Subtlety had never been one of Buffy's strengths, and she had immediately headed to one of the dance floor's small podiums, reasoning that her elevated position would simultaneously enable evil-doers to notice her, and her a better opportunity to spot their reactions for herself. But she had barely started when the Warden's spell struck, and her capabilities were reduced as dramatically as her heroine colleagues. Clubwear instantly became fetishwear as her already less-than-conservative attire was reduced instantly, unnoticed by her but not by anyone else around her on the floor. Her heels were lengthened and she found herself teetering on her very tiptoes. Her stockings remained unchanged in appearance, but shrank a couple of sizes, restricting her blood supply to leave her lower limbs uncomfortably sore and under even less control than her reduced slayer abilities had left her with. A moment before she was a dominating high-kicking heroine with the strength to kick her opponents into the middle of next week - now, even if she could manage a genuine kick without upending her awkward top-heavy frame, it would be completely ineffective.
Her knickers had disappeared to the four winds, her skirt had stiffened and shortened to a ludicrous pink tutu; the whole dance floor found themselves at near eye-level with her very-exposed cunt, but in the heat and humidity of the club the slight breeze was only a relief to her weakened mind than any cause for concern. Moving northwards, her taut midriff was similarly bare until it reached the underslopes of her now frankly impossible cleavage. Perhaps the magic would have been kinder to her had it hit her when she had been dressed more demurely, but it seemed to interpret her already racy outfit excuse into a chance to reduce it exponentially. Her bra had gone the same way as her panties, and she was left with a hot pink halterneck made up of material that would be insufficient for upholstering the inside of an egg cup. It would have been grotesquely insufficient even on her former frame, but as each of her molehills became rounded mountains fit for the Himalayas, the fabric parted as it had to, the irresistible forces meeting a very movable object and cleaving it neatly in twain. Shreds of lurid pink fabric hung limply from her shoulders, dangling betwwn her armpits and across her back, breasts far larger than her head on full and lewd display. Her blonde hair was lengthened slightly, and bounced with her every slight movement.
Buffy felt only a moment of brief uncertainty, the magic denying her the ability to recognise her changed circumstances or properly focus on her situation. She knew that it was important to dance, but failed dismally to remember why. The whereabouts of her old friend and colleague never entered her tiny head. She tried to gyrate her frame with the music, but her lack of coordination made it an embarrassing spectacle, managing only to shuffle her feet awkwardly and bounce her huge breasts about. Worse for her, doing so rapidly depleted her drastically reduced stamina levels, and after a few moments she was finding it impossible to keep herself upright. She uncertainly tried to step down from the podium, knowing she needed to take a seat before she collapsed, but unable to comprehend why she was finding herself so tired so quickly.
But her jellied legs and stillettoed heels failed her utterly and she toppled forward off her podium, the fall from 3 feet should have given her ample time to put her hands in front of her, but she moved far too slowly and splatted painfully onto her mighty breasts, the only thing breaking her fall. Stunned for a moment, she tried to press herself up from the grimy floor, but failed utterly, too weak to move herself, and the mighty slayer felt a moment of sheer panic as she wondered how on earth she had found herself in this position. Why on earth was she so tired and weak?
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