Our TG Captionpage 7
written by... Gwarfom
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Before you even get a chance to get your wits about you, Kurt entrances you yet again!
“Hmmm...you’re even older, Valerie.”
“Even o-older?” You ask, confused. What does he mean by “even,” anyway? As far as you can see (and not remembering the fact that your age was just changed) 24 isn’t old at all!
“Yes my dear. Thirteen years older,” he says, stroking his chin.
“Thirteen...years!?” You blurt out in surprise, clutching aching forehead. You were 24, not...37! No, you’re still young, you’re still vibrant! You aren’t some late 30-something sap! Unbeknownst to you, however, your shocked mug begins to change: in the first hints of age, wrinkles sprout up across your face, especially around your eyes. Maybe not 37...but why did 26...28...even 29 seem like numbers closer to your age?
“Valerie, my fair lady...you are 37.”
“I’m...I’m...uh...” you murmur quietly as the changes continue. Your skin loses its smoothness as it becomes just slightly wrinklier all over. Your small breasts begin to sag just a bit as your body expands as put on more weight. Your eyes, once hazel, have dulled to a more tame brown. Your long hair shortens, now being cut just above your shoulders, and it’s not as shiny as it once was...thirteen years ago? No...that can’t be right...
“Say the truth: you are 37 years old.”
“I am...I am 37 years old...” you confess submissively, bowing your head ever so slightly. It was true. How could you even think for a minute you were still young? What sort of fleeting dreams does an aging woman like you even hold on to? Now a little sad, your face alters itself even more to reflect your age; your previously youth-like orientation was now far more stable and jaded with age. Even all of your face’s microexpressions completely change to reflect your maturity and confidence.
“You act like a 37-year-old, too, Valerie,” the man adds quickly.
“I act like...a 37-year-old...” you say, laughing a little. Of course you act your age! You weren’t some child, or worse, some 20-something girl with not a clue in the world who she would be. You’re a headstrong, ambitious, and almost ruthless mid-career woman, after all. No husband (or boyfriend), and you do worry about settling down too late, but you have your dream job in finance in the city and a nice house (that your current one morphs into to reflect this change) to your name. As these silly thoughts of somehow not being a responsible woman cross your mind, your entire aesthetic changes. Instantly, your outfit switches to a revealing and sexy red robe that only a supremely confident woman would wear while lounging. Heels appear on your feet, as you often wear heels even in your own house for the fun of it to feel sexier. Your earrings become larger and more decorated, your lips become more glossed, and your nails are now neatly painted a more solid, less vibrant shade of lavender. Being so comfortable in your own body, your appearance is all about being elegant, classy, and self-assured at all times.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” says the man. “Also, Valerie...you have large breasts.”
“Uh...w-what?” You ask, confused, knowing that isn’t true. You’ve have small boobs since...forever, and you don’t really mind, to be frank. “But...my b-breasts... a-aren’t-”
“Your breasts have always been large,” insists Kurt, cutting you off angrily.
“Oh...my breasts...are large...” you despondently mumble in almost a whisper. As you speak, your small, slightly sagging boobs balloon to twice their size. Also as you speak, you remember just how well-endowed you have always been, and how you never liked it. You were almost always too large chested. Boys and men often stared at them, often when talking condescendingly to you or watching you walk by. It made you always want a reduction but you never really wanted to go that route.
“And...you love your large breasts,” says Kurt, beaming.
“I...d-don’t...” you stammer, finding it incredibly difficult to say you don’t love your large breasts. Sure, you liked them, but huge boobs were overrated...right?
“You love your large breasts,” repeats Kurt.
“I...I...” you stammer again, your whole body heating up. It suddenly doesn’t seem so clear anymore as you suddenly remember just staring in the mirror at your large, bodacious breasts...maybe you did love them? Did you? You had to...
“You love your large breasts, Valerie.”
“I...oh fuck...love my large breasts...” you moan, caressing them happily as you smile. It was true, you love them! You always wore shirts flaunted them. You loved when people stared at them as if they were jewels. You loved making them look as big as possible when you were younger. Even now, approaching 40, they remain symbols of your physical beauty, hallmarks of your confidence. You are absolutely infatuated with them!
