Disclaimer: This story depicts teenage recreational drug use, and only as an ironic yet relevant plot device. If drugs or drug usage scares you or you disagree with it, please read no further.
Disclaimer #2: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
As usual, there is strong sexual language.
Fun tip: I wrote this story while high.
Trip to Mushroom Castle
Pete boringly marched his usual route home from school, not paying attention to much of anything around him. Not traffic, honking cars, or other pedestrians. He just marched a monotonous funeral march back to his quiet, empty, boring house. He already knew he would waste this day away as he had wasted all the others of his dull, adolescent life thus far: playing video games—probably Super Mario, his favorite of all time, more than anything else—with occasional hygienic and masturbatory intermissions. Usually, weed, shrooms, or a combination of both would even seemingly give himself control over time to have time either speed by to get through to the next day or slow down to savor every single second of his idle self-indulgence.
He had none of either left, however, and neither did his only dealer.
Besides, one could only waste away time by playing games for so long before even that became boring.
So, he sulked the sulk of a lonely, neglected, drug-dependent teen back to his house, shoulders low, eyes down at the ground, and lifeless, wondering what he was going to do today to pass time by.
“I think I know something you can do,” he heard a voice say to him, reaching him through his shield of despondency.
The directness of the statement’s relevance to his thoughts arrested him in his tracks. He stopped immediately and raised his sunken eyes from the ground to look at an old, bearded man standing in front of the entrance of an alley, wearing a blue robe and a silly-looking blue, cone-shaped hat with yellow stars on it.
“What did you say?” Pete said.
“I said,” the old man begun confidently, “I think I know something you can do to pass time by.”
Pete blushed from a mix of fury and naked humiliation. “How did you—?!”
“I’m a wizard.”
The ridiculous claim made his ruffled face frown with confusion. “What?”
“It’s up to you whether you believe me or not. If you choose to trust me, I can offer you a cheap, discounted sample of a rare type of a special, home-made specimen of the psilocybin species.”
The old moan shook his head and groaned. “You children are getting dumber and dumber every generation, I swear. Let me put it simply: do you want shrooms, kid?”
Pete gawked at the old man in silent suspicion. “Are you a fuckin’ cop or something?”
“Why does everyone ask me that?”
“Whatever. You’re weird. Bye, old man,” Pete said and began to walk away, no longer caring as to how the man had somehow read his thoughts, had known about his home life, or had known he wanted shrooms, but only caring to get as far away from the freak as possible.
“Wait!” the man yelled and ran in front of Pete, hands outstretched, face pleading. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry if I’m freaking you out! Just listen to me for a quick second, okay? And, just to answer all the questions I’m sure you’re thinking about right now, I’m not a kidnapper, a rapist, a cop, or anything harmful.”
“So, what are you? A wizard?”
Pete just stared critically at the man, his eyes nearly narrowing with wariness, trying to discern the intentions behind that warm smile of his.
The old man jerked his head toward the alley that he had been standing in front of.
Pete stared at it and thought to himself:
What else do I have to do than to talk to a lunatic?
“So,” Pete said as they came to a stop about twenty feet into the alley, “if you’re a wizard, why are you dealing drugs?”
The supposed wizard looked at Pete. “Well, this wasn’t my first career choice, obviously!” He chuckled.
Pete looked blankly at him.
The old man then cleared his throat from Pete’s unresponsiveness. “Well, I used to own a shop downtown.”
“What kinda shop?”
“A magic shop, of course,” the man said matter-of-factly.
“Right. You owned a magic shop?”
“Of course. What other kind of shop would a wizard open?”
This was too good. Pete barely restrained the budding laughter from inside of him. “Okay,” he said. “Right. What was it called?”
“Spells ‘R Us.”
“Yes, like Toys ‘R Us,” the old man finished Pete’s sentence. “I get that all the time.”
“That’s probably because it’s not very original.”
“Well, it’s the best I could do,” he shrugged. “I had all sorts of merchandise a kid like you would like. Potions, spell books, magical mangas, anime figurines. I even sold this nice boy about your age a cosplay costume, too.”
“And you sell shrooms, too, apparently?”
The wizard grinned mischievously. “Yes. Mushrooms, as well. Magic mushrooms, as you would call it.”
“So, what happened to it?”
“Recession,” he said morosely, shaking his head. “Worst time to be a wizard. Especially a wizard with as much merchandise as I have, and nowhere to store it, and no venue to sell it in.”
Pete just stared dumbfounded at the recession-weary, drug-dealing wizard before him. After a long moment of silence, to let all the crazy shit he had just heard settle in his head, he said, “So, now you try to sell your merchandise—such as these shrooms you say you have—on the street?”
“I gotta make a living somehow,” the man shrugged again. “You see people go on the train and beg for money all the time. This is my form of that. The police don’t seem to like it, though. I’ve already been stopped several times by them.”
“Maybe because they think you’re a drug dealer.”
“Well, that’s a bit of a strong word,” the man quipped.
“Well, whatever. Where’s this shit you say you have?” Pete asked.
The man’s eyes lit up. “So, you are interested!” He reached into his robe. “I’m glad.”
His whole body tensed, Pete kept his eyes glued onto his hand in anxious anticipation and thought to himself, “Great. This is it. I’m fucked. He’s gonna pull out a knife or a gun and call me a dumbass for falling for this ridiculous bait and I’m gonna die in this fucking alley.” Or maybe he’d pull out a wizard’s staff and incinerate him? Whatever it may be, Pete nearly wanted to close his eyes to shield himself from the tool he believed the man would pull out to threaten and subsequently end his life.
