, caught between your adult friend's desperation and your new childish desire to please Amber. The bottle hovers at Veronica's lips, her last chance at adulthood hanging in the balance.

"Be a good helper, Mei Fly," Amber calls up to you, her voice honey-sweet but eyes hard as flint. "Come hold Veronica's arms for me."

You descend the stairs with childlike eagerness, your sundress swishing around your diminished frame. Veronica's eyes widen in horror as she takes in your transformation—the rounded cheeks, the smaller stature, the innocent expression that has replaced your once-confident gaze.

"Mei, what the hell happened to you?" she gasps, still struggling against Amber's grip.

"I'm helping," you announce proudly, moving to Veronica's side. You grab her wrists, pulling them behind her back with surprising strength. The action feels right, natural—serving Amber gives you a warm glow of satisfaction that drowns out any remaining adult doubts.

"Good girl," Amber praises, adjusting her grip on the bottle. "Hold her steady now."

Veronica thrashes, her ebony bob whipping across her face. "You've lost your fucking mind! Both of you!"

"Language," Amber scolds, pressing the bottle's nipple against Veronica's lips. "Little girls don't use such words."

"I'm not drinking that shit," Veronica hisses, clamping her mouth shut.

Amber sighs dramatically. "Mei Fly, show her what happens to naughty girls who don't listen."

You release one of Veronica's wrists to pinch her nose closed. It's a technique you remember from giving medicine to reluctant pets—a memory from your fading adulthood.

"Sorry, Ronnie," you whisper, though you don't feel particularly sorry. "It's better when you don't fight it."

Veronica holds out as long as she can, but eventually gasps for air. The moment her lips part, Amber shoves the bottle in, squeezing the formula down her throat. Veronica chokes, sputters, but swallows reflexively.

"There we go," Amber coos, stroking Veronica's hair as she continues to feed her. "All of it now."

You watch in fascination as Veronica's resistance weakens. By the time the bottle empties, her struggles have subsided to occasional twitches. Her eyes, once sharp with anger, now hold the confused glaze of someone losing their grip on themselves.

"I don't feel right," Veronica mumbles, her voice already higher. She slumps against the wall, sliding down until she's sitting on the floor.

Amber kneels beside her, cupping Veronica's face in her hands. "That's normal, sweetheart. Your body is just adjusting."

You bounce on your toes, excited by this new development. "Can we play dress-up with her? I think my clothes will fit her soon!"

"What an excellent idea," Amber says, her smile widening as she surveys her growing collection of regressed women. "Why don't you go pick out something pretty for your new playmate?"

You scamper off to your bedroom, rifling through drawers with childish enthusiasm. Behind you, you hear Veronica's last coherent adult protest fade into confused whimpers.

You rummage through your dresser drawers, pulling out an assortment of childish clothing that Amber has gradually introduced to your wardrobe. The soft cotton fabrics and bright colors feel right between your fingers as you select matching outfits for your new playmates.

"Molly should wear the purple one," you decide aloud, holding up a lavender romper with embroidered butterflies. "And Ronnie can have the yellow sundress."

You gather the clothes in your arms and skip back to the nursery where Amber is arranging Veronica on the changing table. Veronica's features have already begun to soften, her platinum bob appearing disproportionately sophisticated against her increasingly childlike face.

"I brought clothes!" you announce, dropping your colorful bundle onto the rocking chair.

Amber smiles approvingly. "Perfect timing, Mei Fly. Veronica needs a complete change."

Veronica's eyes, though clouded with confusion, still flash with defiance. "Stop this," she slurs, her voice higher than before. "I'm a corporate executive, not a fucking doll."

"Such language," Amber tsks, efficiently removing Veronica's tailored slacks and silk blouse. "We'll have to wash that potty mouth with soap if it continues."

You giggle, covering your mouth with your hands. "Ronnie's in trouble!"

Molly sits huddled in the corner, knees drawn to her chest, watching with a mixture of horror and resignation. Her body has regressed further than Veronica's—her once-petite frame now truly child-sized, her wild red curls framing a face that could belong to a ten-year-old.

"Mei," she whispers as you approach with the purple romper. "Don't you remember who you are? Who we are?"

You tilt your head, considering her question with genuine confusion. "I'm Mei Fly. And you're my best friend Molly. And we live with Amber now, and she takes care of us."

"No," Molly insists, though her voice lacks conviction. "You're Mei Chen. You were a dancer. You have a baby. You're married to David."

The names stir something in you—a distant echo of responsibility and adulthood—but Amber's voice cuts through your momentary disorientation.

"Mei Fly, help Molly into her new clothes while I finish with Veronica."

You nod eagerly, the brief uncertainty forgotten. "Arms up," you instruct Molly, tugging at her oversized shirt.

As you dress your reluctant friend, Amber finishes diapering Veronica, who now lies passive on the changing table, her eyes tracking the ceiling fan with childish fascination.

"There," Amber says, lifting Veronica into a sitting position and admiring her handiwork. "Don't you look adorable?"

Veronica blinks slowly, her hand rising to touch her own face with wonder. "What's happening to me?"

"You're becoming who you were always meant to be," Amber replies, her voice honey-sweet but eyes calculating. "Just like Mei Fly did."

You beam at the praise, proud to be the example. "It's better this way," you assure Veronica, patting her knee. "No more boring meetings or grown-up problems."

Amber surveys her transformed household with satisfaction. "Once we're all dressed, we can have a proper tea party to celebrate our new family."

You arrange stuffed animals around the small plastic table in the nursery, humming a nursery rhyme that feels both new and familiar. The tea set—pink plastic with purple flowers—was discovered in a box of your daughter's future toys, now repurposed for your own childish play.

"Mr. Bunny sits here," you announce, placing a floppy-eared rabbit in one chair. "And Miss Unicorn next to him."

Amber watches from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. "What good hosting skills, Mei Fly. Why don't you pour the tea while I help your friends join the party?"

She guides Veronica into the nursery, one hand firmly on the small of her back. Veronica's transformation is progressing rapidly—her statuesque frame has shrunk several inches, her platinum bob now appearing too sophisticated for her increasingly childlike features. The yellow sundress you selected hangs loosely on her diminishing form.

"I don't want tea," Veronica protests, her voice wavering between her adult timbre and a higher, childish pitch. "I want my phone. I have clients expecting calls."

"No phones at tea parties," you scold, perfectly mimicking Amber's authoritative tone. "It's the rules."

Molly follows behind, her regression more complete. The purple romper fits her perfectly now, her once-petite adult frame fully transformed into that of a pre-adolescent. Her wild red curls have been gathered into pigtails, tied with ribbon that matches her outfit.

"Sit down, girls," Amber instructs, guiding them to empty chairs. "Mei Fly has worked so hard to prepare this lovely party."

You beam at the praise, pouring imaginary tea into each cup with exaggerated care. "One lump or two?" you ask Molly, holding up an invisible sugar cube.

Molly stares at you, her eyes still holding a spark of adult awareness despite her childish appearance. "Mei," she whispers, "don't you remember who you really are?"

You tilt your head, genuinely confused. "I'm Mei Fly. And this is my tea party."

"That's right," Amber interjects, placing a plate of actual cookies on the table. "And good hostesses share their treats, don't they?"

You nod eagerly, distributing cookies with careful deliberation. When you hand one to Veronica, her fingers brush yours, and for a moment, something passes between you—a flicker of recognition, of shared adult history. But then she giggles, the sound surprisingly genuine, as crumbs tumble down her sundress.

"Messy!" she exclaims, then looks startled by her own childish outburst.

"I'll clean you up," Amber offers, wiping Veronica's chin with maternal efficiency. Her touch lingers, a subtle reminder of her authority.

The doorbell rings, cutting through the nursery's strange tableau. Amber straightens, adjusting her top. "That must be David. He's home early." She turns to you three, her expression sharpening. "Now, who wants to explain to Daddy what's happened while he was away?"

Your stomach flutters with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Daddy's home—and he's about to discover his new, expanded family.

You scamper down the stairs, your bare feet pattering against the hardwood as you race to greet David. The front door swings open before you reach it, revealing your husband's exhausted face. His tired expression transforms to shock as he takes in your diminished form, the childish sundress, your regressed features.

"Mei?" David's briefcase thuds to the floor. "What the hell?"

"Daddy's home!" you squeal, throwing your arms around his waist. The words feel right in your mouth, natural and sweet. "We've been having a tea party! Come see my friends!"

David stands frozen, his hands hovering uncertainly over your shoulders. "What's happened to you?"

Amber appears at the top of the stairs, her posture commanding the space. "David, I'm glad you're back early. We've had quite the situation develop."

She descends with measured steps, her body language shifting subtly—shoulders back, chest forward, a performance of concerned authority. "I discovered something disturbing this morning. Mei and her friends were experimenting with some kind of hormonal compound. I believe they intended to use it on me, but there was an... accident."

David's eyes dart between you and Amber, confusion etched across his features. "Hormones? What are you talking about?"

"Show him what you did," Amber commands, her voice hardening as she addresses you. "Tell Daddy what naughty things you and your little friends were planning."

You shrink back, suddenly aware you've done something wrong. The childish joy of moments ago curdles into apprehension. "We just wanted to make milk," you whisper, twisting the hem of your sundress between your fingers.

"Bring the others down," Amber instructs, her tone brooking no argument. "David needs to see everything."

You scurry upstairs, returning moments later with Molly and Veronica in tow. David's face pales as he takes in their transformed appearances.

"What the fuck is going on?" he demands, backing against the door.

"Language," Amber scolds automatically. "Not in front of the children." She reaches into her pocket, producing a small vial. "This is what they were playing with. Some experimental compound Molly stole from her research lab. They've been very, very naughty."

