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All Grown Old
I wish we were grown ups. Then we can do whatever we want, whenever we want!" Kimi whined.
"Whoa, what happened?" Dil asked.
"At least nothing bad happened to us." Chuckie said checking himself. "Expect, I feel a bit taller."
The gang realized they do look bit a bit taller, maybe a few inches.
"Relax, that wish must have been a flop." Angelica said.
Later, Tommy goes into his bed and tucks himself in. As he sleeps, we see him a bit different. He grows a beard, grows taller (too small to fit in his PJs), and his hair grows. But, Tommy doesn't notice now, and so do his friends...
The next day, Tommy yawns as he got up. He scratches himself as he goes to get dressed.
When he goes by the mirror, he stops as he blinks his eyes. He quickly goes back to the mirror and looks in it. He looks shocked as he sees he now has a beard, is taller, and his hair has grown as well. He can do one thing...
"AAAAHHHHHH!" yelped Tommy in horror.
Tommy yelps as he pressed against the door. If his mom sees him like this, she will flip! He spoke, but in a deep voice, "I'm fine mom. Really."

"This is crazy!" shouted Angelica. She has a ponytail and lipstick on her, wearing a pink shirt and skirt to match. She made a fist.
"But how," Kimi asked. She had long, purple hair, wearing a black outfit.
"There's no way!" Susie told. She had short black hair that reached to her neck, and wore a blue dress and high heels.

The little girl wore a cloak of many pockets, big pockets and small pockets, all contained within the inner red lining that nobody but our little princess knew about.
Her pockets grew full with all their stuffings.
Time passed, and the princess began slowly to blossom as all little girls do. In Spring she felt the first stirrings of life, of creation, of sensuality as the flowers opened up their buds from the long winter nap, yet no one -- not the Queen, not the King, no one -- told her about all these new feelings stirring up inside her, and so that, too, she learned to guard and pocket deep inside of herself. No one knew of the spring inside her, the wild rush of life. All they knew was the Princess of the Dark Cloak.
Pretty soon there were young men coming round the castle door, wanting to meet the Princess of the Dark Cloak. And she became busy and busier the older she grew.
Known as the Princess of the Dark Cloak, she kept it as her trademark, so that everyone would know who she was, even though it was awfully small for an adult and awfully lumpy with all those stuffed inner pockets and slowly fraying on the edge from so many years of wear and tear.
Until there came a day, a long time after leaving home, she walked by a mirror and perchance saw herself in the old cloak.
For lately she had been finding it hard to move about, increasingly difficult to breathe, as if she were smothering or choking, all tight inside and constricted. She looked in the mirror to make sure that ropes didn't bind her arms, as everything began to press in on her and scare her. In the mirror she saw how small was her cloak and how big she had grown, how the buttons in front could barely keep from popping, how her arms extended way beyond the sleeves and her knees appeared exposed. Most of all she saw how tight the cloak bound her so that she couldn't breathe right.
At first she just wished the pain, the tightness of breath would disappear, that somehow the cloak would magically enlarge and give her room to move about in but wishing is wishing, and wishing didn't remove the heaviness that had settled into her. For a very, very long time she struggled with the cloak's weight and increasing heaviness until all her joints hurt, and still the cloak bound her too tightly. For it was a child's cloak, and the Princess had become a woman.