The man’s hand, however, resurfaced from his robe to produce a clear, plastic bag.
They were mushrooms.
A lot of mushrooms.
Pink mushrooms, too. Every single one of them. Clearly not a typical mushroom color. They looked more like candy than a psychoactive substance.
“I know what you’re thinking,”, the wizard said defensively.
“Oh, what,” Pete began, “that they’re pink? You’re such a fucking mindreader, Mr. Wizard.”
“That’s exactly what gives it its special properties!”
“How am I to know that you’re not some nut that escaped from a mental facility, picked random mushrooms from a forest—which could be dangerous—and dyed them in pink food color to peddle them to stupid little kids?”
“Like I said, Pete,” the old man said, “you just have to trust me.”
Pete frowned. “How—”
“Did I know your name?” he laughed. “The same way I know how bored you are with your life, and how you like to go home and play video games all day to waste the day away, and jerk yourself off into a fitful sleep, only to do it all again the next day.”
Pete stared at the man in horror, frozen and terrified more than any drawn knife or gun could have made him.
“Tell me,” the man said solemnly, “what’s your favorite video game?”
Pete stared into the man’s deep, wise, serious eyes. Feeling cornered and trapped, he confessed. “Super Mario.”
“I see.” He nodded respectfully. “Fine choice. A classic.”
He suddenly shook the bag of pink mushrooms in his hand, dangling it before the boy’s face like gold. His eyes locked onto it.
“What if I told you,” he said, “that these mushrooms are so strong and potent, that you’ll feel like you’re in the game?”
He pondered how such an innocuous, pretty pinkness could belie such power and potency. Especially claimed by someone he had just met on the street.
“You escape in video games, Pete. With these mushrooms, you can demolish the physical and spiritual barrier between this world which bores you so much, and the world you wish to escape to, and truly escape to it.”
Pete just continued to stare at the mushrooms.
“To put it in layman’s terms for you, again, Pete,” the wizard said, “everything else you’ve tried is shit compared to this.” The man paused again. “Let me ask you another, rather famous question: do you believe in magic?”
“You will after you try these. These mushrooms invented the term ‘magic mushroom’.”
They just stood there in silence for a long time: the man staring at Pete, Pete staring at the bag, and the magic mushrooms dangling in the bag in between them.
Pete climbed the stairs of his porch, reflecting on the entertaining detour his usual, uneventful walk home from school took. “Fucking crazy old man,” he grumbled as he unlocked the front door. “He was a nut.”
He opened it and took a few steps into his living room as the door shut behind him. “I’m home!” he bellowed, more to test if anyone was home than actual desire to pronounce his presence—as if anyone would care.
He sighed, locked the door behind him, and marched up the stairs. He entered the plush prison cell that he called his room, his eyes scanning the wrinkled clothes strewn about the room, the video game posters on the wall, and the dirt-covered, sweat-stained video game controller on his throne-like chair, its cord going to the system in front of the TV in his room.
Once he closed his door, however, that usual anticipatory tingle of excitement spread through his body.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a bag of pink mushrooms.
“I can’t believe I bought this shit,” he lamented, shaking his head. “Maybe I’m just as crazy as he is for actually entertaining that?”
He held the bag up and scrutinized the mushrooms. He reflected on the old man’s words: the ultimate video game experience, the key to breaking the physical and spiritual barrier that locks him into his own world and keeps him from entering another. Sounded very trippy and heavy, indeed. Rational cynicism begged Pete to truly analyze those words. They were, perhaps, very well-rehearsed and practiced. That definitely wasn’t the man’s first time spinning that spiel. Indeed, any drugdealer, whether a crazy old man claiming to be a wizard or a normal, impoverished teenager, would claim their shit—whatever the shit is that they’re selling—is the best shit ever, and will make you see the universe and discover the meaning of life. Especially if they’re desperate enough to sell it.
“What if it’s just poison?” he questioned.
He opened up the ziplock bag slowly and warily, as if opening a letter containing a bomb, and he brought his nose to the bag’s opening.
It smelled like a mushroom.
He then carefully reached inside of the bag and held one of them up, examining it like a jewel. He discovered several new and unusual features about these mushrooms that he hadn’t noticed before.
The most obvious one was that small white spots freckled the mushroom head, and it had short, stout, stumpy stems. Shouldn’t mushrooms have long, gangly stems? And not be spotted?
Then again, shouldn’t mushrooms not be pink?
While twisting his arm to look at the mushroom from all angles, he noticed two, vertical, black lines on the stem, staring at him like cute, silly-looking eyes.
He stared at the mushroom.
And the mushroom just stared back at him, blankly, as if to say, “What, you’ve never seen a mushroom before?”
He shook his head and resignation. What the hell, he thought. Worse that could happen is that he starts to feel poisoned and he could call the hospital to save him before he died. At least that would be more exciting than doing nothing again.
“That wizard’s a fucking hustler, though,” he muttered to himself. The wizard nearly exploded with disappointment when Pete confessed to him just how broke he was. He had said something along the lines of, “Why did I have to find the brokest brat to stop on the street?” The wizard had wanted $100 for the entire eighth. Pete eventually bargained the wizard into just taking all he had—which was a measly ten dollars and ten cents. Besides, after such a lengthy, melodramatic sales pitch and presentation, the wizard simply didn’t feel like waiting for another indeterminate amount of time before his next potential customer to wander by.
“Lunch money” the wizard murmured pathetically as he took Pete’s money—but, as a recession-weary, drug-dealing wizard, he obviously needed the money, since he still took it.
