Darkness of Her Soul

An absolute cracker of a prompt from David Raymond. Hope y'all like it.

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The attic air was thick with sandalwood, patchouli, and the electric tension of teenage angst. Rain lashed against the single, grime-streaked window, a furious drumming that matched the beat of Hexxxica's heart. She knelt in a circle of cheap tea lights, her eyes fixed on a smoldering incense stick in a cracked saucer. “Oh, spirits of the eternal night, hear my plea,” she intoned, her voice a whisper that barely carried over the storm. Hexxxica Midnight (born Tiffany Mitchell) felt her soul was a tempestuous void of beautiful gloom, tragically mismatched with her body of suburban vanilla. Pale skin that freckled, mousy brown hair dyed an unconvincing black, and a frame that was stubbornly average. She sprinkled a pinch of graveyard dirt (from the pet cemetery behind the park) onto the glowing ember. The smoke thickened, coiling around her. “My soul is a chasm of obsidian darkness! My heart is a black diamond! Align the flesh with the spirit! Make my body match the darkness of my soul!” She yelled the last line, pouring all her frustration into it. As the words left her lips, a violent gust of wind slammed against the attic window, blasting it open. The rain and wind tore through the room, extinguishing the candles in an instant, plunging her into absolute blackness. For a moment, there was only the sound of the storm and her own ragged breath. Then, a tingling, pins-and-needles sensation prickled at her fingertips. Frowning in the dark, she held her hands up in front of her face. A faint, residual glow from the incense ember cast just enough light to see them. Or what should have been them. The pale, freckled back of her hand seemed to… blush. Not with red, but with a dusky hue that swirled under the surface. What suppuration is this? Ichor? Venom? she mused as the color deepened, flowing like ink in water from her fingertips up to her wrists, swallowing her pale skin and leaving behind a smooth, rich shade of deep brown. “Wait, what...?”

The tingling amped to a full-body rush. The color flowed up her arms, the melanin spreading like a tide. The change hit her hips with an audible pop of strained denim seams. "What the hell is...?" she started to ask the empty room, but the voice that came out was already raspier and throatier. She watched, mesmerized, as her bony hips started piling on fat and muscle, forming soft curves where there used to be just angles. The witchcraft settled into an intense into her ass and thighs, and a heavy softness swelled into her jeans, as her stick thin thighs expanded into chunky tree trunks. Weight she had never felt before churned and deposited into her ass, each ass cheek expanding like sweaty brown balloons filling with water. "Oh, hell naw," she breathed. "Muh leggings are wrecked." She tried to scramble backward, and the new mass of her ass and thighs jiggled with a soft, swaying motion that sent shockwaves of pleasure through her. The fabric over her thighs was stretched to its absolute limit, the pre-distressed rips getting even larger as her leggings fell apart. A molten, tingling current arced into her chest. Her oversized band t-shirt, once a baggy shroud, became a second skin. She watched as the faded logo began to distort, pulled tight across her growing chest. The first sensation was a deep, internal ache, like a muscle growing too fast. Then a blooming of pure pleasure. It emanated directly from her nipples, which darkened and pebbled into hard, sensitive points beneath the thin cotton, sending a shuddering wave straight down her spine. A strangled gasp, half terror and half traitorous moan, escaped her lips. “Oh... Aw damn...” she breathed. “What in the hell is happenin’?” The spell seemed to feed on her reaction. The tingling intensified, and her breasts began to swell with a feeling like warm, heavy dough being kneaded and plumped from within. They grew past a handful, the soft flesh pooching out from between her fingers, beyond anything her old bras could have hoped to contain. The brown skin tightened, becoming smooth and flawless, the dark areolas spreading into wide, dusky discs around her increasingly sensitive nipples. “Dey so heavyyyy,” Hexxxica whined, as she struggled with the sheer weight of them. Her hand came up, not just to confirm the impossible size, but drawn by a magnetic curiosity. The moment her own dark fingers brushed against the soft swell of her big black tit, another crack of delight pushed into her core. “LAWD, dey feel...” She couldn't finish the sentence, her mind overwhelmed by the jiggling weight all over her body. “What be happenin' to me?” Her dyed-black hair, once limp and lifeless, now tingled at the roots. She could feel its texture changing, the follicles crackling they coiled and tightened, her thick bangs twisting into sweaty ringlets. The tingling warmth moved to the center of her face. The bridge of her nose softened, widening and flattening against her face. A pulsing honeyed heat pumped directly into her lips, flooded her soft tissue. They plumped rapidly, blossoming from their tight black liplined line into a full, heart-shaped pout with a bee-stung plushness. She licked them instinctively, the gesture sending another hit of sexual dopamine straight down to her core.

The hum stopped. The air grew still, save for the gentle patter of the rain. She was left breathing heavily, trying to stead herself in the waning pleasure. With a trembling dark-skinned hand, she fumbled for her phone, switching on its flashlight and pointing it toward her reflection in a full length mirror. The goth chick was gone, and in her place stood a curvy Black girl, with dark skin that no longer contrasted with her black tee, which was now stretched taut across her body. All the gangly awkwardness was replaced with pure sex appeal. Her mind reeled, frantically replaying her words. Make my body match the darkness of my soul. She had meant poetic darkness. The darkness of the raven's wing, of midnight, of despair. The universe, it seemed, had a very literal and embarrassingly un-goth interpretation. As she got a better look and a closer touch at herself, she let out a low whistle. Forget Hot Topic, she thought, “‘Cuz tomorra at school, ya girl Hexxxica gon’ be one.”