The Journey Man, by Chronos

Chapter 4
The Journey Man - part IV, Epilogue

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Chapter Description: By Chronos

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The following Monday I awoke and found myself automatically dressing as if I’d done it every day of my life. I was going back to school today and I carefully found myself choosing my outfit. I had already been in a dress most of Sunday because of church, so I’d already gotten over that part of the female experience -- although mom had to chide me once or twice about sitting with my legs splayed out and apart.

I wiggled into a sweater and a knee-length skirt, a pair of pantyhose and white lace socks and black shoes finished off my ensemble and I sat down at my vanity to apply my makeup. I had just applied my foundation and was just applying eye shadow when a familiar form slowly began swirling in the mirror.

"Well, this is it," I thought to myself. Maybe it was the conk on the head, maybe it was plain old female emotions, but I felt tear come to my eyes as everything turned sideways and I fell into the now familiar darkness.

NOTE TO MYSELF: I’m alive . . . at least, I think I am . . .

My breasts are chaffing me as I tumble over and over in the dark void. The bad thing about this mode of travel is you always go naked. If my itty-bitty titties hurt this much, I can’t imagine how bad big hooters would feel under these circumstances. In the blackness I reach up and grab my twin globes in my hands. I see a light in the far distance. I need to be careful about not smacking my head again.

God only knows where I’ll wind up this time in this cockamamie existence I seem to have now. My age has gone up and down like a yo-yo and I’m no closer to figuring out what’s going on than when I started. I can see the now familiar sign that I’m about to enter a new world. The dot of light in the far distance grows larger and brighter as I tumble toward.

 With a thud that s more surprising than painful I land smack flat on my naked ass. Ouch! My feet are entangled in a bar with mess on it, but it’s hard to make out for a second or two. I stand and rub my hand tentatively across my wider girl’s bottom. I seem to be in a darkened bedroom that look vaguely familiar.

A sensation starts to creep over my body. I’m in for another change. I notice the closet has sliding mirror doors so I walk over to see what’s happening to me. The sensation of change is growing stronger. I look at my face and that confirm what I was already feeling. My hair have already starting to get shorter, so once again I was getting younger.

I sighed with resignation as my features quickly changed and I slowly began dropping away from maturity. I looked down at my breasts -- they weren’t that big to begin with and I was just starting to get used to them -- and already I have to watch them starting to head back toward puberty. Their teardrop shape was becoming more conical each passing moment.

I looked up and saw a 12-year-old in the mirror. She looked so innocent and so sweet. My hips narrowed and my legs lost their mature shape. I could even hear my breath become shallower . . . softer. At last my breasts gave up the fight for puberty and I watched my body slip back toward childhood. My breast were quickly followed by what little remained of the downy muff between my legs.

My eyes seemed to grow larger and round, as I now appeared no older then 8 and youthening rapidly. Within a moment I was back to Penny’s age, but I didn’t seem to be slowing. In horror, I watched as a layer of baby fat suddenly bulged across my stomach, giving me the awkward belly of a child. My arms and legs lost all semblance of musculature as I decreased in size and mass and increased in childlike cuteness.

The room was becoming immense. The bed that I had looked down on only moments ago now stood at chest level with me. From the look of me in the mirror, I couldn’t be more than 30 inches tall and weigh more than 30 lbs. And still I shrunk. My hair was nothing more than a sparse spray on the top of my head. I opened my mouth and saw fewer teeth than I was accustomed to.

As I watched as my belly slowly pushed out into a rounded toddler’s pot, I noticed a strange feeling in my crotch. I explored the area with my hand, it was strange that I had to bend forward to reach down between my legs as my arms had become so short.

It was a nub at first, but it steadily grew. There was no mistaking it. I was regaining my penis. I was male again, the term man hardly applied. I appeared to be only 2 and, as I watched, I slipped further and further back in personal time until I suddenly lost my balance and plopped heavily on my rear. The shrinking continued for a moment or two more and then stopped. Paula Heidegger was no more; long-live Peter -- even if this peter was a little peter.