Oh well, Pete thought to himself
At that thought, he initiated his pre-shroom ceremonies: he threw off his bookbag, cathartically stretching his worn-out back in the process, took off his sneakers and jeans, threw them sloppily into a distant corner of his room, and slipped into his favorite pair of white, warm, roomy sweats. He decided to leave on his favorite, green, Super Mario T-shirt on, which featured a green, 1-Up mushroom and said “GET A LIFE” underneath.
He then took his seat in his leather entertainment throne, controller and remote to his right and pink, mysterious mushrooms to his left.
He out about two grams worth and looked them in their cute, beady lil’ eyes one last time, as if he were about to swallow the red pill to eject him from this reality.
The mushrooms’ eyes gave no indication as to where they would take Pete. Their eyes were blank. Yet, they were still inviting. He recalled the wizard’s weird words: the Ultimate Escape. The demolition of the physical and spiritual barrier between this world which bored him so much, and the world you he wished to escape to.
Pete sighed deeply.
“Let’s have a nice trip,” he nervously exclaimed, anxious yet excited.
At that, Pete chomped into the pink mushrooms, swallowing their familiar, distasteful, but oh so magical juices, feeling it fill his stomach and subsequently flow slowly through his body.
In Super Mario 64, Pete ran aimlessly around Princess Peach’s castle. Having gotten all the 120 Stars in the game and explored every secret or trick, fake or real, it’s all he felt like doing sometimes. Kinda like taking a victory lap around his conquered castle, if only just to reminisce on the shitty 64-bit scenery. He did not care, though. He liked looking at the castle he had saved, under its eternally clear, sunny day.
Soon, he could feel the familiar, oh so slow onset of psilocybin washing over his senses, electrifying every pore on his body. Even the dreary, dated 64-bit colors of the fourteen-year-old video game radiated with a newborn vibrancy, the grainy graphics appearing nearly immaculate. The entire video game’s image in the TV seemed to protrude out towards him like a 3D movie.
Pete shifted excitedly in his chair, feeling every hair on his scrawny legs brush against the inside of his sweats. “Damn,” Pete murmured admiringly, “this shit is good! I guess that weird old man wasn’t too nutty, after all.” He closed his eyes from the game for a moment and rubbed the back of his head against his chair, feeling the leather caress his scalp like the hands of a masseuse. He sighed with relief. He wasn’t going to die today, after all!
He reopened his eyes and dove into the game again, like scuba diving into an ocean, the controller cord his lifeline. And, as he wandered around the castle more and more and as he fell deeper and deeper under the sway of the shrooms, in his high-induced heightened sense of insight, he idly deconstructed and reflected on the wacky Super Mario universe:
A short, midget Italian plumber named Mario stomping on tiny brown monsters called Goombas, and jumping on green-shelled turtle-like creatures called Koopas, who were the minions of the king of all Koopas, Bowser, who looked like a Koopa on steroids. Mario went from world to world, avoiding flames, piranha plants, bullets, and, at times, going underwater for extended periods of time, to rescue Princess Peach from Bowser—who, despite all the many, many castles he entered, appeared to be in none of them. All to save a princess.
Princess Peach Toadstool, Pete amusingly mused. Princess of the Mushroom Kingdom, living in Mushroom Castle, where she had many mushroom-headed creatures called “toads” as servants.
He giggled madly at the bizarre, trippy prevalence of mushrooms in the Super Mario world—a world that, with or without mushrooms, was still pretty freaking creepy, but was only infinitely more so with them. Had Shigeru Miyamoto, the legendary Nintendo character designer, conceived of Mario while shrooming? The thought made him giggle even more. “I bet he did,” he said aloud.
Pete momentarily refocused on the game, looking at the field outside the castle. He listened to the birds, their intermittent chirping soothing his soul. The grass’ green pixels pulsed with life. He almost thought he could see blades of grass.
As he beheld the Mushroom Castle’s lawn, he imagined the comical, ironic idea of a garden of mushrooms growing all around Mario. Pete laughed further at the thought; might as well, with both the kingdom and the castle having the name “Mushroom”, and the Princess having the last name “Toadstool”.
Well, Pete thought, if Shigeru Miyamoto wasn’t a shroomer, Mario definitely was! He also ate mushrooms that would either make him bigger, make him shrink, or have other adverse effects.
But, nonetheless—a garden of shrooms?
He giggled at the thought like a kid thinking about candy. “I’d love to go to Mushroom Castle,” he sighed longingly, “I bet there’s tons of shrooms there.” He imagined himself standing in the middle of the garden, picking mushrooms like flowers, eating every last one of them. And, when he switched the in-game camera to look at the castle in the horizon, he could nearly see and feel the magnificence of the castle’s colossal size. Its central spire pierced his heart with its realness. The fresco of Princess Peach hypnotized him, its different colors sparkling like a kaleidoscope, as if he were looking at a solar eclipse. The window burned her image into his head and his heart. And he found he could not look away. Through the burning of the image inside of himself, he soon felt a similar sensation throughout his actual body. Every pore of his skin tickled with anticipation. His body felt hot and itched all over, as if he were an ant under a microscope, the microscope being the window.
