A Lesson in Lingerie

This is another Infinite Worlds story, if you like the content of it, you can create your own version of it here: https://infiniteworlds.app/#ApLatT

I used AI to rewrite this one so it has more of a normal narrative feel vs CYOA. However, I'm not super happy with how it turned out. Everything feels like a summary, I still like it, but it could be much better written. If you like this story's themes at all, I highly suggest playing the world itself, so you can make your own choices and experience it fully formed vs summarized. You can also choose to play as Sophia, Lily, or Madame Chen herself.

Anyways, hope you enjoy!

The sun spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Curvaceous’ Manhattan office, gilding the skyline and casting a radiant glow over the sleek boardroom where Miranda Blackwell and Sophia Laurent held court. Their empire, Curvaceous, was a temple to voluptuous femininity, its lingerie designed to cradle and celebrate curves that demanded attention. The brand’s mantra—“For Real Women With Real Curves”—was both a promise and a challenge, dismissing anything less as unworthy. Their latest collection, a triumph of lace and silk crafted for D-cups and above, had waiting lists stretching weeks. But the harmony of their success was about to unravel.

In a design meeting the previous day, Lily Chen, the newest designer—a petite woman whose technical brilliance had earned her a place despite her inability to fill Curvaceous’ creations—had dared to suggest a line for smaller frames. The room had erupted in laughter. Miranda, with her platinum blonde hair and icy blue eyes, had smirked, her voice dripping with disdain. “Curvaceous isn’t in the business of making doll clothes. We dress real women, not girls.” Sophia, her co-owner, had chimed in with a champagne-bright laugh, mocking the idea of a “Curvaceous Kiddie Collection.” Lily’s face had burned, her fingers twisting in her lap, but she’d held her tongue.

Unbeknownst to them, Lily’s aunt, Madame Chen, a woman of enigmatic power, had overheard every word. Her dark eyes, sharp as obsidian, had narrowed at the insult to her niece. Madame Chen was not one to let such arrogance go unpunished. She decided Miranda and Sophia needed a lesson—one that would teach them the weight of their words and the feel of another’s skin.

The next morning, Miranda and Sophia summoned Lily to their office. The oversized leather chair dwarfed her slight frame, a calculated choice to make her feel small. Miranda leaned forward, her voice a silken blade. “Lily, your suggestion was quaint, but Curvaceous doesn’t cater to the flat-chested masses. We make lingerie for women who fill it.” Sophia’s laugh sparkled like crystal, her red-lacquered lips curling. “God, a Kiddie Collection? We’d be laughingstocks.”

Lily’s cheeks flushed, but she pressed on. “With respect, I wasn’t suggesting children’s lingerie. Many women have smaller frames and still deserve—”

“Deserve what?” Miranda cut in, her eyebrow arching like a drawn bow. “To pretend they have what nature didn’t give them? We celebrate real curves, not illusions.”

Before Sophia could add another barb, three commanding knocks echoed through the room, carrying an authority that stilled the air. Miranda’s irritation flared. “Enter.”

The door opened, and Madame Chen glided in, her midnight blue cheongsam shimmering like a star-strewn sky. Her silver-streaked hair was coiled in an immaculate chignon, and her eyes—dark, ancient, amused—swept over the room. “Madame Chen,” she announced, her voice warm honey laced with steel. “I believe my niece works for you.”

Lily’s eyes widened. “Auntie? I didn’t know you were coming.”

Madame Chen moved forward, uninvited, the door closing with a soft, final click. “Some matters don’t wait for appointments, little flower.” Her gaze locked on Miranda and Sophia, and a prickling heat spread across Miranda’s skin, her designer bra suddenly constricting. “Especially when they concern respect and… proportion.”

The word “proportion” hung heavy, and Miranda’s chest felt oddly measured, as if her curves were being judged and found wanting—or excessive. She stood, her six-foot frame towering in power heels, yet Madame Chen’s presence made her feel diminished. “We didn’t schedule a meeting,” Miranda said coolly.