David runs a hand through his hair, visibly struggling to process the scene before him. "We need to get them to a hospital."

"No," Amber says firmly. "No hospitals. Not yet. These women need to understand the consequences of their actions first." She turns to the three of you, her expression severe. "Girls, bend over the sofa. Now."

You whimper, recognizing the punishment tone in her voice. Without thinking, you move to obey, your body responding to the authority in her command before your mind can process it.

You move to the sofa without hesitation, bending over its arm and presenting your bottom with an almost practiced submission. The cushions still hold the faint scent of David's cologne, a reminder of the man who once treated you as an equal partner, not a misbehaving child.

"Good girl, Mei Fly," Amber praises, her voice honeyed with approval. "Show your friends how to take their punishment properly."

Molly follows your example with reluctance, her small frame trembling as she positions herself beside you. Veronica resists longer, her partially regressed body caught between adult defiance and childish compliance.

"I'm not doing this," she protests, though her voice has risen several octaves from its former authoritative contralto. "David, this is insane. We need help, not—"

"Now, Veronica," Amber interrupts, her tone brooking no argument. "Or would you prefer the wooden spoon instead of my hand?"

David watches the scene unfold with visible discomfort, his knuckles white as he grips the back of a dining chair. "Amber, I don't think this is—"

"They experimented with illegal hormones, David," Amber cuts him off, her eyes never leaving Veronica. "Actions have consequences. Isn't that what you always say about your clients?"

The familiar phrase—one David often uses when discussing his legal cases—seems to penetrate his shock. He swallows hard, nodding almost imperceptibly.

Veronica finally submits, bending over the sofa with a choked sob. The three of you form a row of upturned bottoms, a visual representation of your new hierarchy in the household.

Amber begins with you, her palm connecting with your rear in a sharp smack that echoes through the living room. The sting blooms across your skin, and to your own surprise, you emit a childish whimper rather than an adult grunt of pain.

"Count them," Amber instructs.

"One," you squeak, fingers digging into the sofa cushions.

By the time you reach "Ten," tears stream down your cheeks, yet underneath the pain lurks a disturbing satisfaction—the relief of having clear boundaries, of knowing exactly what's expected of you.

Amber moves to Molly next, administering the same treatment while you watch, sniffling. Molly counts through clenched teeth, her body jerking with each impact.

When Amber reaches Veronica, something shifts in the room's dynamic. Each smack of her hand lingers slightly longer than necessary, her fingers trailing across the curve of Veronica's bottom through the thin sundress.

"I think they've learned their lesson," David interjects, his voice strained. "This is enough."

Amber pauses, her hand resting possessively on Veronica's lower back. "You're right. They need comfort now, not more punishment." She helps each of you stand, wiping tears from your faces with maternal efficiency. "Who needs a special cuddle from Amber to feel better?"

You raise your hand immediately, desperate for the reconciliation that will erase the sting of punishment, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. "Me first, please," you whimper, the sting of the spanking still hot across your bottom.

Amber opens her arms, and you rush into them without hesitation, burying your face against her chest. Her body is warm, solid—a fortress against the confusion swirling through your diminished mind.

"There's my good girl," she murmurs, stroking your hair with practiced tenderness. "See how nicely Mei Fly takes her punishment, David? No grudges, just acceptance and growth."

You nuzzle closer, inhaling Amber's scent—something floral and expensive that she never wore before taking over your household. The comfort she offers feels essential, like oxygen after drowning.

"I'm sorry I was bad," you whisper, your voice muffled against her blouse. "I won't do it again."

"I know you won't, sweetheart." Amber's fingers trace soothing circles on your back, each touch reinforcing your new place in the hierarchy. "You just got confused and made a mistake. But that's why I'm here now—to help you make better choices."

David watches this exchange with visible discomfort, his knuckles white as he grips the back of the chair. "This isn't right," he says, but his voice lacks conviction. "Mei, you're a grown woman, not a—"

"Not anymore," Amber interrupts smoothly, her hand never pausing its rhythmic stroking of your hair. "The hormones have changed her physically and mentally. She needs structure now, guidance. All three of them do."

You peek at Molly and Veronica from the safety of Amber's embrace. Molly stands with her arms wrapped around herself, tears streaming down her childlike face. Veronica remains bent over the sofa, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"Look at me, David," Amber commands, and something in her tone makes him obey instantly. "These women tried to drug me. Instead, they've regressed themselves. Would you rather I called the authorities? Had them taken away for experimentation by some government agency?"

David's face pales. "No, of course not."

"Then trust me to handle this." Amber's voice softens as her hand slides down to cup your bottom possessively. "I've been managing quite well so far, haven't I? The baby is thriving. The house is in order. And now I'll care for these three as well."

You feel a strange pride at being included in Amber's plans, at being worthy of her care. The adult part of you—the part that should be screaming in protest—grows quieter with each stroke of her hand.

"Good girl," Amber whispers, for your ears alone. "Show Daddy how happy you are with our new arrangement."

You wiggle out of Amber's embrace just enough to turn toward David, your eyes wide and glistening with leftover tears. "Daddy, look!" you exclaim, your voice pitched higher than it's ever been. "Amber takes such good care of me now." 

You twirl in place, your sundress flaring around your diminished form. The childish gesture feels natural, unforced—a perfect expression of your new self. David watches, transfixed by the transformation of the woman he married into this strange hybrid of child and adult.

"She helps me with baths," you continue, counting off on your fingers. "And picks my clothes, and makes sure I don't have accidents." You whisper the last word with exaggerated secrecy, though loud enough for everyone to hear.

David's face cycles through emotions—confusion, concern, and something darker that flashes across his features when you mention "accidents." He clears his throat. "Mei, this isn't—"

"It's Mei Fly now," you correct him, pouting. "Amber says that's my special name because I'm so flighty and cute."

Amber steps behind you, placing her hands on your shoulders with possessive confidence. "She's adapted remarkably well," she tells David, her voice rich with maternal pride. "Much better than the others."

You beam at the praise, leaning back against Amber's body with complete trust. Her hands slide down to your waist, and you instinctively raise your arms up, allowing her to lift you slightly—a gesture that would have been impossible with your former adult weight.

"See how light she is now?" Amber demonstrates, setting you back down with gentle precision. "The regression has been thorough. Physically, she's somewhere between twelve and fourteen, I'd estimate."

You giggle, twirling again before dropping to sit cross-legged on the floor. "Can we have ice cream? To make our bottoms feel better?" You look up at Amber with pleading eyes, the perfect picture of childish supplication.

David watches this display with visible discomfort, but you notice something else beneath his unease—a flicker of fascination, perhaps even arousal, quickly suppressed.

"Ice cream after dinner," Amber decides, her tone brooking no argument. "If everyone behaves."

"I'll be good," you promise fervently, then crawl across the floor to David's feet. You tug at his pant leg, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Will you be home for dinner, Daddy? Amber makes the yummiest food now."

David's hand hovers uncertainly before patting your head, the gesture awkward and hesitant. "I... yes, I suppose I will."

Amber's smile widens fractionally—a predator sensing weakness. "Wonderful. A proper family dinner, then. Girls, why don't you go upstairs and rest before mealtime? Daddy and I need to discuss some grown-up things."

You nod eagerly, scrambling to your feet. "Come on," you urge Molly and Veronica, grabbing their hands. "I'll show you my stuffies!"

As you lead your reluctant playmates toward the stairs, you glance back to see Amber stepping closer to David, her hand coming to rest on his forearm, her voice dropping to a murmur too low for you to hear.

You pause on the stairs, motioning for Molly and Veronica to wait. "I forgot my favorite dolly," you announce loudly, then press a finger to your lips. You creep back down a few steps, crouching to listen.

Amber's voice drifts up from the living room, measured and calm. "The hormones have altered their brain chemistry, David. The regression isn't just physical—it's neurological. Mei's mind is now caught between adult awareness and childish impulses."

"This can't be permanent," David argues, though his voice lacks conviction. "There must be some way to reverse it."

"Perhaps eventually," Amber concedes. "But rushing treatment could cause permanent damage. For now, they need stability and care. Structure."

You hear footsteps—Amber moving closer to David. The rustle of fabric suggests physical contact.

"You've seen how happy she is," Amber continues, her voice dropping to a silky murmur. "How much simpler things have become. No more fights about the baby, no more postpartum depression. Just peace."

"But she's my wife," David protests weakly.

"Was your wife," Amber corrects him. "That woman is gone for now. And you still have needs, David. Adult needs that Mei Fly can't fulfill anymore."

The silence that follows speaks volumes. You imagine Amber's hand on David's chest, his conflicted expression.

"I'm not suggesting anything inappropriate," Amber says, though her tone suggests precisely that. "Just acknowledging reality. You're still a man. With a man's desires."

David clears his throat. "What about the others? Molly and—"

"They will adapt like Mei has. They'll become playmates, keeping each other occupied while we manage the household. The adult responsibilities."

You hear David exhale shakily. "This is insane."

"No," Amber counters. "It's our new normal. And tonight, after the girls are asleep, we can discuss your role in this arrangement more... thoroughly."

You scurry back up the stairs as you hear movement below, grabbing Molly and Veronica by their wrists and pulling them toward your bedroom.

"Come on!" you whisper urgently, your heart racing with conflicting emotions—horror at Amber's manipulation, yet a strange excitement at being included in her plans for a new family structure.

Inside your bedroom, transformed weeks ago from a sophisticated adult space to a childish sanctuary, you close the door and face your friends. Molly sits on the edge of your bed, her eyes vacant with shock. Veronica paces, her movements jerky with suppressed rage.

"We need to escape," Veronica hisses, her adult mind clearly fighting the regression. "Call someone. The police. A doctor."