He couldn’t expel Princess Peach from his head. He figured he was just somehow getting horny, a sensation being greatly magnified by his high, and a thought quickly confirmed by a glance down at his sweatpants. After all, with Super Mario being his favorite game of all time, Princess Peach was naturally his favorite video game babe. She was, after all, the original princess of video games! The epitome of beauty and grace, with her squeaky, girly voice, her iconic dress, her big blue eyes, her beautiful, wavy blonde hair, and that gorgeous golden crown that somehow never fell off of her head, no matter what she did. And, of course, he always loved to fantasize and vividly imagine the royal treasures that she modestly and demurely buried beneath the outer, superficial shell of that pretty pink Princess dress! It was like looking at a Christmas present and guessing what was inside.
He stared at the fresco longer—the fresco where Bowser had sealed her, precipitating Mario’s adventure around the castle to save her. He could feel himself sinking into it like a black hole, as if he, too, was becoming trapped within the fresco’s clutches. He could feel his legs tingle with anticipation. He wiggled his toes inside of his slippers and shifted once again in his chair, feeling as if he would melt into it. The air around him felt charged with tense energy and magic, every atom of everything around him buzzing with intense heat and malleability, everything feeling so hot he felt time and space itself were melting.
Or, rather, morphing.
“Goddamn,” Pete panted in mild concern at how high he was getting. If the fresco had been glaring at him like a magnifying glass on an ant, it seemed to be now glaring at the whole entire world like an ant farm, glaring with the power and omniscience of the sun itself. He sweated all over like he had done ecstasy. He nearly felt like he was in ecstasy. Everything felt alive and illuminated.
He shifted once more in his chair, feeling as if he were under a hot lamp in an interrogation room. He wiggled his toes again; he felt like spiders were crawling up his legs.
“Wow,” Pete panted yet again, “I’m really fucking trippin’.” He scratched at his calves through his sweatpants, yet the crawling sensation continued. When he paused for a moment, however, he realized that the sensation didn’t quite feel like spiders. It felt more like something tight crawling up his legs. Something tight. And soft. And….
At that, with silent fear, he reached down and yanked up the legs of his sweatpants to his knees, which revealed to his sweaty, horrified face a pair of white, sheer, nylon socks where his old wool ones had been before. And they were climbing up his legs.
“Holy shit!” Pete screamed. He blinked his eyes multiple times, like what he saw was an illusion he could blink away, like blinking away an eyelash in one’s eye, but the white, nylon socks remained, and continued their climb up his legs just as steadily.
“I must be tripping hard or something,” Pete said to himself in a panic. He still felt the world swirl around him, his body still feverish with hot flashes. Yet, despite the disorienting, seemingly drug-induced sensations he felt, all of them—or, at least, the growing socks—felt frighteningly real. He cupped his hands around the mouths of the growing socks (at this point, just below his knees), as if he could catch them and stop them, yet they slid under his hand with the untouchable fluidity of water and continued higher and higher, disappearing underneath his drawn-up pant legs around his knees.
“Fuck!” he screamed, standing abruptly. He felt like he had stood up in a sauna, the air was so humid, hot, and thick with whatever this energy was. He looked down at his sweatpants and yanked down its waistband to around his knees, helplessly watching the mysterious socks hike up his skinny thighs and hone in on his tight, white briefs. At seeing the socks around his thighs, he realized that these were not just ordinary, fruity-looking white nylon socks. They were….
“Stockings?!” he screamed again. “Th-These are—stockings!”
But, as Pete soon discovered from helplessly watching further, he was again wrong. They soon crawled underneath and inside the leg holes of his briefs, where he felt the socks swaddle his hips and scale his skinny, bony butt. Once it had reached his waist, poking immodestly above the waistband of his briefs, their slow, dreadful climb had come to an end. Lastly, he watched as white, lacy bands with flowery embroidery blossomed at the peak of his newly stockinged legs, at the point just before they disappeared into his briefs.
He was now wearing white, sheer pantyhose!
“Oh my God!” he screamed again. “What the—”
He saw some shifting taking place from the corners of his eyes—specifically from his bed—and looked in its direction to see it, too, transforming. Blotches of pink materialized on his bed sheet and, thereafter, started to spread on his bed like a spill of pink paint. His flat, dull pillows pinkened and fluffed up, white, frilly lace flowering on its edges, as his sheets grew silky and shimmery in the dingy light of his dungeon-like room.
A sudden tightening and shifting of his briefs made him look away from his transforming room and down at himself again. He saw his tight, white briefs also pinken and soften, their waistband thinning into a similar frilly pink lace. He could feel the seat of his increasingly feminine briefs tighten against his flat, flabby butt cheeks, cradling them in an uncomfortably girly fashion. Soon, they had transformed into pink, frilly knickers. His horror stricken, now-flaccid penis tented the crotch of the girly undergarment.
He could only stare down in silent horror at his nearly completely crossdressed lower half, with his skinny, hairy legs sheathed in white nylon pantyhose, running up to the pink knickers on his skinny hips and ass. His cold, clammy hands incredulously caressed his hairy, nylon legs and snapped the waistband of his knickers. As much as he would love to tell himself he was just tripping still, he found that excuse increasingly hard to believe. This certainly felt real enough!
He brought his hands to the waistband of the knickers and the pantyhose, about to yank them down his legs with disgust, until the waistband of the knickers fused with the bottom of his shirt, forming a makeshift romper, effectively burying the waistband of the pantyhose underneath, trapping him in them. Then, like a spreading virus, the tightness and pink color of the formerly separate knickers spread up to his formerly separate green tee, the top half of his new romper pinkening, shrinking, and clinging to his scrawny, boyish body. His cold, clammy hands clawed at the increasingly clingy, girly garment, but he could only stretch it ever so slightly off of his body before it would snap stubbornly from the grasp of his sweaty, panicky fingers.
