The door opened with a loud creak. Just a few short years of a careless child grabbing the handle, swinging it wildly, slamming it carelessly did that to the door. He looked up at the top hinge. The man smiled. Once, he could just stand on a stool and oil the hinge. It would now be impossible to do the same without a ladder. He pushed the squeaky door open, and looked at the room. It was messy, clothes and toys were discarded everywhere, books and pencils, and all sorts of little things his daughter busied herself with. The sight was familiar, and yet overwhelming. The furniture was small, sized for a child, but it always looked so little and fragile to him. And yet now, it looked tall and imposing. The room always seemed a bit small to him, and he was planning to hire a contractor to expand it when his kid grew up a few more years, but not it looked large and spacious. And all the little trinkets felt bigger, more substantial, even if they were on the floor, way below his waist. It was already getting dark outside, and John wanted a better look at his new kingdom. He reached on the wall around his waist for the light switch. He only touched the wall instead. He tried the familiar motion again. Nothing. John then realized that his muscle memory betrayed him. He finally turned to look at the wall, to find the switch much higher than he remembered. He smiled and raised his hand, grabbed it, and pushed it up with a satisfying “thunk”. Even the switch felt heavier in his hand, more reluctant to be pushed around by someone as small as John.

Light illuminated the little girl’s room. The walls were painted a soft, relaxing shade of pink. The curtains were similarly colored, and had little stitched patterns across them. The toys reflected the light back at him, the piles of clothes cast shadows on the floor, while the desk and the bed loomed on the opposite two sides of the room from the corner he was at. “I’m small. I’m just like her”, he thought. He took the first step on the soft carpet, feeling guilty. But he took another step. Not too late to go back, and drink the growth tea. Another step. Not too late to sell off whatever dust remained and try and fix the accounts. Another step forward – he almost tripped on a barbie toy car. His toe hurt by the impact, and the car rolled a few inches to the side. Not too late to pick up his clothes and disappear if he could not sell the dust, escaping his wife and creditors. Another step forward. Not too late to stop this madness, this beautiful, exciting, powerful madness that overtook him. Another forward step. Not too late… It was too late. He was standing in front of the little pile of clothes.

John crossdressed before. He had attempted to try on his wife’s stuff. It did not work out. One, she was still too small for him, so nothing could really fit him. And two, they were still the clothes of an adult woman, multiple times bigger than his “true” size, but multiple times smaller than his “cursed to be big” size. And three, they were just not as fun, as carefree, as cute as what he deserved. He had imagined himself in all sorts of little outfits. But it’s one thing to dream of skydiving, and another to take the first leap out the plane. It’s one thing to think of dressing up as your daughter, and another to actually do it.

He reached down and grabbed a pair of jeans. He had seen those multiple times before, but they were hefty and big now. He held them in front of his waist, and noticed the bottoms barely brushing against the floor. They had a few decorative sparkly elements, arranged in the shape of flowers and butterflies. This would do. John folded the pants and draped them over his shoulder. He looked around the pile, feeling the all too familiar garments, but the girly stuff on the floor mocked him, teased him, dared him to admit he wanted them. Nobody is here to see, nobody is here to judge. But John was still afraid. Small steps. Start small. He walked over to the bed, and picked up the shirt his little daughter wore earlier on today. It was a light lime green color, thick and warm, with long sleeves. And it was still just a bit warm, inviting. He thought back to the time that his wife would steal his shirts or hoodies, and proclaim that there is nothing more comfy than wearing the warm shirt of a loved one. This was his turn to indulge in that. The shirt was draped over his other shoulder.

Next, the most sticking point. Underwear. John’s mind raced to the laundry basket, back in the back room of the house by the garage. No. He would not. Fresh would be better, at least for now. John walked over to the closet and pulled open the door. He found himself putting force to undo the magnet that kept the door closed, and the door swung open, thudding against the wall on the side. How many times he had yelled at his daughter not to slam the door, how many times he had repainted that spot to repair it! And yet, here he was, realizing that it can’t be helped when you’re so little. He looked inside, and looked up at all the clothes hanging up on the bar, their bottoms brushing against his head. Adult help was necessary if he wanted to reach up. Reach up to what? His eyes darted from a bunch of shirts, to … dresses. Sparkly, pretty and cute dresses on the side, tucked away for special occasions. No, not now. He had to turn his eyes down in the small shelf that was closer to his height, and looked at the storage container that rested there. He pulled it open and looked inside. Freshly washed and neatly arranged, his daughter’s underwear. He reached down with a trembling hand and touched the pile of rolled up cotton. He picked one up and pulled it. White, with just a bit of pink around the waist and the leg holes. His fingers touched and kneaded the fabric while he unrolled it. And then he saw a small, half-washed away print of a princess on the front. John gulped. He really expected something simpler. He made to drop the panties back into the box and pick another pair, but then he stopped. “Don’t be a girl, and just BE a girl”, he told himself. It was the first time that he caught himself smiling, grinning at his pun. It wasn’t scary. It was just a piece of clothing. The princess wasn’t real, and she could not harm him. John lowered the panties down, and pulled up his leg through the first hole. So far so good. Then came the second leg. And then he pulled up. The cotton underwear slid up his legs, gently stretching when necessary (but not too much), until he was wearing it. Almost. John was still a man, no matter how small. His dick stood out awkwardly, the tip plus a bit more sticking up from the top. He tugged the underwear open, and pushed his dick back inside. He felt it brush against the inside of the princess print. It could not be helped.