"No!" The word bursts from you with surprising force. "They'll take us away. Experiment on us. Amber said so."

Molly looks up, tears streaming down her face. "I feel so strange, Mei. Like I'm dissolving. Yesterday I was designing molecular compounds. Today I can barely remember how to multiply fractions."

You sit beside her, taking her hand. The gesture feels both maternal and childish simultaneously—your mind straddling two realities. "It's okay. I'll show you how to be good. How to make Amber happy."

Veronica stops pacing, staring at you with dawning horror. "You want this, don't you? Some part of you is enjoying this regression."

The accusation hits like a slap, but you can't deny the grain of truth it contains. You look down at your lap, suddenly fascinated by the pattern on your sundress.

"We'll figure it out," you say finally, your voice small. "For now, we should play along. Until we can find a way to fix this."

But even as you speak, you wonder which outcome you truly desire—restoration or surrender.

You take a deep breath, meeting Veronica's accusatory stare with unexpected steadiness. "You're right," you admit, your voice hovering between your adult cadence and the childish lilt that's becoming more natural by the hour. "Part of me does like this."

Veronica recoils as if slapped. "How could you possibly—"

"Because it's easier," you interrupt, surprising yourself with the clarity of your insight. "Don't you remember how exhausting it was? Always being perfect, always in control?" You gesture around the room—at the stuffed animals arranged on your bed, the picture books on your nightstand. "Now someone else makes all the decisions. Feeds me. Dresses me. Loves me unconditionally."

Molly pulls her knees to her chest, rocking slightly. "I keep forgetting things," she whispers. "Equations. Theories. They're just... slipping away." Her fingers twist anxiously in her hair. "But when they're gone, I don't feel sad anymore. I feel... lighter."

Veronica paces the perimeter of your room, her movements sharp with frustration. "This is Stockholm syndrome. We're victims, not willing participants."

"Maybe," you acknowledge, tracing patterns on your bedspread. "But fighting feels impossible. Amber has David now. She has our bodies changing against our will. What's our alternative?"

"Resistance," Veronica hisses, her eyes flashing with determination. "Documentation. Finding help."

You slide off the bed, approaching her with the careful movements of someone approaching a cornered animal. "Ronnie," you say, using her childhood nickname deliberately. "I watched you get spanked like a naughty child an hour ago.  The hormones are already working."

Veronica's face crumples, the adult facade cracking to reveal the frightened girl beneath. "I don't want to disappear," she whispers.

You take her hands in yours, feeling how they've already grown smaller, softer. "We won't disappear. We'll just... change. Become something new." You squeeze gently. "And we'll have each other. Always."

Molly slides off the bed, joining your impromptu circle. "I'm scared," she admits, her voice small.

"Me too," you confess. "But I'm also curious. About who we'll become. About how it feels to just... let go."

Veronica's resistance visibly wavers. "What if I can't?"

"Then we'll protect you," you promise, the words feeling both childish and profound. "That's what friends do."

A knock at the door interrupts your conversation. Amber enters without waiting for permission, carrying a tray with three glasses of milk and what look like cookies.

"Snack time, girls," she announces, her smile knowing. "These special treats will help your bodies adjust to the changes."

You look at the cookies—laced with more hormones, undoubtedly—then back at your friends' faces. The choice hangs in the air between you: resistance or surrender.

You reach for a cookie with deliberate slowness, your eyes locked on Veronica's. "Thank you, Amber," you say, your voice sweet and childlike. The cookie feels warm between your fingers, radiating a subtle chemical scent beneath the chocolate and vanilla.

Veronica watches you with horrified fascination as you bring the cookie to your lips. "Mei, don't," she whispers, but there's a note of curiosity beneath her protest.

"It's yummy," you murmur after taking a delicate bite. "And it makes everything easier." You chew slowly, savoring not just the sweetness but the surrender it represents. "The fighting is so exhausting, Ronnie. Don't you want to rest?"

Amber stands behind you, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder with possessive pride. "Good girl, Mei Fly," she praises. "Always setting such a wonderful example."

Molly has already taken her cookie, nibbling at the edges with the cautious approach of a laboratory scientist conducting her final experiment. Her eyes grow wider with each bite, pupils dilating as the hormones begin their swift work.

"I don't want to disappear," Veronica repeats, but her hand trembles as it hovers over the tray.

"You won't," you promise, cookie crumbs dotting your lips. "You'll just become someone new. Someone who doesn't have to carry all those heavy grown-up worries."

Amber's fingers tighten slightly on your shoulder—a warning not to push too hard. "Veronica," she says, her voice gentle yet commanding, "the process has already begun. Fighting only makes it more painful. Look at how peaceful Mei is now."

You smile on cue, feeling a warm tingling spreading from your core outward as the hormones in the cookie accelerate your regression. Your thoughts simplify, sharp edges softening like ice cream melting in summer heat.

"I used to worry about everything," you confess, your words slightly slurred as your adult vocabulary begins to slip away. "My career. My body after baby. If David still wanted me." You giggle, the sound startlingly childish. "Now I just worry about which stuffie to sleep with."

Veronica's resistance crumbles visibly. She takes the cookie with trembling fingers and brings it to her lips. "I hate you both for this," she whispers, but takes a bite anyway. Her eyes close as she chews, tears squeezing from beneath her lashes.

"No, you don't," Amber corrects her softly. "Soon you won't remember how to hate at all."

You watch Veronica's face transform as she swallows—the sharp lines of adult worry beginning to soften, her expression opening like a flower to sunlight. Something in her breaks and remakes itself before your eyes.

"There we go," Amber murmurs, satisfaction thick in her voice. "My three little girls, all together now."

"Can we play dress-up?" you ask, clapping your hands together with childish enthusiasm. The hormones from the cookie have fully bloomed in your system now, simplifying your thoughts into bright, primary colors of emotion. "Amber, do you have special clothes for my friends? I want a pink ballerina outfit, please!"

Amber's smile spreads across her face like a slow-moving tide, satisfaction evident in the slight narrowing of her eyes. "What a wonderful idea, Mei Fly. Let's get everyone properly dressed for playtime."

She sets the now-empty cookie tray aside and opens your closet door, revealing rows of childish outfits that have gradually replaced your sophisticated adult wardrobe over the past weeks. The transformation of your clothing had been so gradual you barely noticed—a nightgown here, a pinafore there—until suddenly nothing remained of the woman who once dressed for board meetings and gallery openings.

"I've been preparing for this," Amber confesses, pulling out three distinct outfits. "I knew your friends would join our special family eventually."

Molly giggles, the sound unnaturally high as she twirls a strand of hair around her finger. The regression hormones have hit her hardest, her scientific mind dissolving like sugar in hot tea. "Can I be a princess?" she asks, her voice breathy with childish wonder.

"Of course, sweetheart." Amber hands her a frilly lavender dress with puffed sleeves and a tiara headband. "This will look perfect with your pretty red curls."

Veronica stands stiffly by the window, her body language still fighting the chemical changes sweeping through her system. "I won't wear anything ridiculous," she states, though her voice lacks its former authority.

"For you," Amber says, ignoring her protest completely, "I think this sailor outfit will highlight those long legs of yours." She holds up a navy blue dress with white trim and a matching beret. "Very sophisticated, just like you."

You bounce on your toes, impatient for your own outfit. "Where's my ballerina clothes? Pink ones?"

Amber reaches deeper into the closet and withdraws a confection of pale pink tulle and satin. "I saved the best for last," she says, holding up a child's ballet costume complete with attached tutu and ribbons for your hair. "I know how much you miss dancing, Mei Fly."

The sight of the costume sends a complicated surge of emotions through you—grief for your former grace and strength, joy at the simplified version of your passion, and a strange arousal at being reduced to playing at what you once mastered.

"Shall we all change together?" Amber suggests, her tone making it clear this isn't actually a question. "Like good little girls at a slumber party?"

Downstairs, you hear the front door open and close—David leaving or returning, you're not sure which. The sound reminds you of the adult world continuing beyond your bedroom door, a world that seems increasingly distant and irrelevant.

You snatch the pink tutu from Amber's hands with childish glee, hugging it to your chest before anyone else can claim it. "Mine!" you declare, the possessiveness startling even to yourself—a flash of your former perfectionism channeled through your regressing mind.

You strip without hesitation or modesty, dropping your sundress to the floor in a puddle of fabric. Your body has changed dramatically over the past days—smaller, softer, with the marks of motherhood fading from your skin like disappearing ink. You stand in just your underwear, which Amber has already replaced with childish cotton panties decorated with unicorns.

"Arms up," Amber instructs, and you comply instantly, allowing her to slip the leotard over your head. The fabric slides against your skin, cool and smooth, a ghost of sensations from your dancing days.

"Look how pretty," you exclaim, twirling before the full-length mirror. The tutu flares around your diminished hips, the pink tulle catching light like spun sugar. You rise instinctively onto your tiptoes, muscle memory from years of training asserting itself through the chemical fog of regression.

"Beautiful, Mei Fly," Amber praises, her hands lingering on your shoulders. "A perfect little ballerina."

Molly claps her hands in delight, already reaching for her princess costume. "Me next, me next!"

Veronica remains by the window, arms crossed defensively over her chest. "This is ridiculous," she mutters, but her eyes follow your movements in the mirror with unmistakable longing.

"It feels so nice," you tell her, executing a wobbly pirouette. "Like being free."

"Free?" Veronica scoffs, though her voice trembles. "We're prisoners in our own bodies."

You dance toward her, taking her hands in yours. "No, Ronnie. We're free from having to be perfect all the time." You guide her hands to the buttons of her blouse. "No more board meetings. No more performance reviews. Just play and naps and snacks."