The door to the room opened and a woman’s voice gasped behind me. I turned, expecting to see my mother -- but the woman in the doorway was not a relation at all . . . the woman in the doorway was Jill Frosche!

"You little stinker!" she called to me as she crossed the room and lifted me effortlessly in her arms.

"How did you get out of the playpen? And where’s your diaper?"

Of course it wasn’t like she expected me to answer.

As a father, my wife and I had constantly talked to our infant children as if they could understand us. It seems like a normal thing for an adult to do when dealing with children. She plopped me unceremoniously back into the playpen and told me to stay still for a minute. She left me alone, but this time the door was open and the light was on. I could hear her running water and calling out to me in a sing-song babyish babble that adults use with infants. I didn’t even pay attention, I was more interested in where I was and how long I’d have to stay in this ridiculous form.

She reentered the room and lifted me out of the playpen by grasping me under my arms. Then she carried me into the bathroom. On the sink counter top was a small tub. She tested the water with her fingers while holding me crooked in one arm. Satisfied with the water temperature, she lowered me in.

"Well, little Pete," she said as she assiduously began scrubbing my body. "Your momma would have had a fit if she knew you’d gotten out of the playpen. The thing is I could have sworn I fastened the top netting before I went out." I coughed slightly and used one of my pudgy hands to wipe water out of my eyes. Jill probably had fastened the top mesh, but she hadn’t figured on the untimely arrival of a 36-year-old man temporarily occupying a 15-year-old girl’s body making a sudden appearance.

Jill finished with my bath and pulled me out of the tub. She set me on top of a soft towel and used another to briskly dry me off. I heard a voice calling. A moment later, a young girl -- 18 or 19 -- stuck her head in the door. Oh my God! It was Chrissie -- Jill’s knock out babe of a daughter!

"It’s dad on the phone," she told her mother. Gesturing to me, Jill asked her daughter to get me dressed. I was red as a beet as the buxom brunette lifted me naked high over her head. She lowered me and pressed her lips against my round jelly-belly and made loud raspberries against my soft skin. I tickled and I laughed. She did it again and I laughed harder. Pretty soon I was laughing hysterically, so much so, I didn’t even realize that I was christening the front of her sweatshirt in baby’s own special way.

"Oh, that’s all right honey," she said, lowering me on my back and placing a disposable diaper open across my groin. She reached down and tugged off her shirt and ran water from the sink over it to remove the urine. Her large breasts, even larger than Jill’s, seemed to be hardly contained within the soft and intricate mesh of her peach colored lace bra.

Not bothering with a shirt, she hummed softly to herself as she dabbed her fingers into a jar of Vaseline and proceeded to knead the ointment into my skin. With a practiced hand, she flipped me over like a hamburger and applied more grease into the soft and delicate folds of my buttocks. I felt a soft rain of baby powder falling on my back and the touch of her hands as she worked it into my skin. She rolled me over and repeated the procedure on my front side. Then she reached down and pulled a disposable diaper from a box and unfolded it. Crossing my legs at the ankles, she lifted my backside up and slid the diaper under me. She carefully tucked it before removing the tabs from the adhesive strips.

She’d obviously had done this before.

In a minute I was safely ensconced within the diaper. She pulled a small shirt from the pile on the counter and carefully pulled it over my head. I attempted to help her with my arms and the sleeves, but my coordination was completely off. Once the shirt was on, she pulled out a small pair of baby’s blue jean coveralls and threaded my legs through each pant leg. She had my socks on and was tieing my shoes when Jill reappeared. She looked at her daughter’s semi-nude attire with a raised eyebrow, but Chrissie just laughed and told her what happened.

"Boys will be boys," Jill laughed. She picked me up and carried me down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Chrissie, stealing one of her father’s shirts and putting on, followed her mother to the kitchen.

"When will the Heideggers be home?" she asked.

"Not until late tonight," Jill answered as she continued to warm something on the stove.

Jill gave me to Chrissie who lifted me high then lowered me into a high chair. With a snap, she fixed the tray to the chair. "How old is he anyway?" she asked.

