Renaissance Woman

Trigger #127: “The Sala City Knights”

Organization Class: A travelling troupe of renaissance faire players who recently joined the Sala City Coven, specializing in medieval and fantasy themed transformations.

Transformation Type: TG, Feminization, Breast Expansion.

Threat Level: Benevolent. They’re a bunch of wonderfully nerdy jocks who like playing with swords, what’s not to love?

Subject: Princess Persephone Peabody, 28, F, formerly Paul Peabody, 28, AMAB, and Ashe McKellen aka “Lady Nightshade”, 28, AFAB.

The following is a biographical account of events based on the subject's own testimony and several eyewitness accounts.

Once upon a time, there was a princess named Paul.

When she was born, a terrible curse had been laid upon the poor princess. She would appear to all those around her not as the beautiful maiden she was, but instead as a lowly peasant boy.

Any fantasies she had, her frequent dreams of attending extravagant balls in lavish gowns were swiftly stamped out by a world that saw her only for what they could see, and not for what she wanted to be.

So Paul Peabody grew up to be a dull, boring man in a dull, boring world, forcing himself into the mold that had long since been prepared for him by others.

But once a year, the Sala City Renaissance Faire came to town. And Paul was allowed an all too brief reprieve to pretend. He could walk through the small medieval village and take in all the little fantasies. The smell of freshly baked meat pies, the taste of perfectly soured dough, sweet meats and salty fats that melted on the tongue. The sounds of lyres, lutes, fiddles and flutes floating on the wind like brilliant leaves in autumn. The intricate, handwoven costumes and clothing, bell bottomed gowns surrounding him like a rainbow of flowers in a garden, desperate to be plucked and put on.

And the mead. My God, the MEAD. It wasn’t very princess-ly, Paul’s inner voice falsely feared, but he LOVED a nice, tall flaggard of ale to wash away the woes of the modern world. The warm, honeyed taste, and the pleasant humming buzz it left in his brain and his stomach were always well worth the year long wait.

Which, perhaps, lead to Paul overindulging a bit.

Which in turn, lead to Paul making an absolute fool of himself explaining the art of the joust to Lady Nightshade of all people, THE Ashe McKellen, the Leading Lady of the Lance, the Tri-State Jousting Tournament Champion 8 years running.

“S’what you need to do is- hic You juss need to stay on the horse’s… heh, the horse’s ‘you-know-what’ is what you need to do…” Paul slurred both speech and drink as he practically melted in the seat next to Ashe in the Tavern.

“Uh huh, is that all then…?” Ashe said with an eyeroll, making no effort to hide her annoyance with the man who was too blind stinking drunk to notice anyways.

“F’course s’not all! You gotta… gotta grip that lance nice and tight… you gotsta treat it like you’d treat a lady…” Paul said, causing a vein to throb just above Ashe’s left eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah? And how’s that? How exactly is a lance like a lady?” Ashe said, fist curled and ready to strike if Paul didn’t choose his next words very, very carefully.

“You need to… need to juss… need to let her be a lady… juss let me… put on pretty dresses and go to the ball and shit… jus let a lance be a lady…” Paul said, his tone surprisingly sober for someone so very not.

His answer caught Ashe off guard, her eyebrows raising and her fist unclenching. Paul, his face smooshed against the wooden table, looked lazily up at Ashe and could swear her eyes were glowing, but chalked it up to the mead.

“Well, first off, you don’t know shit about jousting, let's get that out of the way.” Ashe reached into her trousers and pulled out a well worn handkerchief. “A dainty little princess like you has no business lifting a lance with those stick figure arms. But… you’re pretty, and good for a laugh, so I guess I can let it slide. Here.”

She passed the small token of her appreciation to the drunken fool and stood to leave. “Take this and go clean yourself up. Come cheer for me at the joust later today and you can give it back to me in person, okay, your highness?”

She winked, paid the barkeep, and strolled out of the pub. Instead of insulted, her words made Paul feel warm and fuzzy inside, and it wasn’t just the mead. Paul took her advice, wiping the drool from his lip, leaving a generous tip, and taking a walk to sober up.

 About an hour or two later, finally nice and dried out, Paul’s stomach turned. He rushed to the nearest port-a-loo, cursing the leg of mutton he had taken a chance on under his breath.

