Tory and Zoey looked to the doorway at the sound of their mother’s call, then to their floating brother, then finally to one another. And though the girls were often on different wavelengths in terms of crime and shrunken punishment, for a moment they found unison, and almost looked like the same person to Paul. Snapping out of it, Tory clapped her hands. Instantaneously, the tight-fit British teatime dress transformed back to the familiar black-and-white servant’s garb, though it was just as snug as the victim’s final fashion show ensemble, and most importantly, it retained the humiliating dark-stained stamp of Paul’s orgasm.

            The dollhouse walls wrapped back around Paul as he was let loose from the telekinetic spell, though still just as restricted by the Chinese finger trap-style fit of his uniform. However, the house was sealed before he could peep a complaint, and his muted struggles were overpowered easily by the sounds of the girls’ thumping footsteps carrying them away.

            For six long days, the boy-turned-maid toiled in his little sister’s toy prison. His time was split evenly between dusting the already-polished plastic contours of the house’s every square millimeter, and being forced into Tory and Zoey’s intimate doll playtime sessions. After enough time had passed, and Paul’s emotional and sexual senses had been suitably warped, he couldn’t even confidently say which half of his time he enjoyed less.

            True, he got to hide his shame in isolation when left to clean the house, but the hours ticked slowly by, and he always managed to find an extra dirt speck just after he thought the place was clear; Paul couldn’t help but guess one of his family members was subtly enchanting the house to never be fully spotless.

            Nevertheless, he wouldn’t be defeated. He had to show them he deserved to return to his full stature at the end of the week, even if things would never be the same with the familial power dynamic. Then again, Paul already lived in a house where his mother and sisters could, at will, bind him with all manner of spells out of pure amusement, so the dynamic had never been average to begin with.

            Then, whenever he heard the thumping of giant feet in the distance, and felt the great habitat creaking open again, Paul became Mary-Ann, for as long as his towering siblings felt like engaging with their helpless plaything. The girls, though both aged beyond traditional interest in childhood imagination games, gained a renewed enthusiasm for toying with dolls once they had a living, breathing prisoner in a too-tight French maid costume to torment.

            Fashion shows were just the beginning of the madness. Their creative scenes ranged from enacting domestic dramas to having the shrunken boy ride around in a motorized car to the mall. Despite the diversity of these activities, though, they all curiously managed to revolve around Mary-Ann trying on new and increasingly frilly dresses. Eventually, Tory and Zoey gave up on offering their brother the chance to change himself, as they had far too much fun undressing then redressing him, their grabby fingers fondling every nook of his humbled little body. And as humiliating as these acts were, they never failed to get a “rise” out of Paul, which in turn generated a storm of giggles and finger-pointing from his sisters, restarting the cycle.

            With twenty-four hours left, the whole family stood in a circle around the pitiful plastic mansion and informed Paul that he had until precisely eleven a.m. the next day to have the house show-ready. During the night before the seventh day, when the hammer of judgment would be handed down and his punishment concluded, Paul tossed fitfully in the doll bed. In times past, his dreams were merely disturbed by recollections of past magic pranks Tory pulled on him. Now that he was living out the most soul-burningly embarrassing one yet, though, his nightmares had since shifted to scenes which, ironically, weren’t much different from reality. These dreams often seemed designed to pull the rug out from under Paul.

            In them, he’d be his normal-sized self again, with all his secrets jammed back in Pandora’s Box, and living in serenity in his childhood home. Everything fine. Then, inevitably, the roof of the house would be ripped away by gigantic feminine fingers, and staring down into the rubbly remains of the home would be one of his sisters, sometimes Tory and sometimes Zoey, but regardless wearing the same victorious beam, and standing tall enough to turn their ordinary house into a puny doll’s paradise. Once the dream shifted this way, there was no escape. Paul could run, hiding in closets or under tables, but his sisters’ pretty eyes always tracked him down, and their fingers crashed inside to collect him.

            Depending on the dream-sister, their treatment of him would vary: Tory more precise and exacting with her slender finger placements, never inflicting harm, but also knowing just how to push his buttons in the worst way; and Zoey, being more excitable, awkwardly bundling him into her clammy fist. Then the nocturnal visions turned predictable. Held over the demolished house, Paul would be summarily stripped by his sisters’ tugging fingers, and dangled naked for all the world to see, until finally a new ensemble was produced in his sister’s opposite hand: a dress, sometimes gaudy formalwear and sometimes a simple apron-and-gown, but always something dripping with femininity. And try as he might to resist those powerful fingers stuffing him inside the clothes, or his sisters’ alluring and hypnotic teasing, Paul completed his journey to doll, and was carried over the miniature neighborhood by his magical leviathan sibling.