Something shifts in Veronica's eyes—resistance giving way to curiosity. "I am tired," she admits quietly, fingers working at her buttons. "So tired of fighting."

"That's it," Amber encourages from across the room, where she's helping Molly into her lavender princess dress. "Let Mei Fly show you how nice it can be."

You help Veronica undress with the focused attention of a child playing with a doll, folding each discarded garment with exaggerated care. When she stands in her plain cotton underwear, you hold up the sailor dress, letting her step into it like a child being dressed by a parent.

"See?" you whisper as you button her up. "Isn't it nicer when someone else takes care of everything?"

You twirl in your pink tutu, the fabric swishing around your thighs as an idea crystallizes in your regressing mind. "We should do a dance show for Daddy!" you announce, clapping your hands together. "I can show him my ballet!"

Amber's eyes gleam with calculated interest. "What a wonderful idea, Mei Fly. David would love to see how talented his little girl is."

Molly giggles, the lavender princess dress making her look like a child playing dress-up rather than the research scientist she was days ago. "Can I dance too? I never learned ballet."

"Everyone can dance," you declare with childish authority. "I'll teach you. I remember... some things." Your brow furrows as you try to access the muscle memory from years of rigorous training, now filtered through your simplified mind.

Veronica adjusts her sailor dress with what remains of her dignity. "I'm not performing like a circus animal," she mutters, though her resistance lacks conviction.

You grasp her hands, pulling her into the center of the room. "Please, Ronnie? It'll be fun! And Daddy will be so proud of us."

Amber watches this interaction with the satisfied expression of a chess master seeing pieces move according to plan. "I'll go tell David about your special surprise," she offers, moving toward the door. "You girls practice while I get him ready."

As she leaves, you position yourself before the mirror, rising onto your tiptoes in an approximation of first position. Your body remembers what your mind struggles to articulate—years of discipline and artistry reduced to childish mimicry.

"Like this," you instruct, demonstrating a wobbly plié. "It's easy!"

Molly attempts to copy you, her movements clumsy but enthusiastic. Veronica watches, arms crossed, before reluctantly joining in when you tug at her sleeve.

"Daddy's going to think I'm so pretty," you say, executing a spin that would have made your former dance instructor wince. "Do you think he'll clap for us?"

"I'm sure he will," Veronica responds, her voice hollow as she mechanically follows your lead. Something flickers in her eyes—a last desperate grasp at her fading adult self.

"This isn't right," she whispers, but continues the movements anyway, her body betraying her mind's resistance.

You ignore her comment, lost in the joy of movement and the anticipation of David's approval. The hormones coursing through your system have transformed your sophisticated understanding of dance into something simpler, more primal—the pure pleasure of a child showing off.

"We need music!" you declare, spinning toward your nightstand where a pink plastic music box sits among stuffed animals. "This can be our special ballet music."

The tinkling melody fills the room as you resume your practice, unaware of the profound transformation your suggestion represents—a former professional dancer now seeking validation through a child's performance, your identity rewritten note by note.

You position yourself in front of Molly and Veronica, your posture automatically straightening despite your regressing mind. "First position!" you announce with exaggerated enthusiasm, placing your heels together and turning your toes outward. The movement comes naturally to your body even as your mind struggles to articulate the technique.

"No, no, Molly! Like this!" You giggle, tottering over to adjust her stance. Your corrections become increasingly simplified, reduced to "pointy toes" and "arms like rainbows" instead of the precise technical language you once commanded.

"Is this right?" Veronica asks, her sailor dress swishing as she attempts to mimic your stance. There's a flicker of her former analytical mind trying to perfect the movement with methodical precision.

"Almost!" you exclaim, clapping your hands. "But you gotta smile more! Ballet is pretty!" You demonstrate a wobbly pirouette, nearly losing your balance but laughing through it. "See? Pretty!"

As you continue teaching, your instructions devolve further. "Now we do jumpy-jumps!" you declare, demonstrating what was once a sophisticated jeté, now reduced to childish hopping. The regression hormones surge through your system with each elevated heartbeat, accelerating their effect.

"I can't remember the next part," you pout suddenly, your brow furrowing with momentary confusion. "But we can make it up! That's what good ballerinas do!"

Molly embraces your childish choreography with abandon, her princess dress twirling as she spins. "Look at me! I'm flying!"

Veronica's movements remain stilted, her body resisting what her mind increasingly craves. "This is ridiculous," she mutters, even as she follows your lead.

"No, it's fun!" you insist, stamping your foot with childish petulance. "You're being a grumpy-pants, Ronnie!"

The door opens, and Amber appears with David hovering behind her. "How's the rehearsal going, little ones?" she asks, her voice honey-sweet.

"Daddy!" you squeal, running to David with arms outstretched. "We're not ready yet! You can't see until the big show!"

David's expression shifts between confusion, concern, and something darker—a primal response to your childish display that both disturbs and excites him. "I just came to check on you," he says, his voice strained.

"They're having so much fun," Amber explains, her hand resting possessively on David's arm. "Aren't they adorable?"

"Go away!" you insist, pushing at David's legs. "It's a surprise!"

As they retreat, you return to your friends, completely unaware of the profound transformation visible in your behavior—the sophisticated dancer now reduced to a child playing at ballet, finding joy in the simplicity that would have horrified your former self.

You tug at Amber's sleeve as she returns to the bedroom, your eyes wide with childish excitement. "Can you help us with special costumes? For the dance show?" Your voice lilts upward, the sophisticated articulation of your former self almost entirely gone.

Amber's smile spreads slowly across her face, satisfaction glimmering in her eyes. "Of course, Mei Fly. What kind of costumes were you thinking?"

"Real ballerina ones," you insist, twirling in your pink tutu. "With sparkles and... and crowns! Princesses who do ballet!"

"I think I know just the thing," Amber says, crossing to the closet where, somehow, she seems to know exactly where everything is—as if this has been her bedroom all along. She pulls out a large storage container you don't remember owning, popping the lid to reveal a treasure trove of costume pieces.

"Look what I found," she announces, lifting out three sparkly tiaras. "Perfect for dancing princesses."

Molly gasps in delight, bouncing on her toes. "I want the purple one!"

"And special leotards," Amber continues, extracting three adult-sized dance costumes that shimmer with sequins. "These will look beautiful on stage."

You frown, suddenly confused. "Where did these come from?"

"Don't you remember, sweetie? These are from your old performances." Amber's voice is gentle but firm, rewriting your history with each word. "Before you decided dancing was too hard and grown-up for you."

The explanation satisfies your simplified mind, erasing the momentary doubt. "Oh! I remember now!"

Veronica stands by the window, arms crossed. "Those aren't from performances. They're custom-made costumes. Expensive ones."

"Ronnie's being grumpy again," you announce, taking the pink leotard from Amber's hands. The fabric feels familiar against your skin—high-quality, professional-grade—triggering a fleeting memory of spotlights and applause.

"Let's get you girls dressed properly," Amber says, ignoring Veronica's resistance. "David will be so impressed with how beautiful you all look."

She helps you out of your tutu and into the leotard with practiced efficiency, her fingers lingering at your shoulders as she adjusts the straps. "Perfect," she murmurs, turning you toward the mirror.

The reflection startles you—for a moment, you see yourself as you were: poised, powerful, professional. Then the image shifts, and you're just a little girl playing dress-up in clothes too sophisticated for her understanding.

"Pretty!" you exclaim, twirling again.

"My turn," Molly demands, already stripping off her princess dress without modesty.

Veronica remains by the window, watching as Amber transforms you both with costume and cosmetics—a light dusting of glitter on cheekbones, lips glossed pink, hair swept into ballerina buns.

"Don't you want to be pretty too, Veronica?" Amber asks, holding out the blue leotard.

"I don't dance," Veronica replies, but her eyes never leave the sparkly fabric.

"Everyone can dance," you echo Amber's earlier words. "Please, Ronnie? For the show?"

The resistance in Veronica's eyes flickers, then dims. She reaches for the costume with trembling fingers. "Fine. But I'm not wearing the tiara."

"We'll see," Amber says with quiet confidence, already unzipping Veronica's sailor dress.

You slip into the sequined leotard, the professional-grade fabric familiar against your skin. Standing before the mirror, you rise onto your tiptoes, executing a wobbly arabesque that would have mortified your former self. Now, it fills you with childish delight.

"Look how sparkly!" you exclaim, twirling to make the sequins catch the light. Your reflection shows a woman physically adult but behaviorally regressed—professional dancer's muscle memory trapped in a mind increasingly childlike.

"Arms like rainbows," you instruct Molly, who mimics your movements with clumsy enthusiasm. "Higher, higher!"

Veronica reluctantly practices beside you, her movements precise despite her resistance. "This is ridiculous," she mutters, but continues the routine.

Amber watches from the doorway, phone in hand. "David's waiting downstairs with a special surprise," she announces. "Are my little dancers ready?"

"Ready!" you and Molly chorus, while Veronica merely nods.

Amber leads your procession down the stairs, you and your friends tottering in formation. The living room has been transformed—furniture pushed aside to create a makeshift stage, David seated in the center like an audience of one.

But he's not alone.

Two women sit beside him, both appearing oddly youthful. One has honey-blonde hair styled in a girlish bob, the other dark curls pulled into a high ponytail. They turn as you enter, and recognition hits you with jarring force.

"Ms. Eleanor? Ms. Patricia?" you blurt out, childhood ballet instructors' names somehow surfacing through your regression.

"No, silly," Amber corrects gently. "That's Ellie and Patty—Veronica and Molly's mommies. They came to watch the show."

The women smile with vacant sweetness, their expressions eerily similar to Molly and Veronica's—docile, regressed, compliant. Eleanor wears a floral sundress that seems too juvenile for her age, while Patricia's pigtails are tied with ribbons matching Molly's leotard.

