|
You are only seeing a fraction of my work. If you want to see it all join my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/itsmetoo If you are already a supporter, go to the Table Of Contents on my Patreon and click the proper link to get the new password. |
Captioned Images Series: I Don't Want This
Created: 04/04/2025
Peter used to say that being a gorgeous woman would be the ultimate cheat code in life. “Just give me the face, the body, the curves—and watch me conquer the world,” he’d laugh to his friends. “I’d never pay for a drink again.”
That was before he met *her*—Isadora.
She appeared at a downtown bar, glowing in a silk red dress that didn’t so much hang on her body as it did whisper secrets. She was strange, intoxicating. They spoke for an hour—or maybe five minutes; time got slippery around her. At some point, she asked the question:
“If you could become the woman of your dreams, would you?”
Peter chuckled. “In a heartbeat.”
The transformation wasn’t painful. Just... sudden. The next morning, Peter was gone, replaced by a statuesque, sexy 25-year-old blonde woman. Her name, as it turned out, was Petra.
Petra had the look. Slim waist, high cheekbones, eyes that melted resolve. She walked into rooms and owned them without trying. At first, it was a dream.
Then came *the feelings*.
The first time it hit her, she was in line at the pharmacy. A man in his fifties stood ahead of her—round belly, suspenders, hair thinning. He smelled like musk and mint gum. Petra caught herself biting her lip.
*What is happening to me?* she thought.
It got worse. At the supermarket, at the DMV, at the gas station. Anywhere she went, there *they* were—pudgy, balding, awkward middle-aged men. And each time she saw one, a part of her longed to be wrapped in his arms, fed meatloaf, and told everything would be okay.
It was driving her *mad*.
She tried resisting, but it took everything in her not to throw herself at them. Sometimes, she failed. She once flirted with a mustachioed guy named Carl for twenty minutes in the cereal aisle—*with her boyfriend in the next aisle over*.
Finally, she snapped. She needed answers.
It took months to find Isadora again.
She stood by the wrought iron gate of her sprawling, vine-wrapped mansion, looking like something from a gothic perfume ad. The air around her shimmered like heat on pavement.
Petra stormed up the stone path, fuming and flustered.
“You cursed me!” she cried. “You twisted me.”
Isadora smiled, serene and knowing. “You wanted to live in beauty and passion, didn’t you?”
“Not *this*! Every time I see a pudgy, middle-aged guy in sandals and a fanny pack, I start imagining our life together. I want to knit with him on Sunday mornings and listen to jazz records while he grills! I can’t—*ugh*—I can’t even think straight anymore!”
Isadora’s eyes sparkled. “The heart wants what it wants, Petra.”
“I don’t want this!”
“Then stop indulging,” Isadora said simply, turning back toward the mansion.
Petra stood there, helpless. She knew she wouldn’t stop. She *couldn’t*.
Weeks passed.
She tried therapy. Meditation. Avoiding public parks.
Didn’t work.
Eventually, she settled down with Marvin. Sweet man. Soft belly. Owned a recliner that practically molded to his shape. He adored her, cooked for her, called her *darlin’*.
She loved him.
Mostly.
Because even with Marvin’s arm around her, Petra still caught herself winking at Greg—the flabby divorcee from across the hall who wore tube socks with sandals and smelled like lemon hand sanitizer.
She hated it.
She loved it.
And when Greg smiled back and raised his mug of cheap gas station coffee in a toast, Petra's heart fluttered *again*.
She sighed.
She couldn’t help herself.
Isadora had been right. Desire bends to the shape of the vessel.
And Petra’s vessel—young, hot, blonde—was tragically, hopelessly drawn to every middle-aged dad-bod in a 10-mile radius.
She smiled at Greg.
Just a little.
Made with Ideogram AI Image Generator