In the green tinted safety of his tiny plastic porcelain throne room, Paul unbuckled his pants and started to pull them down. However, Paul found that his usually loose fitting jeans were getting stuck around his hips and ass. Had he gained some weight recently? He HAD eaten one too many meat pies. He finally managed to shimmy and squeeze his way out of the anything but skinny jeans until she was met by an unfamiliar sight.

Her dick was gone. In its place were perfectly feminine folds framed by wide, heir-birthing hips and a well fed ass. Before she could fully comprehend the strange, yet wonderful sight, her view of it was obscured by two massive mounds of flesh swelling from her chest like mountains rising up through the ground. Her once dishwater brown hair flowed in rivulets around her face and brightened into a pleasant, pastel pink. The face it framed was a picturesque portrait of beauty, long, ebony eyelashes below gold paved eyelids, a tiny button nose between sparkled rouge cheeks and plump, rose stained lips. Her hands became small and dainty, cuts and callouses removed as if they had never seen a second of hard work in their life. Her frame became daintier still, shrinking a good foot and a half shorter than her usual stature, although her tits and ass were still anything but.

And at last, her clothes. They swirled and swam like a school of fish around her, cutting themselves to ribbons and shifting in shape and color. Stilt-like heels strapped and locked themselves around her tiny feet. Undergarments woven of the finest silk cupped her breasts and womanhood like a goblet of wine spilled over. Petticoats fluffed like the softest feathery pillows around her hips, and were draped in only the finest of fabrics. A corset cinched around her waist and pushed her breasts together into a great valley of cleavage. Snow white gloves rolled up her hands and arms, and diamond earrings pierced her ears. And finally, the tiara. After all, every princess needs her crown. A circlet of gold embedded with fire red rubies and perfectly polished pearls was placed on her head, completing her coronation,

Stepping out from the puke green port-a-potty, confused, flustered, but secretly delighted, was a princess. Her poise was prim and proper as she took her skirts in her dainty fingers and glided past the amused bathroom line.

“Not exactly a throne fit for a Queen, huh?” one woman winked at her in solidarity.

“V-Verily, although a woman of my status must carry herself with grace wherever she finds herself… even in the lavatory, so it would… seem…” The words dripped off her lips like the sweetest syrup. She had been trying to say: “Any port in a storm, right?” But the words had been twisted beyond recognition.

“What the fuck is wrong with my voice?” became “My, how do I speak with such eloquence? What witchcraft has so contorted my cadence in such a marvelous manner…?”

Witchcraft. It was then she knew. It was not mead, nor a trick of the light that had caused the alluring lancer’s eyes to glow earlier. It was magic, a strange and wonderful magic, plain and simple.

The fledgeling princess clasped the handkerchief to her chest, and waded her way through the crowd towards the Jousting Arena, stopping only to politely pose for the occasional photograph.

It was a brutish sport, really, the Princess couldn’t help but think. But her heart fluttered when she finally spotted the officiant of her coronation. Lady Nightshade, announced by a blaze of trumpets, rode valiantly into battle on her noble steed. She was a dashing, reckless daredevil to be sure, foregoing her helmet and pauldrons to allow the audience the pleasure of gazing upon her rippling muscles and ruggedly handsome face. The princess caught herself drooling again, and bashfully wiped her face with the handkerchief.

Her opponent, Sir Louts-a-Lot, played the part of the heel very well, biting his thumb at the audience and boasting his superior skill. After all, he was a MAN, and he claimed Lady Nightshade had no place on the battlefield as a WOMAN. A bubble of rage filled the Princess’s heart, and then, deep shame as the Princess remembered her embarrassingly similar, single sided conversation with the Lady not two hours prior.

The horses reared, whinnied, and dove head first towards each other. The Princess’s heart raced with them.

CLOP CLOP CLOP CLOP-!

CLANG!!!

Steel upon steel sent sparks as Louts-a-Lot’s spear glanced off of Lady Nightshade’s raised shield. She winced. The crowd boo-ed. The princess, in a manner deviating somewhat from her royal countenance, stood up straight and hollared, waving the handkerchief like a royal banner.

“C’MON, LADY NIGHTSHADE, KICK HIS FUCKING ASS!!!!”

Nearby patrons turned to look at the tiny banshee princess with bewildered amusement, and she quickly shrank back down onto the bench, cheeks very red.