"Surprise!" David announces, his voice strained with forced enthusiasm. "Amber thought it would be nice to invite everyone for the performance."

You stare at the women, confusion piercing through your regressed state. They should be in their fifties, accomplished professionals like their daughters. Instead, they appear barely older than Amber, with the same glazed contentment you've seen developing in Molly's eyes.

"Time for the show," Amber announces, pressing play on a portable speaker. The opening notes of Swan Lake fill the room—not the tinkling music box version, but the full orchestral piece you once performed to on professional stages.

Your body responds automatically, muscle memory carrying you through the opening positions even as your mind struggles to comprehend the strange audience before you. You dance for Daddy's approval, but your eyes keep returning to Eleanor and Patricia, their presence a puzzle your regressing mind can't quite solve.

David watches with conflicted fascination as you perform, his gaze alternating between you and Amber, who stands behind the seated group like a puppetmaster surveying her collection.

You dance with childish abandon, executing moves that once defined your professional career but now serve only to please your audience. Your body remembers what your mind has forgotten—the precise angle of an arabesque, the controlled momentum of a pirouette. Through it all, your eyes keep returning to David, seeking his approval even as questions about Eleanor and Patricia nag at the edges of your consciousness.

When the music finally fades, you curtsy deeply, a performer's instinct that transcends your regression. David applauds with genuine appreciation, though his eyes betray his unease at the tableau before him—five women in various states of psychological regression, performing for his benefit.

"Did you like it, Daddy?" you ask breathlessly, rushing to stand before him.

"It was beautiful, Mei," he answers, his voice thick with conflicted emotions.

You beam with pride before turning to Amber, who stands at the edge of the makeshift stage area like a director pleased with her production.

"Amber," you begin, your voice suddenly clearer than it's been in days, "why do Eleanor and Patricia look so young? They're supposed to be old ladies."

The room falls silent. David shifts uncomfortably in his seat while Molly and Veronica exchange confused glances, as if seeing their mothers clearly for the first time.

Amber's smile doesn't falter, but something shifts in her eyes—a calculation, a decision being made. "You're very observant, Mei Fly," she says, approaching you with measured steps. "More than I expected you to be at this stage."

"They look like us," you insist, gesturing toward the women who sit with placid smiles, apparently unbothered by your questions. "But they're supposed to be mommies."

"They are mommies," Amber confirms, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Just like you're a mommy. But sometimes, mommies need to remember what it's like to be young again."

"Did you give them medicine too?" you ask, the question emerging with surprising clarity from your regressed mind.

Amber's fingers tighten slightly on your shoulder. "I helped them, yes. Just like I'm helping you."

David stands abruptly. "I think that's enough questions, Mei. Why don't we have some snacks to celebrate your wonderful performance?"

"But—" you begin, only to be interrupted by Amber.

"David's right," she says smoothly. "Dancing princesses need their treats. And then maybe a nice nap for everyone?"

You look from Amber to David, then back to Eleanor and Patricia, who continue to smile vacantly. Something important is happening, something you can't quite grasp with your simplified mind. But the promise of treats and David's approval proves too powerful to resist.

"Okay," you agree reluctantly, allowing yourself to be led toward the kitchen, the unanswered questions fading like mist in the warmth of Amber's practiced maternal guidance.

As the others move toward the kitchen, Amber takes your elbow, guiding you to a quiet corner of the living room. Her touch is firm, proprietary, like someone adjusting a painting they've hung themselves.

"Since you are still so observant, Mei Fly," she says, her voice dropping to a register you haven't heard before, "I will confess. My name is not Amber. That is merely my favorite color, the color of my apples, some call them golden. You never asked my last name. It is Apalder, norse for Apple tree.  My true name is Idun child, goddess of rejuvenation, keeper of the apples of youth." 

She hefts her ample breasts in her hands, the casual vulgarity of the gesture shocking you into stillness. "Though mine apples are not actual fruit, but fruit of my own tree. And I am not 22, but closer to 22 hundred." 

You blink, the information landing like stones in still water, creating ripples of confusion through your simplified mind. "What, why?" 

"Sometimes I am needed by mortals, even if you are all children by comparison." Her eyes gleam with ancient light, nothing like the warm caregiver you thought you knew. "Your secret desires call to me. Yours were extra sweet." 

Her expression darkens, shadows collecting in the corners of her mouth. "But you, and your friends, you tried to poison me. That I had not experienced before." She releases your arm, stepping back to survey you like a craftsman appraising their work. "This is your punishment. David is your Daddy now, a new reality created. Your friends will have their mommies back. You three will end up mere toddlers, and you will remember that it is unwise to threaten a goddess." 

"A goddess?" The word emerges as a whisper, your mind struggling to process what she's telling you. 

"Of rejuvenation, of nurturing, of the breast." Amber—no, Idun—gestures toward the kitchen where David is serving cookies to the others. "Of the hearth and home. I've had many names through many ages. The Vikings knew me well." 

"I don't understand," you say, your voice small, childlike. "We didn't mean to hurt you." 

"Intent matters little when dealing with immortals, little one." She smooths your hair with terrifying tenderness. "Your friend's concoction could have killed any mortal woman. But it merely... annoyed me." 

David appears in the doorway, concern etched on his features. "Everything okay over here?" 

"Perfect," Idun replies, her voice shifting back to Amber's familiar warmth. "Mei Fly was just telling me how much she loves her new family arrangement." 

You open your mouth to protest, to tell David what she's revealed, but the words dissolve on your tongue like sugar. Your thoughts scatter like startled birds, leaving only confusion and the desperate desire for comfort. 

"Daddy," you whimper, reaching for him with sudden need. 

David's expression softens as he takes your hand. "Come have a cookie, princess. You danced so beautifully." 

As he leads you away, you glance back at Amber—at Idun—who watches with the patient satisfaction of an immortal who has all the time in the world to complete her work.

You look up at Amber—no, Idun—with wide eyes, a decision crystallizing in your regressing mind. Fighting a goddess seems futile. And isn't this what you secretly wanted? To be free of responsibility, to be cared for completely?

"I understand," you whisper, your voice already higher, childlike. "I'll be a good girl now."

Something shifts in the air between you—a contract sealed, a bargain struck. The regression accelerates immediately, a warm tingling spreading through your limbs. Your body begins to shrink visibly, bones softening, curves melting away as your adult form recedes like tide from shore.

"What's happening to Mei?" David gasps, watching as your ballerina costume hangs increasingly loose on your diminishing frame.

"She's accepting her true place in the family," Idun explains, her voice rich with satisfaction. "Aren't you, little one?"

"Yes, Auntie," you lisp, your tongue suddenly too big for proper speech. "I wanna be your little ballerina."

You toddle toward David on unsteady legs, your body now resembling a two-year-old's—small, pudgy, with dimpled knees and elbows. The leotard slips off one shoulder, revealing skin soft as peach fuzz.

"Daddy," you reach for him, "up please?"

David hesitates, his face a battlefield of conflicting emotions—horror, fascination, and something darker, more primal. He looks to Idun, who nods permission.

"It's what she wants, David. What she's always wanted, deep down."

He lifts you, and you feel the tremor in his hands as they circle your now-tiny waist.

"Molly, Veronica," you call to your friends, who watched your transformation with terrified fascination. "It's okay! It feels nice!"

Molly takes a hesitant step forward, then another. "Does it hurt?"

"No," you giggle, the sound bubbling from you like champagne. "It tickles!"

Idun scowls and approaches Molly, her hand extended. "You tried to poison me, little one. But I'm forgiving when proper penance is paid."

"We didn't know," Molly whispers, but her body is already beginning to change, shrinking as yours did.

"Molly," you call, "don't fight it! We were naughty to try and hurt Auntie Amber. We deserve this.  This is better!"

Veronica backs away, but Eleanor—her regressed mother—takes her hand, guiding her toward Idun with gentle insistence.  "Bad little girls get punished," Eleanor tells her already shrinking daughter.

"Mommy, no," Veronica protests, but the word 'Mommy' seems to trigger something in her, accelerating her own regression.

"What will happen now?" you ask Idun, your simplified mind curious but unafraid.

Idun smiles, stroking your cheek with one finger. "Now we become a proper family. David will be Daddy to all my little ones, and I will be the mother you all need. Your daughter will be your sister now—isn't that sweet? And you'll have a perfect little dancer's body this time. No more curves to throw off your balance."

"Ballet!" you clap your hands in delight, the promise of dance without adult complications thrilling your toddler mind.

"But first," Idun continues, her voice hardening slightly as she turns to Molly and Veronica, who have now regressed to match your toddler state, "naughty girls who try to poison goddesses must be properly punished. Eleanor, Patricia—your daughters need discipline."

The regressed mothers nod in unison, their movements puppet-like as they lead their now-toddler daughters to opposite corners of the room.

You watch from the safety of David's arms as Eleanor and Patricia lead their regressed daughters to opposite corners of the living room. The mothers' movements are synchronized, eerily similar despite their different builds and features, as if puppetered by the same invisible hand.

Each mother sits and pulls their toddler daughter over their lap, pulling down their diapers and spanking their bare bottoms.  The little girls squeal and wail.

When they are finished with the spankings, Molly whimpers as Patricia turns her to face the wall, her tiny shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeats, her voice pitched high with childish distress.

Veronica, always the composed one, maintains some of her dignity even in her diminished state—until Eleanor firmly pats her sore bottom and commands, "Nose to the wall, young lady." Veronica's face crumples, her mental regression accelerating as she accepts the punishment.

"They'll be okay?" you ask Idun, your voice small but concerned.