“The universe schedules what we don’t anticipate,” Madame Chen replied, her smile sharp. “I’m here to discuss Curvaceous’ future. One that might benefit from… expanded perspectives.”

Miranda’s patience snapped. She turned to Lily, her voice a stiletto’s edge. “Explain why your aunt is interrupting an important company meeting. In the adult world, we don’t invite family to professional discussions. It’s inappropriate.”

Lily shrank, her frame folding like crushed origami, but Madame Chen’s laughter filled the space, sensual and ancient, like silk on skin. “Miranda Blackwell,” she purred, tasting the name. “So confident in your adulthood.”

She stepped closer, and the air shimmered, reality bending around her. A tingling warmth spread across Miranda’s chest, her tailored blazer tightening uncomfortably. “I didn’t come at Lily’s invitation,” Madame Chen said, circling the desk like a predator. “I came because I sensed disrespect. It has a scent, you know—sweet, but rotting.”

She stopped before Miranda, her eyes flicking to her generous bust, then her leather pencil skirt. “What makes a ‘real adult’? Curves? Clothes? Or maturity?” As she spoke, Miranda’s blazer loosened at the shoulders but squeezed her chest, the leather skirt chafing at her waist. Her voice, when she tried to retort, came out high, almost a squeak. “I don’t justify my practices to you. Curvaceous has a clear identity.”

“‘For Real Women With Real Curves,’” Madame Chen quoted, her smile knowing. “Such boundaries. But boundaries, like bodies, can be fluid.” She reached out, adjusting Miranda’s blazer with bold familiarity. The fabric softened under her touch, its severe cut turning girlish, almost naive. Sophia shifted, tugging at her own blouse, which sat oddly on her frame.

Miranda rose, her eyes arctic slits. “Madame Chen, this is my company, my office, my meeting. Leave immediately.” She pointed to the door, her gesture a guillotine’s fall.

Madame Chen didn’t move. “Such confidence. Almost childish.” She circled closer, her cheongsam whispering secrets. “Children demand their way because they haven’t learned the universe doesn’t bend to them. Some lessons must be… experiential.”

With a flick of her wrist, she produced a jade bottle and blew across its mouth. A glittering mist enveloped Miranda, sinking into her skin like warm lotion. A lightness spread through her chest, as if her curves were shifting, redistributing. Sophia gasped, staring at Miranda’s blazer, now softened with a high waist and subtle heart-shaped stitching—something a fashionable teenager might wear.

“What have you done?” Miranda demanded, her voice breathy with alarm.

“Nothing not already set in motion by your actions,” Madame Chen murmured, recapping the bottle. “Magic amplifies what exists.” She turned to Lily. “Come, little flower. They need time to adjust.” As they left, she glanced back. “Check your lingerie drawer tonight, Ms. Blackwell. It might be… educational.”

Miranda stormed to the door, her stilettos clicking. “Lily! If your aunt returns, you’re fired!” The corridor emptied as employees scattered, her fury a palpable force. She slammed the door and turned to Sophia, who was examining her altered blouse. “What kind of trick changed our clothes?”

“I don’t know,” Sophia said, her eyes wide. “One minute, a normal meeting. The next, your blazer looks like it’s from the juniors department.” She tugged at her neckline, now higher. Miranda caught her reflection in the glass wall—her blazer softer, her face momentarily rounder, her glare more petulant than fierce.

“It’s a prank,” Miranda insisted. “Smoke and mirrors. Quick-change nonsense.” But her La Perla bra felt roomier, her curves less substantial. “There’s no such thing as magic. It’s fashion technology—stolen, probably.”

Sophia whispered, “Magic,” the word heavy. Miranda snapped, “Don’t be absurd,” but a chill lingered. She reached for her phone, determined to blacklist Madame Chen, but her reflection froze her—a fleeting glimpse of a softer, younger face.