“One final thing...” begins Kurt. “Your name...isn’t Valerie.”
“My name...is Valerie...” you protest. How could that be? Your name is Valerie. Valerie is your grandmother’s name! You know it’s your name!
“No, it isn’t.”
“It...isn’t?” You ask, suddenly taken aback. Valerie seemed so familiar...yet so unfamiliar at the same time. Was that your name? It felt like your name just a moment ago...
“Valerie,” the man says slowly. “Is not your name.”
“Valerie...is not my name...” you repeat, knowing it to be true. It was just another name. It had no real meaning. You don’t even know any other Valeries.
“You have no memory of that name at all, even,” Kurt adds, grinning.
“I have...n-no memory of that name...” you murmur, forgetting the name you were just talking about. And you also can’t even remember your own name, too. You feel like you’re about to cry; how do you forget your own name?
“What is your name?”
“Uh...I...I...” you utter pathetically. You had no name. You try and go through your memory to find the HINT of a name...but nothing comes up. You’re nameless.
“Do not fret,” says the man, taking a step towards you. “Your name is Roberta, but you’ve always been called Bobbi.”
“Bobbi...my name is Bobbi!” You say with relief. Yes, you’re Bobbi! It’s always been your name!
“You like the name Bobbi,” the man says.
“I like...the name Bobbi,” you say, beaming. Of course you like your name. It’s cute but strong all at the same time. That’s what your mother said about it.
“And you think Bobbi is a very sexy name,” says the man.
“I think...Bobbi is...a very sexy name...” you agree, nodding. It just file sexy, ending with a vowel and being short. Everyone has always told you it was a sexy name too, so that’s a bonus. You just feel the need to talk extra sultry when you say your own name, as if you underscore your illustrious presence.
“Good, good...that is enough for the moment...” says the man as he lowers the pendulum, releasing you from trance. As he does, you come to to find your headache still there but fading fast. You’re sitting on a chair in your house, in your robe and heels.
“Wait...what is happening...who are you?” You ask, trying to deduce what is going on here.
“Bobbi... do not be afraid. My name...is Kurt,” says the man, eyeing you with great enthusiasm.
“Hmmm...you’re even older, Valerie.”
“Even o-older?” You ask, confused. What does he mean by “even,” anyway? As far as you can see (and not remembering the fact that your age was just changed) 24 isn’t old at all!
“Yes my dear. Thirteen years older,” he says, stroking his chin.
“Thirteen...years!?” You blurt out in surprise, clutching aching forehead. You were 24, not...37! No, you’re still young, you’re still vibrant! You aren’t some late 30-something sap! Unbeknownst to you, however, your shocked mug begins to change: in the first hints of age, wrinkles sprout up across your face, especially around your eyes. Maybe not 37...but why did 26...28...even 29 seem like numbers closer to your age?
“Valerie, my fair lady...you are 37.”
“I’m...I’m...uh...” you murmur quietly as the changes continue. Your skin loses its smoothness as it becomes just slightly wrinklier all over. Your small breasts begin to sag just a bit as your body expands as put on more weight. Your eyes, once hazel, have dulled to a more tame brown. Your long hair shortens, now being cut just above your shoulders, and it’s not as shiny as it once was...thirteen years ago? No...that can’t be right...
“Say the truth: you are 37 years old.”
“I am...I am 37 years old...” you confess submissively, bowing your head ever so slightly. It was true. How could you even think for a minute you were still young? What sort of fleeting dreams does an aging woman like you even hold on to? Now a little sad, your face alters itself even more to reflect your age; your previously youth-like orientation was now far more stable and jaded with age. Even all of your face’s microexpressions completely change to reflect your maturity and confidence.
“You act like a 37-year-old, too, Valerie,” the man adds quickly.