“Oh God,” Pete mewled to himself, wondering what was going on and how to possibly stop it. To at least cover his romper’s embarrassingly frilly bottom and his hosed legs, he yanked his sweatpants up from around his quivering thighs, back up to his waist. He was hoping he could throw on a sweatshirt on to conceal his torso, then run around the house to find a knife or some scissors to free himself from this pink cocoon of femininity that he was slowly being imprisoned in. The moment he yanked his pants up, however, he found he had yanked them up too far in his fright, giving himself a wicked wedgie which popped his testicles up into his scrotum, the shock and pain of which made him arch his back behind him and squeal in an unusually high-pitched “Oooo!”
He froze with fright, as if he had just broken something. Something in his body. His balls. What happened to them? Did they really just recede into his scrotum like that? It certainly felt like they just did but—no, they couldn’t have! And what was that sound that came from his mouth? It sounded so soft. So high. So….
“Peachy?” he questioned aloud, as if the hidden, omniscient orchestrator or perpetrator of this reality-warping, mindfuck of a trip could hear and answer him, but the pitch of his own voice answered his own question. It had definitely somehow gotten higher! If it were just a little higher and softer, it would sound like….
New sensations from his lower body and a new pulsing energy in the room derailed his train of thought. He could feel that whatever was happening, to himself and to his reality, was gaining speed and momentum. He glanced at where his nondescript dresser was—or rather used to be—and saw that it had somehow been swapped with or bloomed into an extravagant white bureau, big enough to hold all the cosmetics and clothes the picky, prissy princess he was becoming would ever need, with a new, giant mirror framed by elegant arches, perfect for a princess to prettify herself and primp in front of, but currently for him to behold his transforming body in all its emasculated, increasingly effeminate daintiness. The side profile of a pretty, blushing boy holding the waistband of a pair of pink sweatpants high above his hips, their legs riding up to reveal his white, nylon calves and his pink marabou slippers on his white, hosed feet, the torso of his pink romper clinging to his skinny upper body.
Wait! When had his sweatpants and slippers turned pink, too?! And where did that fruity-looking fur on his slippers come from?!
“I look like a fuckin’ drag queen!” he cried miserably in his completely crossdressed state. With him not having yet stopped his accidentally self-inflicted wedgie, he felt the seat of his sweatpants suddenly bunch further and deeper between his butt cheeks as they bulged and swelled suddenly, the wedgie’s crevice growing deeper as his butt grew bigger, simultaneously feeling his romper’s frilly bottom, beneath his sweats, stretch to contain its increasing corpulence.
“Oh God!” he squealed again, stabbing one hand down the back of his pants, while the other still held them up. “M-My ass! What’s happening—” Before he could finish his sentence, he felt his hips crack and expand outwards, as if the two testicles he used to have, now buried deep inside his groin (and, unbeknown to him, now functioning as ovaries), had explosively applied a force within to widen them. He arched his back more, watching his butt jut more and more from his side profile, its corpulence increasingly more and more conspicuous as it poked and protruded juicily from his distorting wedgie, like a pink, ballooning bubble. His nylon legs locked, his thighs, hamstrings, and calves spasming as he could feel them swell with soft, feminine fat underneath the legs of his sweats, altogether creating an involuntarily sexy, ass-jutting stance. If his calves were any indication of how the rest of his legs looked, he imagined he now had some gorgeous gams underneath those pretty pink sweats!
Soon, he finally released the waistband of his sweats, causing them to snap snugly against his new sizeable butt, widened hips, and thickened thighs in a way his formerly baggy gray sweats never had against his previously skinny lower half. He now looked like he was wearing those pretty pink Victoria’s Secret sweatpants he sometimes saw girls wear, with the word “PINK” written on their butts! And, scarily enough, the fantastic figure they conformed to marvelously matched the part, too!
At that thought, on his pink, furry slipper’ed and nyloned feet, he pivoted his newly wide hips toward the mirror, feeling his swollen ass swing heavily behind him like a planet in orbit, to behold the pink, perfectly plump, bulbous bubble his butt had blown up into, not with the word “PINK” but, even worse, with the word “PEACH” emblazoned on his big butt like a billboard—a billboard bolstered by thick thighs, belonging to legs seemingly as long as stilts!
“Oh my God!” he gasped girlishly like a worrisome woman fussing fickly about how big her butt was. More so than that, however, at looking at that word—no, that name—emblazoned on his blown-up butt, he realized: he was becoming….
He felt his penis throb violently beneath his snug sweats, causing him to bury his hands in his tight pockets in a feeble attempt to reach it, stretching his already taut sweats across his expansive ass. At feeling them tingle madly within, however, he quickly withdrew them, however, as if he had stuck his hands in mouse traps, only to find them reemerging much more slender and dainty, and each hand now covered in white satin, matching his white pantyhose. Even worse, like the hose had climbed up his now luscious legs, the gloves started to extended up his feeble, feminine arms. And, like he had done with his hose when they were climbing up his legs, his girly hands gripped his arms at various lengths, as if he could cut off his gloves’ extension, yet they continued, ending only at his the short-sleeves of his romper.
At that, he held his beautiful, gloved hands up before his horrified face, wiggling their flimsy, feminine fingers, which he somehow knew had pink, glossy fingernails underneath the gloves. They were the kind of hands that princesses offer for their knights in shining armor to plant kisses on, the kind of hands he’d love to see wrapped around his penis, their graceful fingers gripping his thickness, the soft, smooth, snow white satin stroking his shaft (perhaps followed by a Peach’s pink, plump lips!) so soft, shiny, and snow white he was afraid to even touch anything in them, lest he dirty them! He held his arms out at his sides, every miniscule movement oozing feminine grace. Even when he gave up and dropped them defeatedly at his sides, they hung with a girlish, limp-wristed flaccidity that felt flamboyantly gay to him but looked fabulously feminine and refined.