The heating element interrupted him, jumping into life and terrifying him. The shirt and the pants slid off his shoulders and dropped down on the floor. John took a few seconds and realized that it was just the heat, he wasn’t caught. But now that the air was moving around the room, his own nakedness made him feel even colder than before. The warmth from the shrinking tea had all disappeared by now. John bowed down and picked up the pants. He undid the zipper, and slid his legs in. “You’ve worn many, many jeans before, this is no different”, he told himself. The pants were slightly baggy, and maybe just a bit too long, but when the button clasped around his waist, it felt secure enough. John then picked up the shirt and pulled it over his head. He pushed his hands up, searching for the sleeves, and eventually found them. He pulled the garment down on him, and his head popped up out of the neck hole. It was so warm, so comfortable, and it smelled a little bit like his daughter. The child-sized man felt a wave of relief, warmth, and relaxation wash over him. He straightened his sleeves, that covered just a bit past his wrists.

Socks were next. After picking underwear, socks would be easy enough, he thought. He opened the small container next to the underwear and looked inside. There they were, a multitude of differently colored socks, different materials, different levels of formality and purpose. John could not choose, not easily. He thought back to the time he had used one of those little socks to get himself off, before tossing it in the laundry. But now, it would probably be too big for him to use effectively. No, little socks are for little feet like his. He picked out a pair of stripy purple and black socks that went up to his daughter’s shins. But surely… he paused. Wearing a pair is silly. Mixing and matching is what little girls do, he thought. So he dug around, until he found a pair of similar material and length, a green and yellow sock. He sat down on the floor, and pulled the mismatched pair up on his feet. He felt his toes and soles enter the warm, slightly cold but inviting garments, and then he felt himself stretching them slightly as they went up and up on his foot and leg. John then neatly tucked the legs of his jeans over the socks, hiding most of their length. When he stood up, he looked down and wiggled his toes.

There was one final thing left. Shoes. Of course, wearing shoes inside the house was silly, but John wanted the whole outfit. Plus his little feet were cold (or so he said). Sneakers would do just fine for his casual outfit. So he bowed down and looked to the back of the closet. A few boxes were stacked neatly there. But those were not sneaker boxes. No, he would try the sandals and formal shoes later. He crawled back out and stood up, feeling already better and warmer. He looked around the room, and eventually found what he needed. Under the bed, there they were, discarded, his daughter’s sneakers. They were of some expensive brand, that John was thought was totally overkill for a small child that outgrows them so fast. But his wife had insisted, because they’d be more comfortable and would last longer. They were hot pink with white soles. He pulled them from under the bed and sat on the ground. Surely, those were Not his daughter’s shoes. They were supposed to be small, light, cute. But those looked just about large, inviting, and “Strong”, whatever that last word meant to him. He noticed the soft scent of his daughter’s feet emanating from them. He saw the small scuffs and imperfections that made them her shoes, instead of just a random pair on a display stand. He turned them over and looked down at the dirty white soles, full of little particles of dirt and grime that her careless and light footsteps had compacted underneath her. For a moment, John imagined himself helpless and tiny underneath those shoes. He sighed. He turned the shoe back over, and looked inside, at the marks his daughter’s growing foot made. The sole was discolored at places, but he didn’t mind. His finger touched the little tag with the washing and sizing info. A small kids’ 11. That’s what it was. He carefully put it on the ground next to his foot. Yep. It was not an illusion. His foot would fit. So he undid the velcro with a “rrrip”, and slid his foot inside, feeling it brush against the inner surface. The dried up sweat and grime of the shoe was just a bit sticky against his fresh socks, and the contours of his daughter’s little foot were not the same as his, even if they were now the same size. Almost the same size. John would have been better served by a size 10, as he found out that his toes were just a little bit short of the small depressions his daughter’s foot had left on the shoe. Can’t be helped. John tugged on the velcro strips to close the shoe off as tightly as he could, and then repeated the same with his other foot.

By the time he stood up and took a few slow steps, he was already thinking of going in the garage and trying to find forgotten smaller shoes for him. His wife had stashed old items away, just in case a second child arrived soon. This stash would be useful if… his thought stopped when he met his image on the mirror. It was a confusing sight. His mind registered the little casual outfit as his own daughters, but the person staring back was not as small, and had the face of a man. He looked almost grotesque, a joke of fate, a man forced into those clothes that should be too many sizes too small for him. He despaired. “I’m still ugly”, came a thought. But then he righted himself. “No, it’s okay. I don’t want to BE her. I just want to be small LIKE her.” John composed himself, turned around to look at his back, making sure everything was okay. It was. And with that, John closed the door of the closet, and look at what was about to be his room for the rest of the week.