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“Time to begin, my dear,” he says, his voice teeming with excitement. “You are older.”
“I’m...o-older?” You ask, groggily. What is he talking about? You’re still in high school!
“Oh yes,” he affirms, swinging the pendulum much faster now, causing your willpower to falter even more. “You are older.”
“I...I...ol...old...” you mutter, dumbfounded. Your mind starts to cloud. Your friends...your teachers...your experiences...they’re all melting away, because if you were older they’d be completely...different...
“Say it: you are older.”
“Oh...I...I’m older, yes...”
Nodding submissively, you feel your face begin to slightly change, rearranging itself in small ways. It’s subtle, but you can even feel wrinkles break out all over, especially around your eyes. Your memories just starting to reshuffle, you know you finished high school, but beyond that it’s fuzzy. You know you are an adult, certainly not a teen, but all you really know is that you are...well...older.
“Let’s see,” continues Kurt. “You are thirty years old.”
“I’m...uh...I-I’m...” you stammer, trying your best to fight it, but to no avail. Your head is throbbing. Your body is on fire. It’s just too much.
“You are thirty years old.”
“I am...I am thirty years old,” you say quietly, your will completely breaking. Regaining a bit of composure, you calm down and you put on a mature, stoic face. You sense a few more wrinkles break out, but you also feel your body expand as you put on a few pounds. Your hair also lengthens well past your shoulders, stopping about a quarter of the way down your back.
“You act and think like you are thirty.”
“I a-act and think like I’m thirty...” you mindlessly repeat. As you speak, your teenage outfit changes into a trim white dress, your favorite in your entire wardrobe. It made you feel so mature and so poised. Your hair is also now up, styled in your trademark bun. Additionally, the fog in your head clears as your memories return. You were in high school an eternity ago. You remember graduating from Yale and becoming a lawyer. You’re a driven, mature, successful, and confident woman in her prime. You let out a sigh at all you’ve done just at age thirty.
“And...” Kurt says, clearly thinking aloud. “Looking sexy is important to you.”
“Uh...w-what?” You ask, taken aback. “Looking sexy is...important to me?”
“Yes, Jo. Looking sexy is important to you.”
“Oh...looking s-sexy is important to me...” you mutter. It was true. You always wanted to look not just presentable, but attractive. That’s why you never wore pantsuits and only skirts. That’s why you wore dresses as often as you could. That’s why you were so good at makeup. You always wanted to look sexy.
“It is an important quality to have.”
“It is...oh my...an important quality to have...” you say, slowly nodding. You wish more woman thought like that. As you speak, your dress becomes jet black and morphs into a more elegant, alluring garnet. Your shoes are also replaced with a pair of low heels, and your earrings are now twice as large.
“Being sexy is a measure of your worth,” says Kurt, sadistically.
“Being sexy is...is...a m-measure of my w-worth...” you moan, your knees getting weak. The neckline of your black dress is now ridiculously low, showcasing a ton of cleavage. The makeup on your face is accentuated even more, especially around your eyes. Your bun partially comes down to now become a classy, half-up-half-down style. You’re now wearing expensive bracelets and an even more expensive necklace, and your heels increase in height by several inches. To you, beauty was everything, and you believed it ought to be so for every woman. You never once denied yourself the opportunity to look as good as possible, because doing so was something you just couldn’t bear. You’ve always been that way, and your attractiveness has always served you well, especially with powerful men.
Still swinging the pendulum, Kurt takes a step back, staring in awe at you.
“I’m...o-older?” You ask, groggily. What is he talking about? You’re still in high school!
“Oh yes,” he affirms, swinging the pendulum much faster now, causing your willpower to falter even more. “You are older.”
“I...I...ol...old...” you mutter, dumbfounded. Your mind starts to cloud. Your friends...your teachers...your experiences...they’re all melting away, because if you were older they’d be completely...different...
“Say it: you are older.”
“Oh...I...I’m older, yes...”
Nodding submissively, you feel your face begin to slightly change, rearranging itself in small ways. It’s subtle, but you can even feel wrinkles break out all over, especially around your eyes. Your memories just starting to reshuffle, you know you finished high school, but beyond that it’s fuzzy. You know you are an adult, certainly not a teen, but all you really know is that you are...well...older.
“Let’s see,” continues Kurt. “You are thirty years old.”
“I’m...uh...I-I’m...” you stammer, trying your best to fight it, but to no avail. Your head is throbbing. Your body is on fire. It’s just too much.
“You are thirty years old.”
“I am...I am thirty years old,” you say quietly, your will completely breaking. Regaining a bit of composure, you calm down and you put on a mature, stoic face. You sense a few more wrinkles break out, but you also feel your body expand as you put on a few pounds. Your hair also lengthens well past your shoulders, stopping about a quarter of the way down your back.
“You act and think like you are thirty.”
“I a-act and think like I’m thirty...” you mindlessly repeat. As you speak, your teenage outfit changes into a trim white dress, your favorite in your entire wardrobe. It made you feel so mature and so poised. Your hair is also now up, styled in your trademark bun. Additionally, the fog in your head clears as your memories return. You were in high school an eternity ago. You remember graduating from Yale and becoming a lawyer. You’re a driven, mature, successful, and confident woman in her prime. You let out a sigh at all you’ve done just at age thirty.
“And...” Kurt says, clearly thinking aloud. “Looking sexy is important to you.”
“Uh...w-what?” You ask, taken aback. “Looking sexy is...important to me?”
“Yes, Jo. Looking sexy is important to you.”
“Oh...looking s-sexy is important to me...” you mutter. It was true. You always wanted to look not just presentable, but attractive. That’s why you never wore pantsuits and only skirts. That’s why you wore dresses as often as you could. That’s why you were so good at makeup. You always wanted to look sexy.
“It is an important quality to have.”
“It is...oh my...an important quality to have...” you say, slowly nodding. You wish more woman thought like that. As you speak, your dress becomes jet black and morphs into a more elegant, alluring garnet. Your shoes are also replaced with a pair of low heels, and your earrings are now twice as large.
“Being sexy is a measure of your worth,” says Kurt, sadistically.
“Being sexy is...is...a m-measure of my w-worth...” you moan, your knees getting weak. The neckline of your black dress is now ridiculously low, showcasing a ton of cleavage. The makeup on your face is accentuated even more, especially around your eyes. Your bun partially comes down to now become a classy, half-up-half-down style. You’re now wearing expensive bracelets and an even more expensive necklace, and your heels increase in height by several inches. To you, beauty was everything, and you believed it ought to be so for every woman. You never once denied yourself the opportunity to look as good as possible, because doing so was something you just couldn’t bear. You’ve always been that way, and your attractiveness has always served you well, especially with powerful men.
Still swinging the pendulum, Kurt takes a step back, staring in awe at you.
What now?
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