His gloved hand reached down to incredulously squeeze his plump, peachy rump, with “PEACH” emblazoned on it, stretched out like a “SPALDING” on a pink basketball. Once again, he realized: he was becoming….
“Peach!” he squeaked in Princess Peach’s piercingly squeaky, sexy voice. His tiny, elegantly gloved hand hovered horrifically in front of the pink, plump lips he now owned, from which the velvety voice he had heard emerged, his already wide eyes widening even more, their seemingly longer lashes fluttering, his other gloved hand flaccidly gripping his slender, neck (which he now noticed had lost its Adam’s apple), altogether looking like a potty-mouthed princess who had just said a bad word! His voice! It was so—high! High as if he had inhaled a tank full of helium! So soft and sweet as candy! An operatic soprano of pure, utter femininity! He had always been fascinated by the silly-sounding, cartoonishly squeaky pitch of Peach’s voice, but was now frightened to find it coming from his own mouth.
“Oh no!” he cried like a melodramatic damsel in a distress. At having uttered the word “Peach”, he had seemingly uttered a magic word that further expedited his change, and the change of everything around him. The room suddenly grew larger, its walls moving outwards, like the opposite of those classic trap rooms where the walls close in. In the mirror, he saw his tiny, creaky old bed had now completely transformed into a pink, pillowy queen-sized island of silk and satin that a boy had no business sleeping on. The filth of his old room—the sloppily strewn about clothes, the dirty socks, the smelly laundry—had all vanished, clearing the floor, which, despite the new white walls, the new bureau, and the new window, was still the same old hardwood.
The short, pink sleeves of his romper, which had formerly been the baggy, short-sleeves of his white T-shirt, clamped down on the now diminutive deltoids of his now feeble, feminine arms, and they slowly ballooned like pink, plump pumpkins, slowly dwarfing his slender arms. His collar underwent a similar transformation, closing in around his slender neck like an army surrounding and closing in on an enemy stronghold, in a definitely feminine neckline.
He then looked back at his frightened face in the mirror to see his lips pulse as they pinkened and plumped up, protruding and pouting as if puckering for a prince’s kiss. His newly luscious lips gaped gorgeously at the change in stunned silence, his eyes wide with horror and widening further, their lashes lengthening to lush proportions, thickening with body, and curling girlishly as his irises lightened from their boring brown of a dark, dreary night to the big, beautiful, ocean blue orbs of a clear blue sky. He slapped his gloved hands to his rosy, rouged cheeks, his pink, puffy shoulders rustling besides him, his wrists girlishly bent again and fingers stiff, as if to verify that the morphing, adorably dollish face he saw was truly his, yet he indeed felt it. He blinked profusely, as he had seemingly an eternity ago at the stockings crawling up his legs, yet he only felt the long, lush lashes of his big blue eyes flutter prettily.
“Holy smokes!” he cutely cried, then frowned at the rather outdated, silly-sounding expletive he uttered. “Wait! Why the heck can’t I curse? Gosh darn it! I—”
As he struggled with his new inability to curse, frustrated at further sounding like a perfect, polite, princess, he cooed uncomfortably as he felt the legs of his tight, pink sweats suddenly shoot up, unveiling his legs in all their white, shiny, sexy nylon loveliness, only stopping at his thick upper thighs, now nothing more than a pair of skimpy hot pink hot pants—“PEACH” still emblazoned across his big ass, which was really now just a pink, plump bubble butt. He slapped his hands at the sides of his hips, shocked at how lovely his legs looked, his dainty feet still in those marabou pink slippers.
Before he could utter his disbelief, however, he felt a burning in his hair, as if a bottle of the sharpest, most acidic shampoo in the world had just rained down on it. He threw his head back, shutting his big blue eyes, luscious lips ajar as a squeaky “Oooo!” escaped them, his gloved fingers furiously scratching his head, as if a legion of lice were scurrying about his scalp. As he scratched, however, his locks lengthened and lightened, lightening from his previously dull, dirt brown to the glorious gold of the sun. He could feel it filling his gloved palms more and more, bundles of beautiful blonde locks billowing more and more in his hands, like a culminating storm cloud of golden silk, slowly enshrouding his hands like a rapidly blossoming silk shrub, slowly surrounding his pretty little head like a halo, several strands spilling from the gaps between his flimsy fingers. He mewled and moaned like a woman in an Herbal Essences commercial, occasionally panting a pretty, high-pitched “No!” and a squeaky “Stop!” as every hair follicle on his pretty little head continued to pulse powerfully with life, his hair continuing to sprout violently from his head; he tossed his head to and fro in denial, feeling the stray strands he had been unable to contain flail softly, brushing his rouged cheeks, the nape of his neck, the bangs sweeping his forehead swinging. Soon, the silky cloud of hair had grown so large and heavy, his hands surrendered and released it, the billowing, clumped-up storm cloud of beautiful blonde hair raining down his neck and back, unfurling beautifully like a golden flag, cascading like a curtain, all the day down to his pink, peachy bubble butt!
