Niña

Chapter 1
Niña

Chapter Description: A millionaire cad and psychopath has redemption forced upon him the only way possible... a hard reboot. WARNING: Sexual violence, age regression, transgender, transracial.

“Feliz cumpleaños,” Luna said quietly to Charles as the latter, his suit in sweaty disarray and his breath afire with the reek of expensive Scotch, tumbled, briefcase in hand, into the foyer of his Santa Monica mansion. “I hope you had a good time out with your compañeros de trabajo, sir.”

“Yeh, it was alright.” Charles didn’t care much for birthdays, and this one, his fortieth, seemed nothing remotely like the occasion to celebrate. His portfolio was looking the grimmest it had in months, his rival and competitor -- a Yale grad (Charles had gone to Harvard) who’d once been his childhood best friend -- had just closed a big account Charles himself had been romancing, and, worst of all, the “romance” between he and his wife, such as it was, was feeling as tired and worn out as the multiple fingers of liquid escapism he’d purchased at the V had left him. Now, Luna, an overweight woman who resided in the U.S. and worked for Charles illegally on account of his sociopathic aversion to paying anyone a reasonable wage to do what he saw himself fit yet unwilling in all his misplaced egocentrism to do, was on his case again, making small talk in that mind-numbing idiom that seemed the sole province of people oblivious enough not to notice when the more important members of society, as Charles considered his echelon of the national economy, just wanted to be left the fuck alone.

“If it pleases you, sir,” she said meekly, quietly, lest she awaken Mrs. Burbank and again incur her wrath, “I’ll just be going to my sister’s now. Mi sobrina has just started walking on her own and--”

“Fine, fine,” interrupted Charles. He was waving his hand in front of his face as if to bat away a swarm of tickling insects. Luna, for her part, had her hands in front of her generous waist, nervously wringing one another. “Whatever.”

Luna nodded, picked up her bag, and head for the open front door.

“Wait,” said Charles, pushing the door shut with his free hand. Then, without another word, he dropped his briefcase to the floor with a clatter, placed his hand upon Luna’s breastbone, and began guiding her slowly and firmly towards the vacant guest bedroom.

-=-=-

“No” means the same in both idiomas. But... “no” means the same in both idiomas...

That was the lone mantra that cycled through Luna’s head, over and over again, as Charles’s naked, sweat-slicked body thrashed drunkenly atop her squirming, superficially resistant form. At first, she had fought back courageously; but, having given the situation a moment’s agonizing thought, she realized that perhaps capitulation was worth her meager salary, especially if she needed one day to forward some funds to her relatives.

Her employer was inside her, his unit oscillating between turgid stiffness and inebriated flaccidity, and Luna was fairly certain that he would be unable to get off, unable to steal away the last quantum of her dignity by ejaculating inside her. She’d known she was infertile for decades but that did nothing to allay the feeling of utter disgust with which she’d be forever scarred at the sensation of his veiny, undersized tool painting her insides.

Then, against all odds, the signs evinced themselves. Charles’s breathing became labored and shallow. His thrusting became more aggressive, more insistent. And his hairy scrotum felt smaller against Luna’s privates as it drew up against his groin.

Luna thought quickly. This time, she resolved to stick up for herself. This time, she elected to invoke the powerful witchcraft of her apostate ancestors.

“Yo te maldigo a mi tortura.”

“Shut up, whore-- I’m coming!”

“¡YO TE MALDIGO A MI TORTURA!”

With a shout of surprise, Charles was thrown onto his back, his cock forced out of Luna’s vagina by the expulsion of a tube of pink flesh that rose up into the air like a cobra about to strike. As Charles began to ejaculate, thick globs of bitter semen falling short of Luna’s body to splatter harmlessly on the linens between the millionaire’s knees, the alien proboscis Luna had conjured into existence made its true nature known by plunging swiftly into Charles’ navel, attaching itself as an umbilical cord and instantly beginning to rewrite the horrified drunk’s genetic code.

Charles’s penis twitched off a final few squirts of cum and started to dribble the rest onto his shriveled nuts, but the man had a sudden lack of interest in relishing the afterglow. His hands lunged to the tube of flesh that had invaded him, that had violated him so, and wrapped around it in a death grip. Charles pulled at it and pulled at it, screaming and beating at it with his fists, but the cord wasn’t going anywhere.

Charles’s identity, however, was disappearing rather rapidly. Already his age had been reduced to a mere 20 years, his flabby and hirsute body having tightened into the muscular frame of his rabidly sexual youth, and the middle-aged man noticed something was horribly, horribly wrong as soon as pubescence attacked his body, sloping his shoulders and rippling a sheen of oily acne across his face just in time for the hair around his cock to suck back up into its follicles. Then the acne was gone and his screams were soprano. Charles Burbank had become Charlie, a 10-year-old boy, then a nine-year-old, squirming and wrestling uselessly against the cord that connected him to Luna’s uterus as it magically changed his DNA at the most fundamental levels. Charlie’s shrinking slowed to a halt as soon as he resembled his eight-year-old self, and, with that, the regression ceased.