“I act like...a 37-year-old...” you say, laughing a little. Of course you act your age! You weren’t some child, or worse, some 20-something girl with not a clue in the world who she would be. You’re a headstrong, ambitious, and almost ruthless mid-career woman, after all. No husband (or boyfriend), and you do worry about settling down too late, but you have your dream job in finance in the city and a nice house (that your current one morphs into to reflect this change) to your name. As these silly thoughts of somehow not being a responsible woman cross your mind, your entire aesthetic changes. Instantly, your outfit switches to a revealing and sexy red robe that only a supremely confident woman would wear while lounging. Heels appear on your feet, as you often wear heels even in your own house for the fun of it to feel sexier. Your earrings become larger and more decorated, your lips become more glossed, and your nails are now neatly painted a more solid, less vibrant shade of lavender. Being so comfortable in your own body, your appearance is all about being elegant, classy, and self-assured at all times.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” says the man. “Also, Valerie...you have large breasts.”
“Uh...w-what?” You ask, confused, knowing that isn’t true. You’ve have small boobs since...forever, and you don’t really mind, to be frank. “But...my b-breasts... a-aren’t-”
“Your breasts have always been large,” insists Kurt, cutting you off angrily.
“Oh...my breasts...are large...” you despondently mumble in almost a whisper. As you speak, your small, slightly sagging boobs balloon to twice their size. Also as you speak, you remember just how well-endowed you have always been, and how you never liked it. You were almost always too large chested. Boys and men often stared at them, often when talking condescendingly to you or watching you walk by. It made you always want a reduction but you never really wanted to go that route.
“And...you love your large breasts,” says Kurt, beaming.
“I...d-don’t...” you stammer, finding it incredibly difficult to say you don’t love your large breasts. Sure, you liked them, but huge boobs were overrated...right?
“You love your large breasts,” repeats Kurt.
“I...I...” you stammer again, your whole body heating up. It suddenly doesn’t seem so clear anymore as you suddenly remember just staring in the mirror at your large, bodacious breasts...maybe you did love them? Did you? You had to...
“You love your large breasts, Valerie.”
“I...oh fuck...love my large breasts...” you moan, caressing them happily as you smile. It was true, you love them! You always wore shirts flaunted them. You loved when people stared at them as if they were jewels. You loved making them look as big as possible when you were younger. Even now, approaching 40, they remain symbols of your physical beauty, hallmarks of your confidence. You are absolutely infatuated with them!
“One final thing...” begins Kurt. “Your name...isn’t Valerie.”
“My name...is Valerie...” you protest. How could that be? Your name is Valerie. Valerie is your grandmother’s name! You know it’s your name!
“No, it isn’t.”
“It...isn’t?” You ask, suddenly taken aback. Valerie seemed so familiar...yet so unfamiliar at the same time. Was that your name? It felt like your name just a moment ago...
“Valerie,” the man says slowly. “Is not your name.”
“Valerie...is not my name...” you repeat, knowing it to be true. It was just another name. It had no real meaning. You don’t even know any other Valeries.
“You have no memory of that name at all, even,” Kurt adds, grinning.
“I have...n-no memory of that name...” you murmur, forgetting the name you were just talking about. And you also can’t even remember your own name, too. You feel like you’re about to cry; how do you forget your own name?
“What is your name?”
“Uh...I...I...” you utter pathetically. You had no name. You try and go through your memory to find the HINT of a name...but nothing comes up. You’re nameless.
“Do not fret,” says the man, taking a step towards you. “Your name is Roberta, but you’ve always been called Bobbi.”
“Bobbi...my name is Bobbi!” You say with relief. Yes, you’re Bobbi! It’s always been your name!
“You like the name Bobbi,” the man says.
“I like...the name Bobbi,” you say, beaming. Of course you like your name. It’s cute but strong all at the same time. That’s what your mother said about it.
“And you think Bobbi is a very sexy name,” says the man.
“I think...Bobbi is...a very sexy name...” you agree, nodding. It just file sexy, ending with a vowel and being short. Everyone has always told you it was a sexy name too, so that’s a bonus. You just feel the need to talk extra sultry when you say your own name, as if you underscore your illustrious presence.
“Good, good...that is enough for the moment...” says the man as he lowers the pendulum, releasing you from trance. As he does, you come to to find your headache still there but fading fast. You’re sitting on a chair in your house, in your robe and heels.
“Wait...what is happening...who are you?” You ask, trying to deduce what is going on here.
“Bobbi... do not be afraid. My name...is Kurt,” says the man, eyeing you with great enthusiasm.
What now?
Create your own Path!