He finally reopened his eyes and, even though he dreaded the thought, confronted his frighteningly beautiful reflection in the mirror, his neck adjusting to the new weight on his head. Good God! He was gorgeous! He was Princess Peach’s spitting image! Big blue eyes with luscious lashes, pink plump lips eagerly awaiting to be kissed by a knight in shining armor (or a short, Italian plumber!), and a long, magnificent mane of silky, wavy blonde hair that suggested he had done nothing but sat in front of a mirror all day and combed it with girlish, shallow self-indulgence! He even had her earrings: the large, sapphire pearls dangled cutely from his freshly pierced earlobes, matching his big, bulging, yet still beautiful blue eyes.
The disappearance of his own face for Peach’s was all he could take. In his pink marabou slippers, he began to try to run—to where, he knew not, but anywhere other than facing the mirror—yet, his plump upper thighs got caught on some stretchy, rubber band-like material, which made him look down to see the legs of his hotpants had fused together to form a micro-miniskirt, the waistband of which had fused with the waist of his romper, overall making a mini-dress with an attached pair of pink panties underneath. The dress’s waist became reinforced and tightened, leaving him breathless as it cinched his waist severely, whittling it to the waspish proportions of a constantly corseted, tightlaced, petite princess who vigilantly watched her figure, emphasizing his wide hips and plump rump further. He slapped his hands on his waspish waist, tracing the cartoonishly incredible curve outwards towards his comparatively huge hips. He felt weak and helplessly lightheaded, girlishly gasping for air through his plump lips, his breathing reduced to the shallow, chest-heaving pants of a tightlaced damsel. His waist couldn’t have been more than twenty inches, while his hips seemed to be more than thirty-six!
Then, the skirt of his dress slowly frilled, with a short, vermillion pink peplum forming over it. Then, he felt a deeper pink petticoat flower from underneath his pale pink outer skirt, eventually peeking out slightly by several inches and flaring his entire skirt, making his minidress momentarily look more like a tutu. He then realized what was happening. Princess Peach’s famous dress was beginning to take shape upon him! His petticoats and skirt slowly descended down his long, white nylon legs like a falling curtain, like the end of a play, like the end of his boyhood, the growing plume of petticoats crowding around his silky legs, brushing them like a million feathers. As he had with his lovely hair, his gloved hands reached down and seized his falling skirt from all around him, as if he could stop its descent. Yet, once again, it continued to grow, bundles of pink, frilly satin billowing in his hands, bunching up profusely in culminating clusters of satin. He stubbornly held them up, looking more and more like a petrified princess holding her (lengthening) skirt up, flashing her pink, frilly knickers underneath and her entire pantyhosed legs in an unladylike fashion, but not caring, acting in defiance of anything ladylike at all. A sudden pang of pain from his corseted waist trickily made him release his skirt, however, which immediately rained down his legs like a falling curtain, flaring beautifully outward in all its pink, frilly femininity, like the petals of a pink flower opening to the sun in the spring, falling finally at his feet. The skirt flared fabulously from his wasp waist like a pink tulip from a tiny stem! His pretty head glanced at its wide, bell-shaped width from all angles, his gloved arms out at his sides, hair brushing his puffy shoulders, mewling, “Oh God, her dress! I’m wearing her dress!” Completely horrified and humiliated at now wearing this quintessential princess dress, he had no idea how he would even manage to walk in it, with such a long, flared skirt and swallowing his soft, hosed legs!
As if to further confound his boyish brain as to how he would walk, he felt his stance shift suddenly, the heels of his feet popping several inches off the ground, making his big butt jut dramatically behind him, his large, rounded rump creating a scrumptious hump in the back of his skirt, and forcing his still flat chest out before him. His head shot down at the ground to see what had happened, but the skirt hid his feet. His gloved hands gripped the front of his skirt and lifted it like a veil, unveiling a pair of petite, pantyhosed feet perched perfectly in pink pumps with four inch heels! How was he supposed to walk in those?!
The yellowish walls of his room whitened with a renewed prestige; his window widened and grew taller, slowly taking the shape of a cathedral window—the kind of window that princesses prettily sit beside and hang their hair down from, calling pleadingly for their knight—letting light flood in and shine down on his transforming body in his princess dress like a spotlight, illuminating the linoleum underneath his high-heeled feet.
Then, deep beneath the many luscious, luxurious layers of fluffy petticoats cocooning his legs, he felt his long-forgotten penis pulse and stir as it started to shrink. “No!” he cried in his squeaky Peach voice, “not that! Please!” His gloved hands shot down and hiked up his skirt, fighting frantically through the forest of frilly satin and lace underneath to reach and save his disappearing penis, but the pressure and pulsing became so much that he had to stop, juicy lips ajar, cooing cutely, hosed legs quivering, overall both looking and sounding like a little girl who needed to used the bathroom badly, as, deep beneath the layers of his petticoated prison, his penis was sucked into his scrotum, joining his balls, and he felt a sensitive fissure form in its place, like a crater. He felt two firm pops at the sides of his wide hips, which was, unbeknown to him, his new equipment connecting to his uterus. At long last, when he felt well enough to move again, he finished lifting up his skirt and petticoats, exposing a perfect, flat, precious Princess Peach panty shot, her crotch a pink Bermuda Triangle of royal treasure underneath her extravagant skirt.
He just dropped his skirt, nearly about to cry, yet having no time to before a blue sapphire brooch bloomed on his hitherto plain pink torso—a brooch which matched his earrings, which matched his eyes. Then, the brooch pulsated with a power that made his puny pecs pulse with prepubescent effervescence, peaking in his nipples. He cooed and threw his shoulders back as the pink satin of his dress’ bodice tickled his turgid nipples. Then, with his shoulders thrown back and his back arched, surrendering his chest to the magic of his brooch, he felt his bust burst forth, stretching and straining his pink satin bodice.