Lady Nightshade recognized the sign of her favor, as well as the one holding it, and showered the shy princess with a cocky grin.

“As you wish, my Princess!” she announced with reviewed vigor, cracking her neck and raising her spear and shield in an offensive stance.

The horses stamped the dirt, then kicked up turf, tearing holes through the earth itself as they careened towards each other.

CLOP CLOP CLOP CLOP-!

KLANGG!!!

A direct hit. Louts-a-Lot was knocked clean off his horse, falling into the muck below them in humiliating defeat.

The crowd cheered, the Princess screaming triumphantly at the top of her lungs.

After the show, a shy princess approached the smiling victor as she tended to her horse.

‘H-Hail and well met… my Lady… I-I have come to return to you… this token of affection with which you had placed in my care…?” she asked, words still being garbled by the finest marble.

Ashe cocked her brow in confusion, then raised both in realization.

“Ah, shit, I must have casted the spell wrong, sorry, that whole ‘ye olde’ speech thing should wear off… eventually,” she gave the horse a reassuring pat and strolled over. The knight towered over the Princess, now. She couldn’t help but to enjoy the pleasant musk of a well worn battle wafting from her exposed arms. The beads of sweat trickling down their well defined musculature. A warmth filled the princess’s cheeks, and she felt something wet between her legs.

“So it is as I thought. I have you to thank for my… metamorphosis…?” the Princess stammered shyly, trying and failing to maintain eye contact with this magnificent woman.

Ashe smiled and delicately cupped the Princess’s face by the chin, raising her eyes to meet hers. “Well, I just so happened to see this beautiful Princess trapped in a tower, and I just HAD to save her. After all, what kind of Knight would I be if I didn’t ride to the rescue of a damsel in distress?” Ashe said with a knowing smirk.

The Princess’s legs squirmed with want. “And… to whom do I owe this honor…?”

“Ashe. McKellen. Or ‘Lady Nightshade’ if you wanna use my stage name. And to whom do I owe THIS honor…?” Ashe said, taking the princess’s tiny hand in her own massive paw and giving it a kiss.

The Princess couldn’t help but remember an old Greek myth she’d heard of, of a goddess who spent every six months switching between two lives, one in Heaven, the other in Hell.

“...Persephone. Princess Persephone. But I would prefer if you would call me… yours,” the newly minted monarch blushed, eyelashes fluttering.

“As you wish, my Princess,” Ashe said with a wolfish grin, before setting herself upon the beautiful maiden. She gently lowered the princess onto a bale of hay and helped her remove her dress, kissing every inch of her legs and fat thighs as she slipped Persephone out of her stockings and petticoats. Ashe took two of her thick, calloused fingers and dragged them up and around the Princess’s slit and clit, setting a roaring fire alight between her legs.

A princess being fucked in a stable. How undignified! But the indignity of it only made the raunchous, scandalous act all the sweeter.

Ashe squeezed and scissored the poor girl mercilessly, and the princess gushed like sweet syrup draining from the freshest fruit.

But all sweet things must come to an end, however glorious that end may be, as the Princess climaxed and collapsed into Ashe’s warm, safe arms.

“When… may I see you again…? The Faire leaves town tomorrow. I fear even a moment’s part from you would stretch into an eternity…” the Princess asked worriedly as soon as she’d regained her composure.

“I mean, you could always come with us? Truth be told, we’ve been looking for someone to officiate the jousts and festival stuff for a while, who better than a pretty pink little thing like you?” Ashe said with a wink and a kiss stolen from the princess’s quivering lip.

“Me? Travel with you? And perform in the Faire…?” Persephone was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. She loved Renn Faires so much, and loathed her boring desk job with a passion. She had no real family or friends that tied her to this place. Why not do something she loved… with the woman she loved.

“That is, if you want to? Sorry to spring that on you, I just figured…” Ashe’s usually dashing facade gave way to an awkward but adorably honest demeanor. Princess Phobe smiled, and kissed her knight in reply.

“Only if you swear your loyalty to me… (And mayhaps take me at least twice a day. Maybe thrice…)”

Ashe snickered, and kissed her lover back.

“As you wish.”

From the desk of

Mira Alcott

Head-Mistress of Transformations

(Special thanks to Alexander Pontier for the suggestion, to my Test Readers and to all of my Patrons for your support!)