Having deposited all the other clothes onto the foot of the beds of their respective owners, you begin to trudge back toward the basement, dragging the empty basket behind you sullenly. One final load of laundry left to grab from the dryer, and you were free. Moving the basket in front of you to fit through the doorway, you gingerly start to take the first step onto the top stair. Your heart suddenly drops into your stomach as your leg wobbles, and you lose your balance. Your foot slips out from under you, sending your butt onto the tops of the stairs, causing you to bounce down to the bottom in a rather unpleasant manner.
"Uuughhh," you groan, rubbing your backside gingerly. Your tailbone was definitely going to bruise. "Must have slipped in these socks," you mutter, glancing down at the offending woolen objects. You go to stand up and retrieve the laundry basket which has skittered across the floor in front of the washing machine before doing a double take.
Your heart begins to quicken. It can't be. Swallowing, you pull the socks off, and let out an involuntary gasp. You were right; your feet had gotten smaller. Not only that, but they were clearly not your feet, but your mothers. Your leg hair, which normally went down onto the tops of your feet ("My little hobbit!" your mom had joked once) now stopped abruptly above your ankles. Instead of your gunboats were now a small pair of dingies. Your feet were tiny, or at least they certainly looked it on your larger frame. No wonder you fell! Hell it was a miracle you could walk as well as you did. But it wasn't just size that made it incredibly apparent how these feet didn't belong to you. Across each toenail was a coat of bright pink nailpolish, something you'd never even considered applying but you'd seen your mother do countless times. Hell, these feet were even pudgy with the small freckle your mom had on her right pinky toe.
"I have mom's feet, which means..." you trail off, looking over to the full dryer with a newfound appreciation. Now, you were a teenager, and looking at and reading obscure erotica came with the territory. It was a secret little kink you had about the ability to change yourself or others, but you'd never have thought in a million years you'd be faced with a real possibility to act on it.
Carefully standing up, you wiggle your new toes experimentally. "Ho-ly shit," you whisper. It had to be the new detergent. I mean, "Witch Wash"? C'mon. With your heart pounding in your chest, you made your way over to the dryer and opened it, spilling some of its contents into the laundry basket. With shaking hands, you started to empty the machine, lost in thought and wonder. It was only then that you realized what articles of clothing you were emptying. This was the socks and delicates load. You could see if your theory was right about this magic detergent, and it would be immediately apparent if you were right.
Swallowing, you look down at the top items. One was a simple bra, clearly too big to be anyone's but your mother's. Next to it was a simple pair of tights, on the opposite end of the spectrum, too small to be anyone's but Brianna's. Lastly, and probably the more rational choice, was a pair of your own socks. Which would you don to test your theories?
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