            Then, as the final nail in the coffin, he’d awaken back in Zoey’s dollhouse to find an incriminating wet patch soaked itchily into the black-and-white uniform. The morning of the seventh day was no different.

            Paul wasted little time fretting today, though, and forced himself into a single-minded frenzy. There was no room for error here. As he’d predicted, an almost certainly sorcery-produced layer of grime and dust had overtaken the interior of the dollhouse. However, Paul couldn’t be deterred. Practically entranced, the boy cleaned and swabbed his little heart out. Not a dust bunny escaped his sight. Sheer determination drove him to become probably one of the most efficient maids to have ever lived, if only one suited for a dollhouse instead of a human habitat.

            He worked without stopping, no longer hindered by the clumsiness of his too-tight uniform after days of practice, and put all his learned skills to use. Predictably, the rapid chafing motion inspired an erection, but he had no time to dwell on it. Not a single chair or plate was left unturned. Though the odds were stacked against him, Paul stretched to his limits and wiped up the last of the grit just as the clock struck 10:56.

            Panting and weary, the four-inch boy collapsed on the floor in the little kitchen. At 10:59, three pairs of colossal shoes were heard tramping up the staircase in the distance: confidently clopping high heels, rubber-bottomed sneakers, and toe-tapping ballet flats. Scarlet, Tory, and Zoey trounced into the bedroom. Squinting through the shadowed window, Paul could make them all out. His humongous family had apparently chosen to dress up for this momentous occasion, as they were all garbed in their Sunday best, complete with trailing pastel-hued dress drains, creamy petticoats, crisp white aprons, and stylish hairdos. Even though these were the same women who’d transformed him into his most twisted fantasy, he’d be lying to say they weren’t all radiant beauties.

            In a break from the week’s routine, though, there was no cranking open of the house hinges, followed by a rain of taunts and eager fingers pinching at his dress folds. Rather, Paul heard Zoey mumbling something with intense concentration, followed by a flash of light. Then, curiously, the tiny front door swung open, and in stepped the boy’s family, single-file. Though they still dwarfed him, the ladies had shrunk themselves down to approximate-Barbie height, which put their servant somewhere just below waist-height on his family, including petite Zoey. Of course, while he lay on the floor, the trio still looked very much like full giantesses as they stood overhead.

            “Good morning, dear!” Scarlet said, her hands clasped to swoon. Her high heel planted itself right beside Paul’s cranium, tap-tap-tapping away on the floor.

            “Looks like you’ve been busy, Mary-Ann,” Tory smarmed sarcastically, her arms crossed. Those worn-out sneakers of hers took a post somewhere between her brother’s spread-eagle legs, and tramped hard on the flowy maid skirt to pin him in place. The squeaky rubber toe came a hair’s breadth from ball-busting poor Paul.

            “It looks really clean in here. Good job!” Zoey exclaimed with her usual conviction, which Paul couldn’t help but appreciate, even though his little sister’s genuine desire for him to succeed was easily trumped by her own desire to make him into her toy.

            “We’ll just see about that,” Tory said suspiciously. The tall tan witch glanced furtively around the room. She snapped her fingers several times, causing plastic chairs and even delicate doll-silverware to rotate for dust inspection.

            “I have to admit. This kitchen doesn’t look half bad,” Scarlet said, which Paul chose to read as reticent approval. His heartbeat doubled in pace, even while he continued lying prone. Still, his mother was thorough, and chose to manually study the space with her own two hands, scrubbing her thumbs on every cranny to see if dust came up. None did, in the whole of the room.

            “Ugh. Yeah, I guess it looks okay,” Tory huffed. She nudged her sneaker into her brother’s thighs, causing him to clam instantly up at the threat of her rubber treads trampling his junk. The girl grinned. “C’mon, Mary-Ann. Get up. We want to see if you’ve made the rest of the house as pretty as you’ve made yourself.”

            “I’ll help you, P- I mean, Mary-Ann!” Zoey volunteered. She hunkered down, until the fluffy folds of her dress came swooping down over Paul’s head. For a moment, he drowned peacefully in the sweet-smelling rush of bristling gauze, until his little sister’s polished ballet flats flanked his head, and her still-expansive hands started grappling him like an oversized teddy bear. Though Paul was comparatively “larger” next to his family than he’d been in a week, he was still no match even for his littlest sibling. And she was persistent. Zoey at last scooped him off the ground.