"Let’s see . . . this is March and he was a year old in January, so 14 months."

"He’s a cute kid," Chrissie commented.

"Yeah," Jill agreed. "And if he’s half as good looking as his father, he’ll be beating the girls off when he gets a little older."

For the next 15 minutes, I gagged my way through one pureed mess to another. Strained beef, strained carrots, strained beets -- God it was awful. I succeeded in getting as much on me as I did in my mouth, so I was at least satisfied with that. Jill wanted to clean up the kitchen so Chrissie volunteered to give me my bottle. Most children my age have already mastered bottle feeding on their own, but Chrissie insisted on cradling me in her arms and holding the nipple to my lips.

As I lay with my tiny head against her massive breast I thought, "What the hell . . ." I used my tiny hand to surreptitiously feel her up. With the innocence of the babe that I was, I managed to get my fingers to move up and down her breast. I was rewarded when he nipple, responding to the stimulation of my hand, rose and saluted.

Trying to look as innocent as possible, I latched my little fingers to her nipple and pulled it up and down in a jerking off motion. I must have felt good, because Chrissie neither complained nor moved my hand. The only movement I could feel was that she was shifting back and forth with her hips. Maybe it was the heightened senses of a child, but without I doubt, I could smell the rich musky odor of an aroused female.

Although I hardly realized it, I continued to nurse at the bottle while I occupied myself with Chrissie’s tit. When the bottle was empty, I endured the humiliation of being burped by a girl whose diapers I changed in another lifetime. The phone rang and Chrissie quickly lowered me into a baby walker. For the moment I was on my own.

I was amazed at the size of normal household objects and furniture as seen by an infant. The phone book on the coffee table was too thick to even grasp in my small hand. The seat of the sofa was now at my eye level. The stairs to the second floor stretched out before me as high and unassailable as Mount Everest in my current condition.

Let me tell you something. Being a baby is boring. Jill kept an eye on me in my walker from the kitchen as she finished cleaning up. Chrissie came down a little later dressed in a tight and short shirt which I managed to peek up. She completely ignored me. After a while, the front doorbell rang and a tall young man entered. The young couple kissed very passionately, and when he was sure no one was looking (he didn’t seem to count me) he kneaded both of her breasts in his hands for a brief moment before running his hands down her flanks and cupping her ass cheeks with his hands and tightly squeezed them.

Chrissie called good night to her mother and was gone. The rest of the evening was uneventful. I had two embarrassing incidents which required diaper changes, but most of the time I spent sitting on my ass in a playpen while Jill read a magazine or watched television. I hated the smell of the plastic floor covering of the playpen. My exposed skin stuck to it and it was too hot to lie on. Eventually my small body gave up and I must have dozed off. I hardly felt Jill pick me up and carry me upstairs.

Although only partially awake, I was aware as she slowly stripped me to my diaper and tried to put me into a sleeper. As I laid on my back and looked up -- for the first time since my first visit with Jill, I saw the vortex form above my head. What this meant I didn’t know. I did hear a pop and thud sound . . . and then I was gone.

NOTE TO MYSELF: I’m alive . . . at least, I think I am . . .

 Please . . . please . . . please . . . let whatever this is end. I’m in darkness. And I think I’m alive, but if this is living, I’ve had enough . . .

I’m shaking, like someone is pulling me back and forth. I feel twisted inside of something. I’m pinned in and falling. I’m screaming for someone to help me. I’m shaking violently.

"Wake up, Peter," I hear a voice calling. "Wake up!"

I open my eyes to the sight of . . .

My wife Brenda! Brenda.

I’m home.

I leap from the covers of the bed and grab her in my arms. I’m home.

"What’s the matter, honey -- nightmares again?" she asks, her voice full of concern.

I nod.

"It’s been a couple of months since the last attack. I guess the doctor was right. Maybe you’re starting to get over the accident."

"Accident?" I quiz.

"The plant . . .," she says to me with concern. "The explosion? Your burns? Oh, Peter, this is the worst part -- what you have to go through when ever you have one of your flashbacks . . . you’re so disoriented for a while."