Needing control, Miranda pressed the intercom. “Jackson, my office. Now.” Her voice was too high, and she cleared her throat. Jackson Peters, her handsome intern, appeared moments later, his charcoal suit hugging his athletic frame. At twenty-five, he was a business school prodigy and fitness model, his deference laced with confidence.

“Close the door,” Miranda commanded. “My blazer was ruined by a prank. I need a replacement for tomorrow’s Fashion Weekly shoot—something powerful.” She scribbled an address and handed it to him, her fingers brushing his, sparking heat. “And Jackson, I’m tense after that meeting. Help me relieve some stress?”

His smile was slow, knowing. “Any particular technique in mind?” She circled her desk, standing close. “You know what I need.” His hands found her waist, but it felt narrower, his grip encompassing more than it should. His lips met hers, electric, but as his hands cupped her breasts, they felt smaller, less substantial.

“Something wrong?” he murmured.

“No,” she lied, guiding his hands lower. “Impatient.” He lifted her onto the desk with unsettling ease, as if she weighed less. Her skirt rode up, his arousal pressing against her. “You feel different,” he whispered. “Smaller. I like it.” Her protest died as his mouth claimed hers, but for the first time, she felt the balance of power tip, her dominance slipping in a dance she no longer led.

----------

The sun had barely crested the Manhattan skyline when Miranda Blackwell woke in her penthouse, nestled against Jackson Peters, her intern whose presence had become an unexpected anchor amid her unraveling world. His morning arousal pressed against her, stirring a flutter of flattery in her chest. She turned to face him, her movements lighter, her body betraying its ongoing transformation. “I’m flattered,” she whispered, her voice softer, higher than the commanding tone that once ruled Curvaceous’ boardroom. “Let me take care of you.”

Sliding beneath the sheets, she trailed kisses down his torso, her lips brushing skin with a newfound playfulness. She freed him from his boxers, noting with a shiver how her hands seemed daintier, his erection larger by comparison. The act of pleasing him felt different today—not a power play, but a joyful exploration. “Tell me if I’m doing it right,” she murmured, the words alien yet thrilling. His groans, his fingers in her silkier hair, fueled a girlish satisfaction. When he came, she swallowed with a surprising ease, emerging with flushed cheeks and a smile that felt… fun. “I enjoyed that,” she admitted, nestling against him. “Maybe not all bad?”

But the sanctuary of that moment shattered when she stepped into her bathroom. The mirror revealed a stranger: her height diminished by inches, her face softer, cheekbones higher, her ice-blue eyes larger, more doe-like. Her once-36D breasts, the cornerstone of Curvaceous’ empire, had shrunk to a small B-cup, perky but insubstantial. Her waist was narrower, her hips less flared, her pubic hair thinned to wisps. “This isn’t happening,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’m disappearing,” she confessed, tears streaming down her face. Jackson’s gentle encouragement—“We’ll figure this out”—did little to quell her panic, but his suggestion to confront Madame Chen felt like her only lifeline.

At Curvaceous’ headquarters, Miranda’s altered frame struggled to command the same authority. Her designer outfit, pinned to fit her shrinking body, hung awkwardly. The security guard’s hesitant greeting stung as she hurried to the design department, where Lily Chen stood transformed. Gone was the petite, unassuming designer; in her place was a woman with lush curves, her blouse straining over a full C-cup, her hips blooming into Curvaceous’ ideal. “Miranda!” Lily exclaimed, her confidence radiant. “I’ve had incredible inspiration for the collection.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Miranda snapped, her voice a childish squeak. “What’s happening to me? What did your aunt do?” Lily’s confusion gave way to shock as she took in Miranda’s diminished form. “I didn’t think it would actually—I mean, Auntie Chen’s eccentric, but…” She admitted venting to her aunt about the meeting, assuming Madame Chen’s talk of “cosmic balance” was metaphorical. “Help me fix it,” Miranda pleaded, hating her desperation. Lily hesitated, warning that her aunt was stubborn, believing lessons must “play out fully.”