"They'll be perfect," she assures you, stroking your hair. "Just like you will be. Would you like to show Daddy what a good dancer you still are?"

The suggestion ignites something in you—a spark of your former self, but twisted into this new reality. You wiggle in David's arms, eager to be set down. "Dance for Daddy!"

David places you carefully on the carpet, his hands lingering on your tiny shoulders. "Are you sure about this, Mei—" he catches himself, "—Mei Fly?"

"Yes!" you beam up at him, your adult concerns dissolved in the simple joy of pleasing those you love. "Watch me!"

You rise onto your tiptoes, arms curved above your head in fifth position. Your body remembers what your mind has forgotten—the discipline, the control, the years of training. But your toddler limbs interpret these memories differently, adding a wobbling sweetness to movements once executed with precision.

You pirouette, stumbling slightly but recovering with a giggle that bubbles from deep within. Your tutu flares around your diapered bottom as you leap, the padding between your legs affecting your balance in ways your dancer's instincts struggle to compensate for.

"Beautiful," Idun murmurs, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Such a talented little thing."

David watches, transfixed. His expression shifts between wonder and disbelief as you perform an abbreviated version of a routine you once danced professionally. The cognitive dissonance is written across his features—recognizing the skill of his wife in the body of what appears to be their child.

"She remembers," he whispers to Idun. "How is that possible?"

"The body knows what the mind forgets," Idun replies cryptically. "Dance is in her soul, not just her mind."

You finish with a wobbly curtsy, beaming up at your audience. "Did I do good, Daddy? Auntie Amber?"

David kneels before you, his eyes glistening. "You were amazing, princess."

Idun claps slowly, deliberately. "What a special little girl you are. I think you've earned a reward." She glances toward the kitchen. "Would you like a special bottle while your naughty friends finish their time-out?"

"Yes please!" you exclaim, reaching for David's hand. The word 'bottle' triggers a wave of thirst and comfort-seeking that overwhelms any remaining adult hesitation.

You reach for the bottle Idun offers, your small hands grasping at the air between you. The plastic is ornate, unlike any baby bottle you've seen before—amber-tinted with strange symbols etched around its circumference. The liquid inside shimmers with an iridescence that catches the afternoon light filtering through your living room windows.

"This is special milk," Idun explains, her voice melodic and hypnotic. "It will help you grow into exactly the little girl and eventually woman you dream to be.  However, if you take it, freely, there is no turning back.  You will grow up the traditional way, and David will never again be your husband, only your Daddy."

You hesitate, tiny fingers touching the cool bottle. Something in your regressed mind still clings to fragments of adult awareness—enough to make you pause. 

This is the point where this version, A2, deviates from Version A1

"No turning back?" you ask, realizing that Idun just admitted you could still be an adult.  "Why is this one so special?  Did you make it just for me?"

Idun grins, admiring the bottle.  "No, it would work slightly differently on your little friends if they took it.  But it is very special.  There are levels to a goddess' magic.  This is the highest.  It will change reality and transfer the last of your maturity to me.  But for it to work, it must be accepted."

"And you'll be my Mommy?" you ask.

Idun chuckles melodically.  "Yes Mei Fly."

You look up at her, studying the fullness of her breasts straining against her blouse, her command of the room, her total and complete motherly maturity, and a different desire forms in your simplified thoughts.  You take the bottle in your small hands.

"What I say?" you ask innocently.

Idun smiles, "You say, I accept this gift willingly..."

With the speed and precision of a dancer, you lunge forward and jam the ornate bottle between Idun's parted lips. Her eyes widen in shock—immortal arrogance giving way to mortal surprise—as you squeeze the bottle with all the strength your tiny hands can muster.

The amber liquid gushes into her mouth, catching her mid-sentence. She chokes, sputters, but instinctively swallows more than a mouthful before she can stop herself. The bottle's strange symbols pulse with light as the liquid passes her lips.

"You little—" she gasps, falling backward onto the plush carpet, the bottle still clutched in your determined grip.

You scramble forward with unexpected agility, straddling her chest and forcing the bottle between her lips once more. Your small body contains the muscle memory of a dancer—balance, timing, leverage—all deployed in this desperate gambit.

"Drink it!" you command, your childish voice carrying an authority that surprises even you.

Idun thrashes beneath you, but you manage to squeeze another substantial dose down her throat before she shoves you away with supernatural strength. You tumble across the floor, coming to rest against David's legs.

"Mei!" he cries, reaching for you. "What are you doing?"

Idun rises to her feet, her body emanating a golden glow that bathes the room in eerie light. Her face contorts with fury, eyes blazing like twin suns. The air around her crackles with ancient power.

"You dare?" she hisses, her voice layered with otherworldly harmonics. "You dare to turn my own essence against me?"

You cower against David, terrified by the unleashed power before you. But then, something changes. The glow flickers, dims. Idun's face shifts from rage to confusion, then to horror.

"N-no!" she stammers, examining her trembling hands as the golden light recedes into her skin. "I did not mean... All-Father, I did not mean that!"

Her body begins to change before your eyes—not the gentle regression she inflicted on you and your friends, but something violent and unwilling. Her height diminishes inch by inch, her features softening, her curves receding.

"The milk," you whisper, understanding dawning even through your childish mind. "It's changing you."

"This cannot be!" she cries, her voice climbing octaves as her body descends through the years. Twenty-five, twenty, eighteen... "I am Idun! Keeper of youth, not its prisoner!"

She lunges for you, fingers curled like claws, but her body is already that of a teenager—gangly, uncoordinated, her former grace abandoned. "You little witch!"

You bounce away with a dancer's instinctive skill, your tiny body responding to muscle memory your mind can no longer fully comprehend. The bottle remains clutched in your hand, half-empty, a weapon you never knew you possessed.

"Hold still!" a sixteen-year-old Idun shouts, her once-commanding voice cracking with adolescent uncertainty. Her golden hair has dulled to dishwater blonde, her previously voluptuous form now awkward with teenage angles. "Everyone, get her!"

The room remains motionless. Eleanor blinks rapidly, as if waking from a dream. Molly and Veronica, still in their regressed toddler forms, stare with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Patricia touches her face, fingers tracing the contours of features she doesn't recognize.

"Everyone...?" Idun's voice falters as realization dawns. The invisible threads of control she'd woven through the household have snapped. Her eyes dart around the room, panic replacing confidence.

"I will unmake you for this!" she roars, lunging for you with gangly limbs. "Crush your puny form in my hands, Mei Fly!"

You duck beneath her grasp, your body responding with a fluidity that surprises you. The regression is reversing—you can feel it in your lengthening limbs, your sharpening mind. You're no longer a toddler but something closer to eight years old, your movements gaining precision with each passing second.

"David," you call out, your voice stronger, clearer, "hold her."

Without hesitation, David rises from his chair. The fog of confusion that's clouded his features since Amber's arrival seems to be lifting. He moves with purpose, grabbing Idun's flailing arms from behind.

"Let go of me, mortal!" she spits, thrashing against his grip. "You cannot contain a goddess!"

"You're not looking very godlike right now," you observe, circling them with the bottle still clutched in your hand. The remaining liquid sloshes inside, catching light in hypnotic patterns.

Idun's regression has slowed—she hovers somewhere between fifteen and sixteen, still taller and stronger than your eight-year-old form. But the balance of power has shifted irrevocably.

"One more dose," you murmur, calculating distances with a dancer's precision. "Just need to get a little closer."

"Don't you dare," Idun hisses, jerking her head away as you approach. "This isn't over, Mei Chen. I've existed for millennia. I'll find you again."

"Maybe," you concede, feinting left before darting right. "But not today."

With a dancer's grace, you leap forward, fingers gripping Idun's jaw with surprising strength. Her eyes widen as you force the bottle between her lips once more, squeezing the remaining liquid down her throat.

A sound like breaking glass fills the room—though nothing visible shatters. Idun convulses in David's arms, her body flickering between forms: the confident wet nurse, the raging teenager, and something else—something ancient and terrible glimpsed only for a heartbeat before it's gone.

When the flickering stops, a fourteen-year-old girl remains, ordinary and confused.

"Where am I?" she whispers, blinking at David with genuine bewilderment. "Who are you people?"

You step back, your own body continuing its gradual return to adulthood. The bottle in your hand has gone clear, the strange symbols faded to nothing.

"What just happened?" David asks, carefully releasing the girl who was once a goddess.

You approach the confused teenager who was once a goddess, your ten-year-old body moving with surprising grace. The transfer of power between you feels incomplete—like a conversation cut short mid-sentence.

"Are you okay?" you ask, your voice gentler than you expected.

The girl looks up at you with wide, frightened eyes. Gone is the imperious goddess who threatened to unmake you. In her place sits a gangly teenager with dishwater blonde hair and freckles across her nose.

"I don't know where I am," she whispers. "Or who I am."

You glance around the room. Molly and Veronica remain in their toddler forms, clinging to their regressed mothers. David stands nearby, his expression cycling through confusion, relief, and concern.

"Wait here," you tell the girl, patting her knee.

You cross to the mini-fridge tucked discreetly behind the bar cart—a recent addition you don't remember purchasing. Inside, rows of amber bottles gleam under the refrigerator light, each filled with what you now recognize as Idun's breast milk.

"Two years," you murmur, examining your reflection in the stainless steel door. Your face has lost its toddler roundness, replaced by the sharper features of pre-adolescence. "She lost two years, I gained two. Transferring maturity."

You select a bottle and return to the former goddess. The weight of authority settles on your shoulders—unfamiliar yet not unwelcome.

"Sweetie, what's your name?" you ask, uncapping the bottle.

She tugs at a strand of hair, twisting it nervously between her fingers. "I... I don't know."

You nod, decision crystallizing. "Drink this, all of it."

