Were-pussy: The Bane (Monthly tale - 54)

(Man into pussy-TG)

The distant howl of a wolf carried by the wind.

A Moonless night sky above the foggy countryside.

Max was the young man’s name, a drunken American frat-boy. A rich kid born to privilege and forever blinded by its notion of birthright, the first and only born son that was granted every whim by his father's wealth.

He was as if the stereotype of the football team captain had formed straight out of the page’s ink. A fit, white man, tall and muscular, always perfectly shaved from his crotch to his squared chin, a sculpted face, clear blue eyes, his hair a vivid bush of  golden curls. It wouldn’t be too hard to mistake Max for a modern Heracles and just like the heroes of ancient myth, he was a walking tragedy waiting to happen. An insufferable womaniser, the worst kind of douchebag jock, a gym rat, a bully, not just in looks, but all the bad traits of the stereotype he embodies.

Soon after finishing college, at the fresh age of twenty-four, accompanied by his best life-long lackey and an unlimited credit card, Max had travelled to the island of Great Britain to explore the back roads, molest the locals and visit his ancestral home, imitating a roaming prince from some folktale.

On that moonless night, in the town near the castle that carried his surname, the humble needs of his bladder made him stop groping the barmaid’s ass. Hazy from  the booze he confused the bathroom door with the back exit and left the inn and then the small town’s border and limped around in the surrounding wilderness.

He could have peed on a tree, he could have peed on a rock, on the grass, the soil or inside his own pants.

Instead he chose a gravestone.

That gravestone.

A forgotten traveller’s tomb right there in the middle of nowhere, an unmarked slab of stone almost completely entangled by poison ivy. Only one thing could be seen carved into the stony surface: A skull with a rose in its mouth.

Laughing maliciously Max put a hand on the gravestone, with the other he pulled his cock out. He gasped in pleasant relief as the urine flowed, raising his head to the night sky with a smile.

The flow of disgustingly warm yellow liquid splashed the tomb, the transgressor felt deep joy at his profanity… until the ground beneath his feet began to shake…

Max screamed in horror when the soil of the tomb burst outwards and long skeletal arms sprouted from the depths of the earth, grabbing his cock and balls, his legs too, and pulling him down.

Yelling in terror the jock tried to escape the tight bony grip, but his mundane strength was nothing against the otherworldly force he had awakened. Despite his best efforts he was pulled down, sinking into the soil, crying, sobbing and cursing.

Something else rose from the tomb, a mossy skull with long, long hair, curls darker than tar covered death's face. With his lower body already lost in the shaking earth in front of the tomb, the skeletal hand that was squeezing his sex grabbed the back of his head and pulled his face closer to the skull.

She desired a kiss as testimony of the curse…

Shouts of pure horror, punches thrown into the void. Max cried, babbling, begging, shook his head, but there was no salvation for his beating heart, his only fate a bane of twisted flesh.

The man’s yelps were muffled, but never stopped.

The skull got her kiss.

Embracing that unnatural union she dragged the weeping man into the solace of her tomb. Max pleas faded into nothing when the earth closed above him as if it had never opened.

Silence reigned in the countryside.

A moonless night sky.

A forgotten gravestone.

A car drove down the city road too fast, too loud, the echo of its horn rang in Max’s ears as he woke up, naked, in the bed and drenched in sweat. He is sitting in the bed in a hotel bedroom in the heart of London.

The noise of a lively metropolis entered through the large open windows.

Chills crawled along his spine like spiders, once again that same nightmare.

Those bony fingers around his penis, his thick very well sized sex, he can feel them, their pressure around the throbbingly tense skin of a slumbering erection. Was the creature from the grave pleasuring him as she forever dragged him down to the nether regions of the underworld?

And did his body respond to such haunted masturbation despite the forsaken touch of the cold grave? Did he cum inside the tomb as he cums in bed every night since the nightmares began?

The stains of sweat and sperm on the blankets are real…

Is the nightmare real too…?

Max punches himself to break the trance.

“It’s just a stupid dream!” he yells. “Nothing more, nothing else… and I need a shower!”

It was party day again today, taking a route that involved visiting several popular pubs in the area.

After having a shower he met Rory at the hotel entrance. Rory was a lanky young man, with olive skin and perpetual thin stubble on his face and also a disastrous poker player. The closest thing Max had ever had to a friend, he almost considered him a person. Max called him brother, but Rory was more of a lackey, a pal happy to live under the shadow of the prince’s cash. Kinda nervous, kinda cowardly, he had just gone along with Max’s schemes since elementary school and as long as that didn’t change everything was fine.

The two Americans hit the London streets in search of food and drink.

Rory didn’t need many pints to notice that Max was still being weird, it was like the hunky guy was drifting in and out of existence, but once again he just shrugged and kept drinking, preferring not to ask and surely that if there was any real problem Max would have told him already?