Before Miranda could press further, Madame Chen appeared, her emerald qipao accentuating her mature grace. “Change me back,” Miranda demanded, her words more plea than command. “All transformations serve a purpose,” Madame Chen replied, her eyes mischievous. “Yours has only just begun.”

Fury surged, and Miranda drew herself up. “Lily, if your aunt doesn’t reverse this immediately, you’re fired. I built this company—” Madame Chen’s serene interruption stopped her cold. “Miranda, dear, do you need to use the bathroom?” An urgent pressure in her bladder hit like a tidal wave, primal and undeniable. “That’s not relevant,” she stammered, thighs pressing together. But the need overwhelmed her, and she scurried to the second-floor restroom, her shortened legs skipping in a humiliating rush.

In the stall, relief came with a sigh, but the bathroom door creaked open, and Madame Chen’s voice echoed. “The body remembers what the mind forgets. Children struggle with bladder control…” Mortified, Miranda froze as the stall door swung open. “Tsk, tsk,” Madame Chen chided, stepping inside. “You’ve missed some peepee, little one.” Before Miranda could protest, Madame Chen swiped toilet paper between her legs with clinical precision, the act both degrading and oddly soothing. “I can do that myself,” Miranda stammered, her cheeks burning.

“Evidently not,” Madame Chen replied, her fingers brushing Miranda’s sparse pubic hair. “Your little garden is quite sparse.” With a mischievous glint, she blew gently, and the remaining wisps vanished, leaving Miranda bare. The warm tingle was silk-like, but the smooth result was a stark reminder of her regression. Madame Chen pulled up Miranda’s panties—now high-waisted cotton with navy polka dots and ruffles—patting her bottom condescendingly. “These suit your current development.”

“Why are you doing this?” Miranda whispered, her reflection showing a girlish figure dwarfed by the witch’s presence. “The universe balances scales,” Madame Chen said softly. “You’ve defined ‘real women’ by curves. Now you’ll learn what it means to be small, to be dismissed.” She gestured to the door. “Shall we return to the design department? Lily has concepts to share.”

Miranda pulled up her loose trousers, her voice trembling. “This isn’t fair.” Madame Chen’s laugh tinkled like bells. “Neither was your treatment of Lily. But my spell offers redemption… if you seek it.” The bathroom felt claustrophobic, Miranda’s vulnerability exposed as she followed Madame Chen back to the design floor, her mind reeling with the weight of her transformation and the uncertain path to reclaiming herself.

-----

Miranda Blackwell’s world had shifted beneath her feet, her once-towering presence now a fragile echo of the woman who built Curvaceous into a lingerie empire. Yet, as she stood in the hallway outside her office, her hand swallowed by Madame Chen’s, a spark of defiance flickered within her. She swallowed her pride—a bitter, childish lump—and let the enigmatic woman lead her back to the design department, her shortened legs scrambling to keep pace. Madame Chen’s whisper, “Stand up straight,” carried a strange warmth, and Miranda obeyed, her spine stiffening as if borrowing strength from the command.

In the design department, Lily Chen glowed with newfound confidence, her curves straining her blouse as she presented her sketches to an eager crowd. The air buzzed with creativity, and Miranda felt a pang of envy for the woman who now embodied Curvaceous’ ideal. Madame Chen’s announcement parted the group, and Lily’s eyes met Miranda’s, a mix of uncertainty and pride. “I’ve been inspired to create something revolutionary,” Lily said, unveiling the Duality Collection—lingerie that transformed with the wearer, celebrating all bodies. The designs were brilliant, and Miranda’s professional instincts warred with her wounded ego. “They’re… brilliant,” she admitted, her voice a high lilt that drew a collective exhale from the room. “We should meet immediately to discuss implementation.”