“Oh gosh!” he squealed, his big, blue eyes gawking at his ballooning bust beneath the blinking brooch. “No! Not--!” He slapped his gloved hands onto the blossoming breasts, yet the ballooning breasts slowly overflowed in his palms. He could feel their increasing weight slowly anchor his back and spine into a permanently prissy posture. The brooch bulged out to the world from his bounteous bust like a giant headlight.
As he took a quick, panoramic glance around his new room, it looked utterly alien to him. The dark, messy dungeon of a room in which he had wasted away his days in, shrooming and playing the video game he now found himself inside of, had completely transformed into the room of a rich princess, posh and luxurious, with a giant cathedral window, expensive upholstery, a large, fancy bureau, and immaculate linoleum flooring. And, most frighteningly of all, when he looked in the mirror, he did not look out of place in it at all. He looked like he belonged in it! Like it was truly his room!
He had to leave it. He tried to run away (as if he could run away from this transformation!) but his petite feet in their 4” pink pumps did not even make two steps before he tripped on some of the overflowing material of his princess skirt and fell forward, holding out his girly, gloved hands and falling on his pretty face, squeaking helplessly like a cute, clumsy princess. He angrily pooled his plume-like skirt in his gloved hands and stood up. He continued to hold the front of his skirt—hoisted gracefully from his girlishly limp-wrists—as he scampered away, out into an unfamiliar castle hallway that was much larger and richer than his old one, sharing the same spotless linoleum, and furnished with occasional portraits of the same woman he had just seen in the mirror, the same woman he found himself becoming—Princess Peach!
He scurried down the hall, darting past all the portraits of Peach, his four inch pumps clacking loudly and echoing hauntingly in the huge, hollow hallways of the castle, the endless rustling of all the fluffs and puffs and frills of his flamboyant skirt swishing incessantly about his long, luscious, stocking’ed legs grating away at his male mind like long, pretty pink nails on a chalkboard, as did the jangling on his jewelry, how his blue sapphire earrings bounced at the sides of his pretty face like ornaments in the wind, how his hair flailed like a silky sail behind him. He hated it all! But he could do nothing but run!
After seemingly running forever, and after having developed a dull pain in his pretty feet from running in heels so sigh, he reached a set of large double doors at the end, which his tiny hands and feeble arms struggled to open. A few pushes later, the doors popped open with a slow, deep, ominous creak, as if he had opened the door to a dungeon, revealing a huge throne room, with a red carpet, which began from underneath his high heeled feet, extending before him and leading up to a golden throne with red, cushiony velvet padding, seemingly awaiting his round, royal rump, beckoning him to sashay himself up to it and sit!
And on the right arm of the chair, he saw the final piece to the puzzle, the icing of the cake: Princess Peach’s crown.
In a flash, he suddenly found himself standing in front of the throne, now suddenly looking at the carpet stretch endlessly towards the door. His pretty head snapped all over, wondering how he had gotten here, but his disorientation worsened when a force seemingly pushed him backwards, causing his plump rump to plop prettily upon the soft, cushiony throne, his gloves hands waving cutely before him before they slapped the arms of the chair.
He tried to stand but found himself bound to the throne, as if strapped in a dentist’s chair. Neither his legs nor his arms would move! He couldn’t even twist his neck! The throne felt like a living, breathing organism imbuing his body with royal power. Then, the crown shot in the air and slowly and sinisterly descended upon his pretty lil' head like a crumbling ceiling or a falling sky. His big, blue eyes looked up in fright but could see nothing directly; he could only prettily sit on the throne—his throne—royal rump glued to the seat, gloved hands glued to the arms of the chair, high-heeled feet planted on the floor as some unknown force with transformative, transvestal powers crowned him as a princess.
And, once the crown landed on his scalp, as if a plug had just been entered into an outlet, his entire body exploded with what felt like fire and electricity. He frantically and violently shook his pretty little head back and forth, trying to shake the crown off of his head, his long, luxurious, fluffy, feathery flaxen hair flailing. However, the crown stayed perfectly still as if attached to his head, its great gold gleaming gloriously and glamorously in the rich, luminous lighting of the castle, its sapphire and ruby jewels pulsing with blindingly brilliant glows of magic, as if his soul itself were on fire and shining through the jewels. Every jewel, actually—those in his crown, his brooch, his earrings—lit up like Christmas lights. His back arched like a drawn-back bow, his new bust thrusting out to the empty throne room. He screamed like a soprano opera singer at the climax of an aria, big, blue eyes bulging with murderous fright, a multitude of memories flashing before his morphing mind: countless birthday parties he had been the center of, music lessons, a virtual blueprint of the entire castle—his entire castle—all the daily duties of a posh, princess lifestyle, unlike anything he had known before in his routine, Earthly reality of video gaming, procrastination, and masturbation. Deep inside his skirt and forest of petticoats, between his stockinged legs and inside of his pink, ruffled knickers, he felt his new vagina pulse and become wet, sinfully soiling his pink panties.
He threw his head back, feeling the heavy yet steady weight of the crown upon his head, the weight of his royalty rushing through his blood, the weight and fate of the entire Mushroom Kingdom. His hair waved behind him, nearly touching the seat itself.
Then, suddenly, the jewels of the crown, his brooch, and his earrings flashed in with a blinding climax of light, and the lights instantly died, as if suddenly turned off.
Thus ended the cursed coronation: he was now Princess Peach Toadstool of the Mushroom Kingdom!