When I was 12, I suddenly grew breasts. Within the space of less than one school year, I went from little-girl-flat to a full C cup. Added to this, I was "chubby," as it was called them, which began to manifest itself in my hips and bust. So I was an extremely curvy girl with big tits and long blonde hair, and rather pretty also. Oh, I will stop being modest: at 12 years old I was a knockout. And it was HORRIBLE. Because, contrary to popular belief and a very misguided South Park episode, having large breasts is not a pleasant experience. People do NOT treat you better because of them, they treat you disrespectfully and cruelly. Somehow they think you grew these things on purpose, that you have complete control over the situation, but oh my god you're so stupid and such a bimbo you didn't even know when to quit!
What they really get you is scorn, ugly jokes, and a whole lot of highly embarrassing and inappropriate commentary from simply everyone, including friends, hairdressers, sales clerks, teachers, neighbors, doctors, and of course total strangers.
That was one of the most hurtful aspects to me - adults suddenly started treating me like a whore, especially my friends' mothers. At 13, I was nerdy, had never dated a boy, never been kissed, and still occasionally played with dolls. Yet adult women were reacting to me as though I was a crack-smoking prostitute, trying to snatch their girl children away from my evil influence and prevent me from knocking their husbands down and having my way with them. Grown men made some very inappropriate, illegal, and explicit moves on me. Guys yelled at me in public all the time, and they didn't yell things like "You're really pretty and I think you're nice and I would like to take you to a movie or something." They yelled things like "Hey Tits! Hey, can I fuck your tits?" And like I said, it started when I was TWELVE.
And the gross gross gross thing is, part of me wanted the attention. ANY attention. Because a kid who feels her parents HAVE HER BACK is not vulnerable to looking for attention, love, and validation from some creepy guy who wants to fuck a 13-year-old.

Nicola picked up her school shirt and slipped it on - although not without some difficulty. Was it her imagination, or was it harder for her to squeeze into the white t-shirt? Nicola reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it up. It *was* tighter! The material clung to her. She tugged harder.
Even breathing in, Nicola could feel the material tight against her chest. Her... bulging chest? What looked like budding breasts were squashed up precariously, straining to rise up and out. She was too young to get boobs already wasn't she? The cloth creaked under the strain of containing Nicola's growing form.
Hard nipples pushed against the taut t-shirt.
"Something's not right here," said Nicola. The shirt was not getting smaller... and she felt so hot and thirsty.
She would never forget what happened next.
There was a crackle of fabric ripping. Nicola's t-shirt finally gave up, tearing from top to bottom. Small boobs popped forward. Free of their confines, they stood out in front of Nicola.
Nicola tried to keep herself from shouting, as she saw her new boobs were still swelling. Her whole body was swelling! And why was the floor so far away?

Having spent the gross national product of a small nation outfitting the kids for school this year, it went without saying that my daughter (in keeping with her proud subversive heritage) would choose the past two weeks to put on a spectacular growth spurt. I could almost watch her outgrow an outfit while she was wearing the damned thing. So this afternoon we went out to repurchase the entire wardrobe in the next larger size (as well as to replenish the food supplies which she has been vacuuming up as fast as they can be stocked).

"Perhaps you would like to see what this little girl can do? Yes, I think I will show you. Please watch."
Ilsa stretched out her hand. She clenched it into a fist and slowly began to extend her arm. I watched in stunned silence as Ilsa's sleeve became too short. The seam began to pucker.
I could see pale skin exposed as the fabric strained. Ilsa continued to grow her arm until her sleeve simply exploded up to the shoulder of her jacket.
Her arm was so much longer and wider now. It was a woman's arm extending from a child's body.
As I watched, Ilsa turned the other way. Her other sleeve tore, revealing an arm equal in length to the first. Then her torso widened and elongated as small breasts began to bud.
As Ilsa's upper body expanded, her jacket and shirt simply ripped in half, and hung off of her shoulders like the curtains of a window. Her skirt gave way to her widening hips, tearing up the side and popping at the waist, leaving her now absurdly short, stubby legs exposed. They looked tiny but soon enough they began to get longer.
Ladderlike runs began to appear in her rainbow stockings, and soon the nylon separated altogether. Ilsa's legs were like hydraulic jacks slowly rising up. Below her now teenaged thighs, Ilsa's calves widened slightly. Even further down, there was the creak of straining leather as Ilsa's feet forced their way out of her disintegrating shoes. Her increasing weight had already flattened the soles into two lumps which spread out from under her ruined footwear.
She kicked them aside as she removed the remains of her ruined outfit. All that remained were child-sized panties which appeared as if they would burst at any moment. She was still smiling, but her smile was now at a much greater height than it had been before.
"Sweet Sixteen!" she giggled.
I had been so terrified and transfixed by Ilsa's 10-year age increase that I had not even noticed that Ilsa's blonde locks had darkened and were now brushing against her lower back.
"I hope you appreciate what I did. Clothes can be so expensive."

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