Madame Chen’s suggestion—a photoshoot with Miranda and Lily modeling the collection—sent a chill through her. The idea of exposing her diminished frame publicly was humiliating, yet refusing would undermine the collection’s premise. Sophia Martinez, her co-owner, emerged from the crowd, her own curves subtly reduced, and endorsed the plan. “The market’s ready for this authenticity,” she said, her eyes betraying confusion at Miranda’s transformation. Madame Chen sealed the decision, her touch on Miranda’s shoulder sending a warm tingle. “The new faces of Curvaceous.”

Desperate for an ally, Miranda pulled Sophia aside behind a display of voluptuous mannequins. “It’s Madame Chen,” she whispered, detailing the magical changes stripping away her curves and authority. Sophia’s own alterations—her Balenciaga blazer turned juvenile, her Versace dress unwearable—confirmed the spell’s reach. “We need to confront her together,” Miranda urged, and Sophia agreed, their handshake a pact against the witch’s power. As they planned, Madame Chen appeared, summoning them to Miranda’s office. Jackson’s lingering gaze on Madame Chen and his eager compliance to take notes sparked unease in Miranda’s gut.

In the office, Miranda’s attempt to end the transformations faltered under Madame Chen’s serene authority. “This is about arrogance,” the witch said, her eyes glittering. “Defining womanhood by measurements.” Swallowing her pride, Miranda apologized, her voice cracking. “I’ve learned that curves don’t define a woman’s worth. What can I do to prove it?” Madame Chen’s challenge was clear: design a collection inspired by her new form, embracing transformation as perspective, and model it publicly. “Step outside your boundaries,” she urged, as Sophia suggested branding it “Miranda’s Metamorphosis.”

Seeking Lily’s expertise felt like groveling, but Miranda asked for her help, the request burning her pride. Madame Chen agreed, but her condition—using Jackson for “special projects”—tightened Miranda’s chest. Following Jackson to eavesdrop, she peered into the conference room, her breath catching as he knelt between Madame Chen’s thighs, his devotion a mirror of her own past encounters with him. The sight stirred a confusing heat, amplified when Madame Chen’s eyes met hers through the glass, winking as she commanded Jackson to fuck her. Panicked, Miranda fled, her clothes morphing into a bubblegum pink blouse with kitten patterns and a heart-trimmed skirt, her retreat a childish scamper.

Colliding with Lily, Miranda’s indignation faltered under her concern. “Your aunt challenged me to design a collection,” she admitted, sinking into her oversized chair. Lily’s question about her own transformations—her blossoming curves, unexpected lactation—drew a confession from Miranda. “It’s a lesson about body diversity,” she said, her thumb slipping into her mouth, earning a soft “adorable” from Lily. Together, they began the Metamorphosis Collection, celebrating adaptive lingerie for bodies in transition. As Miranda’s energy waned, she slid into Lily’s lap, her thumb between her lips, lulled by Lily’s warmth into a brief sleep.

Waking to Lily’s completed sketches, including a set named “The Miranda,” Miranda felt a swell of emotion. Jackson’s knock interrupted, announcing Madame Chen’s summons to the photography studio. Lily, now authoritative, sent Miranda ahead with Jackson, placing her hand in his. His comment—“You look adorably cute”—stung, but his firm grip silenced her protest. In the elevator, desperate to reclaim her womanhood, Miranda sank to her knees, offering Jackson a “treat.” The act, timed perfectly before the doors opened, restored a flicker of her old power.

Striding into the photography studio, Miranda’s confidence wavered under Madame Chen’s knowing smile. “Adorable,” the witch purred, her words laced with mischief. “Did you enjoy the taste of my pussy juice on Jackson’s cock?” The crude revelation froze Miranda, her cheeks burning as the fantastical set—satin-draped cribs, diamond-collared teddy bears—loomed around her. Madame Chen’s plan was clear: Miranda and Lily would model the Metamorphosis Collection, their transformed bodies the campaign’s centerpiece. The rack of lingerie, sized for Miranda’s petite frame and Lily’s curves, mocked her fading empire, yet a spark of defiance burned within her, ready to face the challenge and redefine Curvaceous—and herself.