"Why?" she asks, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.

"Because I said so," you reply, surprised by the power behind your words, the certainty that comes with them.

She hesitates, then reaches for the bottle with trembling fingers. "Will it help me remember?"

"It will help us both," you answer truthfully.

She tips the bottle to her lips and drinks deeply. The effect is immediate—her body shimmers slightly, features softening further as she loses another year, maybe two. Simultaneously, you feel yourself stretching, growing. Your nightie tightens across newly developing breasts, your legs lengthening beneath you.

"More," you command, reaching for another bottle from the fridge. "All of them."

Bottle after bottle, the exchange continues. With each swallow, the girl becomes younger, smaller, more vulnerable. You grow taller, stronger, your mind clearing of the childish fog that had enveloped it.

"What's happening to me?" she whimpers between bottles, now appearing no older than nine.

"Balance," you reply, your voice deepening to its adult register. "The scales are tipping back."

David watches in silent amazement as his wife returns to him, inch by inch, year by year.

You reach for another bottle, your movements increasingly fluid as your body reclaims its adult proportions. The confused teenager shrinks back against the couch cushions, her eyes widening with fear.

"No more," she pleads, her voice climbing higher with each transformation. "I don't understand what's happening."

"Shh," you soothe, your tone a perfect mimicry of the maternal condescension she once used on you. "Just one more sip for Auntie Mei."

She tries to scramble away, but David gently blocks her escape route. His eyes meet yours across the room—recognition dawning as your adult features reassert themselves.

"It's almost over," you promise, uncapping another bottle. "Open wide for me, sweetie."

The girl—now appearing about seven—whimpers but complies when you press the bottle to her lips. With each swallow, years melt away from her frame while your body continues its reconstruction. Your nightie splits at the seams as your adult curves return, fabric falling away in tatters.

"What's happening to me?" she asks, her voice now that of a four-year-old, small and frightened.

"Balance," you explain, stroking her increasingly fine hair. "You took something that wasn't yours. Now I'm taking it back."

The final bottle empties between her rosebud lips. She hiccups once, twice, then dissolves into infant wails—a helpless, squirming baby where the goddess once stood.

You stand fully adult again, naked among the tatters of your childish clothing, skin tingling with reclaimed power. The sensation is intoxicating—not just the return to your proper age, but something more. A residual divinity hums beneath your skin, borrowed or stolen from the fallen goddess.

"She needs a diaper," you observe clinically, surveying the wailing infant.

David wordlessly retrieves one from the nursery—meant for your daughter, now perfectly sized for the former deity. You take it from him, your fingers brushing his. The electric connection between you has returned, stronger than before.

You diaper the squalling infant with practiced movements, then lift her to your breast. The irony isn't lost on you as you settle into the rocking chair, cradling your former tormentor.

"That's what you get... bitch," you whisper, the profanity a sweet release against her downy head.

Across the room, Molly and Veronica blink in confusion. Their bodies remain childlike, but awareness has returned to their eyes.

"Mei?" Veronica pipes in her high voice, "Wha' da fuck?"

"Language," you chide automatically, rocking the now-suckling infant. "There are children present."

Molly attempts to stand on wobbly legs. "I wemember everything. But I can't—" she gestures at her diminutive form, frustration evident.  "An'... I think I wanna pway wit' some dowwies.  Do you have dowwies?"

You frown.  You ask Molly a simple science question and she stares at you blankly.  "I dunno.  Can we go to another party t'nite?"

You then ask Veronica a question about her work.  "I answer e-mails.  Wots a' e-mails.  An' my boss is a big meanie."

"We'll fix it," you promise, feeling the strange new power coursing through you. "But first, I need to feed the baby."

You cradle the infant Idun against your chest, feeling the strange power humming beneath your skin. It's familiar yet alien—like discovering a new room in a house you've lived in for years.

"Molly, Veronica," you call softly to the toddlers playing on the carpet. "I think I can help you."

They look up from their stuffed animals, adult awareness trapped behind childish features. The cognitive dissonance is written across their faces—sophisticated thoughts struggling through simplified neural pathways.

"But I need help," you continue, turning toward Eleanor and Patricia. The women sit side by side on the sofa, legs dangling like schoolgirls, vacant smiles plastered across their faces. "From your mothers."

David stands nearby, watching with cautious fascination. "Mei, what are you doing?"

"Balancing the scales," you reply, placing the sleeping Idun in his arms. "I've figured it out. The goddess's power only works one way—it takes maturity. But it has to go somewhere."

You kneel before Eleanor and Patricia, taking their small hands in yours. "I need your help to restore your daughters. Would you be willing to give up some of your... years?"

Eleanor tilts her head, blonde curls bouncing. "Like a present?"

"Yes," you say, squeezing her fingers. "A very special present for Veronica."

Patricia claps her hands. "I love presents! Can I give one too?"

"To Molly," you confirm, feeling the power stirring within you, responding to your intent.

You place Eleanor's hand on Veronica's head, Patricia's on Molly's. Standing behind them, you rest your palms on the mothers' shoulders, closing your eyes to channel the strange energy.

"Give freely," you whisper, feeling the current flow through you.

The transformation is gentler than before—no violent aging or regression, but a gradual shift. Eleanor's face softens further as wrinkles smooth from Veronica's brow. Patricia's body shrinks as Molly's expands. The exchange continues until balance is achieved—the mothers becoming young teenagers, the daughters restored to their thirties.

"Holy shit," Veronica gasps, examining her adult hands. "It worked."

Molly rises unsteadily to her feet, her body fully restored. "The cognitive effects aren't completely reversed. I still feel... simplified."

"We'll work on that," you promise, helping the teenage versions of their mothers to their feet. Eleanor and Patricia gaze around with wide, adolescent eyes—retaining fragments of adult memory but embracing their youthful embodiment.

"This is so weird," Eleanor giggles, tugging at her now-oversized dress.

David watches the scene unfold, the infant goddess sleeping against his shoulder. "Mei," he says quietly, "what happens now?"

You meet his gaze across the room, feeling the weight of everything that's happened between you. "Now we rebuild," you answer, the goddess's power settling into your bones like an inheritance. "On our terms."

You lift the sleeping infant Idun into your arms, marveling at how something so small once wielded such power over you. The divine energy still hums beneath your skin, a constant reminder of your victory.

"I'm taking her to the nursery," you announce to David, who watches you with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. "She deserves a second chance."

The nursery is bathed in afternoon light when you enter, your daughter sleeping peacefully in her crib. You place Idun beside her, two infants who could be sisters. The irony isn't lost on you—the woman who tried to replace you as mother will now be raised as your child.

"Balance," you whisper, stroking Idun's downy head. "A fresh start."

When you return to the living room, Molly and Veronica are examining their restored adult bodies with wonder, though confusion still clouds their eyes.

"Let me help with that," you say, placing your hands on their foreheads. The goddess power responds to your will, clearing the cognitive fog Idun's milk had created.

Molly gasps as clarity returns. "Jesus Christ, that was terrifying. Being trapped in a child's body with half my brain function..." She shudders, then looks toward her mother, now a giggling teenager playing with stuffed animals. "What about Mom?"

Veronica's eyes narrow as she watches her mother Eleanor twirl in her too-large dress. "She deserves worse than regression. Do you know what she did to me growing up? The constant criticism, the emotional manipulation?"

Something in her tone sets off alarm bells. "What exactly are you suggesting, Veronica?"

"Give me some of that goddess juice," Veronica says, her voice hardening. "Let me turn her into a helpless infant. See how she likes being completely dependent on someone else for a change."

The power within you stirs, responding not to Veronica's words but to the vindictive intent behind them. Without hesitation, you direct it toward her instead.

"What are you—" Veronica begins, but her words shift to a childish whine as her body shrinks, adult curves melting away, limbs shortening until a toddler stands where a woman once was.

"That's not how this works," you tell the bewildered child-Veronica. "Revenge isn't healing."

"Nooo, tuhn me bak!  I dun wanna be a baby!  Fuck you Mei!"  

You shush her.  "If widdo baby Ronnie can be a good girl for the next year, Mei MAY age her back.  That is my only offer."  She calms down to sniffling, sucking her thumb for comfort.

You turn to teenage Eleanor, who watches with wide eyes.  "Eleanor, your daughter needs guidance, not punishment. Can you help her learn that?  I will be watching."

Eleanor nods solemnly, a flicker of maternal wisdom breaking through her youthful exterior.  You return enough years to her to age her into her mid twenties again, activating adult knowledge that has been suppressed though not some things that might lead to poor parenting again.  She kneels beside the toddler Veronica, gathering her into a gentle embrace.

"Come on, sweetie," Eleanor coos. "Mommy's going to take good care of you."  Ronnie snuggles into her mother's embrace, sucking her thumb ever harder.

Molly watches the scene unfold with a thoughtful expression. "I think my mother and I will be okay," she says quietly. "We've always had a good relationship. This is just... an unusual new chapter."

"Just let me know if you two need any adjusting," you promise.  "Remember, all changes come with a free reality shift," you joke.

David enters the room, having checked on the babies. He stands beside you, his hand finding yours. "So what now?" he asks.

"Now," you reply, feeling the weight of the goddess power settling into your bones, "we rebuild our family. On our terms."

You approach Molly and teenage Patricia, who sit awkwardly on opposite ends of the sofa. The cognitive dissonance between them is palpable—a mother and daughter whose relationship has been fundamentally altered by supernatural forces beyond their control.

"So," you begin, settling between them, "let's figure out how this is going to work."

Molly fidgets with her restored adult hands, stealing glances at her mother's youthful face. "I don't even know what to call her now. Mom? Patricia? It feels wrong either way."