She pats me on the cheek and leans forward to kiss me on the mouth. She stands up and opens the sliding closet door that sits opposite our bed. At 33, Brenda is still an amazingly attractive woman. My high school sweetheart in fact. With her back to me, she loosens and drops the robe to the floor as she pulls out different outfits and inspects them critically. Time and two children have added 40 odd pounds to her hips and thighs, but at 5’9", she carries it extremely well.

Dressed only in panties and bra, she pulls out a skirt and holds it up against her legs.

"What about this?" she asks.

I nod noncommittally.

I look over at a copy of Newsweek sitting on the nightstand. It is the week of August 3, 1997.

"Bren, when was the accident at the plant?"

"Nearly 18 months ago, Peter. Gee, it’s always the same. Whenever you have those nightmares, it takes you hours to catch back up with the world," she said.

"Just lie back and relax for a little while honey. Our dinner reservations aren’t until 8 p.m."

"What about the kids?" I ask.

"Kim Frosche will be over to babysit. Do you realize she goes to college this fall. Hard to believe isn’t it. Do you remember when I babysat her when I was in high school, and you snuck over to stay with me."

I propped myself up on the pillows and gazed at the form of my wife as she puttered in the closet. I guess everything had all been just a dream. Thank God it was over. I looked at Brenda again. I had known her since high school. She hadn’t changed all that much . . . a little heavier (so was I), her hair had gone back to its natural red-brown color as opposed to the blond she died it when I met her. She wore it a little longer now.

I looked at her fanny. A familiar pang of rising need was beginning to fill me. Brenda’s hair was shorter back then, too, as I recall. Brenda kept chattering away, but I had mostly tuned her out. I noticed she occasionally moved her hips back and forth and tugged at the waistband of her panties.

Maybe it was the light, but her hair seemed a little different now -- shorter and lighter, and her panties didn’t seem so snug on her ass anymore. The more I looked, the more pronounced the changes seemed. Her voice seemed to be changing pitch as well. Her hair was definitely shorter, her neck was exposed, and her panties seemed to hang limply on her much reduced posterior.

Brenda reached around and felt how baggy her panties were.

"Peter!" she said with an angry voice. As she turned around, Brenda my wife of nearly 20 years would have been lucky to pass as a high school coed.

"Dammit, Peter! Stop screwing around. We have reservations for one of the best restaurants in Dallas and I’ll be damned if I going there and having to eat off the children’s menu. You age me at least up to 21, I want a cocktail and wine with dinner. I refuse to drink another Shirley Temple!"

"Sorry Bren," I muttered. "It’s just I was remembering how pretty you were in high school and . . ."

"Yeah, yeah," she shot back. "Save it for tonight stud-muffin when I got you back between the sheets then you can make me your sweet 16 gal again . . . as long as you join me for the trip."

I smiled back at her and slowly let her regain her years and maturity.

NOTE TO MYSELF: I’m alive I KNOW I am. It’s great to be home.

EPILOGUE

Our top story tonight: one year after the worst peacetime nuclear accident in United States history, survivors and family members of the 43 people killed in the meltdown and explosion of the Atomic Energy Commission’s Quantum Particle Accelerator project in Dallas, Texas, gathered for a memorial service six miles from the sight of the accident -- the closest it has been deemed safe to approach because of radioactive contamination.

Senator Sally Myerson, wife of former Utah Senator Michael Myerson who was killed in the explosion, laid a wreath on behalf of the victims. Just visible in the distance is the grey-white dome of reinforced concrete the Army Corps of Engineers has been pouring over the remains of the site.

Over 26 feet of concrete have been poured so far, engineers estimate another seven months will be needed to build up the shield to a minimal safe thickness of 60 feet. None of the bodies of the 42 victims caught in the accelerator chamber at the time of the explosion have been recovered.

Scientists estimate that it will take 12,500 years before radiation level are safe enough for a human to survive more than a few moments if exposed unprotected.

In our other top story: the President today told the Israeli Ambassador . .

The End

 

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