But the transformation was far from over. Charlie squealed anew, beating the heels of his naked feet against the bedlinens, as he watched his onetime cock, now a little boy’s peepee, shrink into itself as though it had been submerged in ice water. From four inches, to three, to two, and less, the boy’s penis ultimately collapsed into itself as the tiny testicles dangling beneath it drew back up into his abdomen and became a pair of ovaries. Where Charlie’s penis had been, a hairless, pink slit formed, lengthening to match the genitals of a similarly-aged young girl and connecting itself to the labyrinth of new plumbing Luna’s magic had installed within her trunk.

Carla was crying now, blubbering nonsense words slurred with wetness and half-understood, as the umbilical cord pumped in new genetic information that further ensured the little girl’s new station as the precious, cherished daughter Luna had never been able to have. Her skin darkened, going from a fair, milky white to a far darker complexion, ensuring till the end of time that Carla would never be mistaken for anything other than the daughter of Luna and a fellow Latino. A final few code changes solidified Carla’s blood as that of Luna’s offspring, and any subsequent blood test would identify her as such.

So ended the physical changes that were to be levied upon la niña. Horrified into dumbstruck silence, Carla felt a tingle in her brain, and realized that her mind would not escape the terrible power of Luna’s vengeful magic.

Carla’s intelligence began to drain. First, it was her specialized intelligence, the kind she had spent the bulk of her adulthood and countless thousands of dollars acquiring. With each thrash of her tiny body, she lost her knowledge of the stock market, everything she learned at Harvard, and the five-dollar words she used in Powerpoint presentations and business meetings.

Her native intelligence was next to go. Memories and basic knowledge on which every adult relied to get along in the world. Carla could no longer drive a car. She didn’t understand sex, and could not identify the bizarre, white, sticky substance that had begun accumulating on her squirming, spasming legs. The signals on which her body counted to wake her in the middle of the night to direct her needful self to the restroom receded and dulled, ensuring the occasional soaked bedclothes and remedial visit to training pants.

Finally, the most basic strands of identity-specific knowledge -- the types of things a child raised by upper-class parents in America would know, but the daughter of a poor Central American might not -- began to atrophy into oblivion. Eight-year-old Carla lost all her familiarity with the English language; in its place, a basic knowledge of Spanish, the sort of command of the language that would normally be enjoyed by an eight-year-old girl, flooded into her brain. The cuisine and customs of the culture experienced by the daughter Luna never had took the place of things like ballgame pretzels and Fourth of July fireworks. And, at last, a loving -- an instinctual need for the maternal dotings of Luna and no other woman -- flooded Carla, etching in concrete her new existence as the plump, middle-aged woman’s daughter.

Carla’s horror, however, did not attenuate, and was, in fact, compounded by the former man’s realization that every acknowledgement and memory of her former life, such as the successes, travails, and financial acquisitions that made Charles Burbank the massively successful and visionary asshole that he was, remained firmly intact. She knew who she had been, and she knew what she had become.

And, for that reason, her bawling did not abate, even as the umbilical cord that made her who she now was retracted from her navel and snaked back into Luna’s uterus to vanish into oblivion. Even as Luna herself, overcome with the maternal instinct, rushed to the crying Mexican girl’s side and snuggled her into her breast.

-=-=-

Six months later, Carla came to find, through romantic evenings of self-survey that accompanied her into slumber as she nursed idly upon her thumb, that she ultimately retained very little useful memory of her brief and fleeting time at the top. All those ingredients of life as part of the United States’ one-percent seemed as faraway dreams, the half-remembered, half-conjured from whole cloth memories of questionable veracity derived from an amalgam of genuine recollection and the textbooks of a Central American schoolchild.

Following her rape, Luna was without options, and, rather than risk waking Mrs. Burbank and entreating her charity -- for which the American woman was not known -- she escaped from the mansion with Carla into the streets of Santa Monica, where she was eventually apprehended and brought into a cold and impersonal system.

The two undocumented individuals were deported to Mexico, where Luna stayed with family until she no longer felt it honorable to impose. She and her daughter made their way to Honduras and became farm workers. The vast disparity between Carla’s existence as Charles Burbank and that of her current station aided in the rapid degeneration of her memories and, instead, she assimilated into her new home, coming to regard Luna as her loving, and true, mother.

She came to accept her new life, as she had no other choice. But it wasn’t so horrible. In fact, Carla had come to realize that she was, in fact, happier than she had ever been.

She only hoped that the adult men in her life treated her mother with more respect and humanity than the cold millionaire she would occasionally encounter in her nightmares.

...the end

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