Patricia tosses her dark curls, adolescent petulance warring with fragments of maternal instinct. "I'm still your mother. Just... younger."

"But you're not," Molly argues, frustration edging her voice. "You're physically sixteen, maybe seventeen. Your brain chemistry is completely different. The prefrontal cortex doesn't fully develop until—"

"Don't lecture me about brain development," Patricia snaps, then immediately bursts into tears. "See what you did? You always make me feel stupid!"

You try to intervene, but the goddess power within you flickers unpredictably, responding to the emotional turbulence around you. A wave of dizziness washes over you as Patricia's tears intensify.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Molly says, reaching for her teenage mother's hand. "This is just really weird for me."

"It's weird for me too!" Patricia wails. "I remember raising you, but it feels like a movie I watched, not something I actually did!"

Across the room, Eleanor has dressed toddler Veronica in clothes borrowed from your daughter's dresser. The sight of the formerly sophisticated businesswoman waddling in a onesie covered with ducks would be comical if not for the genuine distress in her eyes.

"No!" Veronica shrieks, throwing a stuffed bunny across the room. "Don't wanna!"

Eleanor looks to you for guidance, her twenty-something face creased with worry. "She won't let me change her diaper, and I think she's wet."

You rise to help, but another wave of dizziness hits you. The goddess power surges unpredictably, responding to the chaos of emotions in the room. Before you can regain control, you feel it flowing outward, touching everyone present.

Patricia's tears abruptly stop as she ages several years, settling into her early twenties. Simultaneously, Molly loses a few years, becoming a college-aged young woman. The balance shifts again as Eleanor gains more maturity, approaching thirty, while Veronica regresses further, becoming a babbling one-year-old.

"What just happened?" David asks from the doorway, his voice tight with concern.

"I don't know," you admit, struggling to contain the power fluctuating within you. "I can't control it when there's too much emotion."

The room falls silent as everyone stares at you, the realization dawning that your newfound abilities might be more dangerous—and unpredictable—than anyone anticipated.

You stand in the center of the room, feeling the goddess power settling into a steady rhythm within you. The chaos of moments ago has given way to a strange clarity, as if the magic itself has found equilibrium through the transformations it enacted.

"I think...it's done," you announce, studying the faces around you. "My powers...fixed things. Made them how they truly want to be."

David approaches cautiously, his hand brushing yours. "Are you sure about that?"

You nod, the certainty blooming within you like a flower opening to sunlight. "The goddess's power responds to desire—spoken or unspoken. It found balance."

Molly blinks at the babbling Veronica, then giggles. "Veronica wants to be a baby? I mean, she did love being pampered. Always booking those spa weekends, having assistants fetch her coffee." She shrugs. "Still, I think you're right. I like the idea of going back to college."

She runs her hands through her hair, now styled in the careless waves of a twenty-something. Her eyes sparkle with possibilities as she smirks at you. "Care to join me? Shave a couple of years off? Give yourself a dancer's body again?"

The suggestion sends a thrill through you—twenty-one with all your current knowledge, reclaiming the lithe strength that once defined you. Old enough to be a mother, young enough to dance without the weight of years pressing against your joints.

"It's tempting," you admit, feeling the power stirring beneath your skin, ready to respond to your desire.

Patricia, now settled comfortably into her early twenties, sits cross-legged on the floor. "I always wondered what it would be like to be young at the same time as Molly. To be friends instead of just mother and daughter."

"We can be both," Molly suggests, dropping down beside her. "The memories are still there, just... rearranged."

Eleanor looks up from where she's cradling Veronica, who has stopped fussing and now sucks contentedly on a pacifier. "I think I understand what happened. All those years I spent criticizing Veronica, trying to mold her into a perfect reflection of myself... she just wanted to start over."

"And you wanted a second chance to mother her," you observe. "Without the baggage."

Eleanor nods, tears glistening in her eyes. "Is that so wrong?"

"No," you say softly. "It's human."

David's arm slides around your waist, his touch both familiar and electric. "And what about you, Mei? What do you truly want?"

You lean into his embrace, considering the question. The goddess power thrums within you, waiting for your command. You could reshape yourself, reclaim your youth, become anything—anyone—you desire.

"I want..." you begin, feeling the weight of possibility pressing against your chest.

You close your eyes, feeling the goddess power stirring beneath your skin like a living current. The temptation of youth calls to you—not just any youth, but the specific incarnation of yourself at the height of your dancing career, before pregnancy and motherhood transformed your body.

"I want that," you whisper, meeting Molly's encouraging gaze. "My dancer's body back, but with everything I've learned since."

The power responds instantly, flowing through your limbs with electric intensity. Your body begins to change—not with the violent transformation that marked Idun's regression, but with a deliberate, almost sensual reshaping. Your hips narrow slightly while maintaining the curve that David has always admired. Your breasts lift, pregnancy's softness giving way to the toned definition of a performer. Your thighs and calves sculpt themselves into the powerful tools of your former profession.

"Oh my god," David breathes, his eyes widening as he watches you transform. The naked awe in his expression sends a thrill through your newly rejuvenated form.

Molly claps her hands in delight. "Look at you! Twenty-three again and absolutely gorgeous."

"Twenty-five," you correct, feeling the precision of the age settling into your bones. "Old enough to be taken seriously, young enough to dance all night."

You stretch experimentally, marveling at the absence of the subtle aches that had become your constant companions. Your body feels simultaneously familiar and new—like returning to a childhood home renovated with modern comforts.

"How does it feel?" Patricia asks, leaning forward with youthful curiosity.

"Like remembering a language I'd forgotten I knew," you answer, executing a perfect arabesque without conscious thought. Your muscle memory remains intact, enhanced by the goddess power flowing through your veins.

David approaches slowly, his hand reaching out to touch your arm as if confirming you're real. "Mei, you look... exactly like when we first met."

"Not exactly," you reply, taking his hand and placing it over your heart. "I'm still me—just with fewer miles on the odometer."

His fingers trace the contours of your collarbone, eyes darkening with desire. "I'm not complaining."

Eleanor watches with Veronica cradled against her hip, the baby sucking contentedly on her pacifier. "Will it last?"

The question hangs in the air as you consider the goddess power now permanently woven into your being. "I think so," you answer honestly. "This feels... stable."

You execute a perfect pirouette, your body responding with the precision and grace of your professional years. The joy of movement floods through you—not just physical pleasure but the reclamation of an identity you thought lost forever.

"I'm still a mother," you say, more to yourself than anyone else. "Just one who can dance again."

David's eyes never leave your form, his expression a complex mixture of desire, wonder, and something deeper—a recognition of the woman he fell in love with, returned to him in physical form while retaining all the growth and wisdom of the intervening years.

"Dance with me," he whispers, extending his hand.

A month passes.  The morning light streams through the bay windows, casting a golden glow across your living room as you settle into the oversized nursing chair. Your rejuvenated dancer's body has adapted beautifully to motherhood—toned yet soft in all the right places. Both infants latch eagerly as you position them at your breasts, your biological daughter on the left, Idun on the right.

"They're getting so big already," Patricia remarks, perched on the edge of the sofa. At twenty-something, she's found an easy balance between maternal wisdom and youthful energy. Her curls are pulled back in a messy bun, giving her a casual sophistication that suits this new version of herself.

"Especially this little goddess," you say, stroking Idun's downy head. "It's like she's making up for lost time."

Eleanor enters from the kitchen, carrying Veronica on her hip. The toddler's thumb is firmly planted in her mouth, her other hand clutching a worn stuffed rabbit. "Someone's ready for lunch," Eleanor announces, settling beside you on the oversized ottoman.

Veronica squirms as Eleanor unbuttons her blouse, revealing a nursing bra. "No! Want cookie first!"

"Milk first, then maybe a cookie," Eleanor negotiates, her voice firm but gentle. The maternal authority sits naturally on her now, as if she's finally grown into the role she was always meant to play.

"It's fascinating how quickly she's adapted," Patricia observes, watching Eleanor guide Veronica to her breast. "Both of them, really."

"The goddess power seeks balance," you explain, adjusting Idun slightly. "It reshapes reality to accommodate the transformations.  Besides, Ronnie always did like the creamy drinks," you joke, eliciting some laughter.

"And how's David handling all this?" Patricia asks, a knowing glint in her eye.

Heat rises to your cheeks as you recall last night—David's hands exploring your dancer's body with reverent hunger, his whispered confessions of how he'd always fantasized about this version of you. Ironically you still like to call him Daddy during sex, and you still like it when he calls you his baby girl.  "He's... adjusting well."

Eleanor laughs, the sound light and musical. "That good, huh?"

"Better," you admit. "It's like we're dating again, but with all the knowledge of what works for each other."

"And the powers?" Patricia leans forward, lowering her voice though there's no one else to hear. "Any unexpected side effects?"

You consider the question, feeling the goddess energy humming beneath your skin. It's become a familiar presence now, like background music you've learned to tune in and out at will. "They're stabilizing. I can control the transformations better now, direct them with more precision."

"Could you change us back?" The question comes from Eleanor, her tone casual but her eyes watchful.

"Do you want me to?" you counter, studying her face.

Eleanor glances down at Veronica, now nursing contentedly at her breast. "No," she says softly. "I don't think either of us does."

"What about Molly?" you ask Patricia. "How's she enjoying college life?"

"Thriving," Patricia beams with maternal pride. "She's dating some art major with tattoos. Says she's making up for lost time."

You laugh, shifting both babies to your shoulders for burping. "Aren't we all?"

The conversation flows easily between you, three women navigating the strange new reality you've created. Outside, the world continues unchanged, unaware of the goddess power that has reshaped your small corner of existence. But in here, in this sunlit room filled with the sounds of contented babies, you've found a balance that feels surprisingly right.