Miranda Blackwell's world had crumbled into a kaleidoscope of regression and surrender, her once-commanding presence reduced to a childish shadow under Madame Chen's spell. The photography studio, a former stage for her voluptuous glory, now mocked her with its oversized crib and rose gold potty chair. As Madame Chen extended a rainbow lollipop, her assumptive command—“For our little star”—ignited a spark of defiance in Miranda, quickly smothered by the candy's hypnotic sweetness. Her lips closed around it instinctively, sugar flooding her senses with cotton candy and strawberry, tinged with a spell that softened her thoughts. Jackson's dismissal, his eager compliance to Madame Chen's orders, stung deeper than the elevator encounter where Miranda had reclaimed her womanhood with his cock in her mouth.

The lollipop's allure overwhelmed her protests as Madame Chen outlined the shoot, framing Miranda as the "before" to Lily's "after." Guided to a mirror, Miranda faced a stranger—diminutive, doe-eyed, sucking candy in a kitten-patterned blouse. Her attempt to assert authority faltered, muffled by the sweet stick. Lily's arrival, her curves straining her blouse, shifted the dynamic further. Madame Chen's lingerie selections—a childish lavender set for Miranda, a sultry crimson for Lily—cemented their roles. As Miranda fumbled with buttons, Lily's deft assistance highlighted their reversal. Madame Chen's magical touch adjusted their bodies, shrinking Miranda's chest to a concave hollow while swelling Lily's bust to bursting, the lace stretched taut.

On the set, Miranda committed to the shoot, posing provocatively to salvage dignity, but her bladder's betrayal—a childish urgency—threatened her composure. Madame Chen and Vivienne seized the moment, introducing a designer potty chair to capture her vulnerability. Lily's gentle insistence that she "pretend" to use it deepened Miranda's humiliation, the tinkling sound echoing as she surrendered to necessity. Post-relief, her confrontation with Madame Chen over the spell's end was dismissed; a damp spot on her panties revealed her incomplete success. Led back to the potty, her quivering lip betrayed her fading control.

Lily's firm suggestion to use the potty before changing into dry lingerie—a padded lavender set with protective front cushioning—further infantilized Miranda. The realization that these were elegant training pants sparked outrage, but her body's needs silenced her. Sophia's arrival, her shock at Miranda's appearance, triggered messy sobs, and Miranda collapsed into Lily's embrace, her face pressed against damp, milk-soaked lace. Madame Chen's removal of Lily's bra revealed rivulets of milk, and her coaxing of Miranda to nurse—framed as marketing genius—ignited a primal hunger. As Miranda drank, Sophia joined, her own transformation accelerating, her curves melting into childish softness.

Miranda's attempt to reassert CEO authority faltered as Lily shushed her, guiding her back to the breast with ease. Sophia's rapid regression—her hair curling, her clothes shrinking—mirrored the power shift. Surrendering fully, Miranda nursed alongside Sophia, Lily's gentle dominance enveloping them. Lily's transformation wasn't just physical; her mental command grew, burping them with maternal ease as Vivienne declared the shots revolutionary. A proposed break to compose became a nap in the prop crib, Miranda and Sophia cuddling under a Curvaceous-embroidered blanket, their thumbs in mouths as Lily slipped into a sexier crimson bodysuit.

Waking to find Lily as Curvaceous' new face, Miranda and Sophia sat sidelined in tiny chairs, their wet diapers betraying accidents—Sophia's, or perhaps Miranda's, the truth too muddled to discern. Lily's nurturing diaper change, coupled with Miranda's plea to participate in the shoot, earned a chuckle. As Lily cleaned, oiled, and powdered them, she outlined their role: modeling the protective end of metamorphosis while she embodied sensual freedom. The set—a luxurious nursery versus Lily's silk-draped chaise—highlighted their infantilized state against her ascendant power, the cameras capturing a fashion world reborn through their collective, with Lily as its radiant, dominant muse.