Max for his part had a plan to get rid of the nightmares: Fucking.

During the morning he went on the hunt, looking for a British lady to bring back to his room so her feminine touch could help him forget the visions that tormented his night.

He didn’t have any luck, not even his best lines seem to have an effect.

Had he lost his touch? Maybe his game needed an update?

No.

It was probably Rory’s fault.

Midday passed, in the fourth pub on their route, an establishment called the Snivelling Maiden that had music that was both too loud and outdated, Max and Rory were standing near the bar, drinking their beers, when Rory tapped Max’s side with his elbow.

“Hey, watch your six!” the lanky guy said.

Max first of all looked in the wrong direction, before seeing what Rory wanted to alert him to.

Down the other end of the bar there was a woman in a leopard print skirt and smoke on her glossy red painted lips, being hassled by a thin ginger with milky skin. The leopard woman was clearly not enjoying the attention.

“I think you can win that hand, buddy!” Rory encouraged.

Max chuckled, shook the gloominess he had been dragging around since the second pub off, finished his beer in one gulp and moved in for a winning play, cheered on by his lackey. Without any warning he grabbed the ginger’s shoulders and muttered to his ambushed ears.

“Careful there, mate, that’s dangerous territory, you don’t want to get your balls hurt.”

After uttering those words Max unceremoniously tossed the ginger away. The ginger looked back and considered confronting his assaillant, but he found himself facing a muscular Adonis who was a head taller and much wider than him, so instead he just chose to disappear into the background.

The leopard woman was giggling.

“A valiant knight coming to the rescue of a mademoiselle,” she said and took a sip from her cocktail. “As if you weren't looking for the same thing between my legs… Could you be a real gentleman and leave me alone to enjoy the ambience?”

Max chuckled.

“The ambience of this shitty pub? Don’t be a cold cunt now, pussy, I did you a favour, didn’t I? Why don’t you spread for me in exchange? How about if I buy you a drink first?”

“I have a drink.”

“What about a buffet breakfast in my penthouse suite at my hotel?” Max leaned towards the woman. “I’m rich and I want to fuck,” he declared.

“How is that my problem?” the woman took a better look at the American, smirked. “Make me cum in the bathroom,” she whispered, moving closer. “And I may get an appetite for breakfast…”

The woman walked away and Max tagged on her heels, with the reassuring tranquillity of knowing he hadn’t lost it.

In the bathroom she leant against the wall, he got down on his knees.

“Didn’t you want me to spread?” she asked, opening her legs.

Max nodded and lifted the leopard print skirt.

He was struck by thunder and lightning on the spot.

The woman wasn’t wearing panties, and being suddenly in front of a naked vagina left Max mesmerised, as if it was the first time he had seen a coochie in his whole life. It wasn’t because the pussy was anything remarkable, it was just a proud shaved crotch with meaty lips waiting to be pleasured in the bathroom’s cold, but something untied inside Max’s brain, something essential for the fundamental workings of a man.

With his mouth half open he poked the vagina with a finger, the woman laughed.

“Some foreplay?” she inquired. “You didn’t seem like that kind of guy…”

Max didn’t answer. He continued poking the vagina, fondling the vulva, teasing the lips… then he callously shoved his whole finger in. The woman gasped, but the finger wasn’t trying to generate pleasure, but rather to touch, explore, rub the tenderness of the moist inner walls, soak in the smell and warmth.

As the tip of his finger slid inside the pussy Max imitated the motions inside his mouth with his tongue, following the contortions and rotations, the shape of the vulva. After a while the leopard woman just felt cold and when she saw Max's dumbfounded face, with his tongue hanging out, she rightfully grew upset.

“Are you brain damaged?!” she shouted.

She pushed Max away with her heel, pulled her skirt down and left the bathroom, making her steps resound on the tiled walls while mumbling a fine selection of insults.

Max was left alone in the bathroom, sitting on his knees, his fingers still raised, the wet fingers… he smelt it, sucked it… stopped. He had a painful erection in his pants, and a painful expression of shame on his face.

He grabbed his forehead and groaned.

Not caring enough to tell Rory, he left the pub, bought a bottle of scotch and found his way back to the hotel.

The sun was setting.

There was a full moon that night.

Max got himself into comfy clothes, a simple t-shirt and jeans, and sat in a chair, the bottle of scotch to hand, some random music playing in the background, with his phone he looked on the net for something to read. The sky darkened outside the open windows. The man tried to focus on his phone, just the phone, on the letters, ignoring the deafening white noise echoing in his ears. The pale moon slowly rose to its throne and any vestiges of daylight vanished.

A proud, perfectly round circle hanging in the middle of the vast void.

The man tried to focus on anything else right up to the last possible instant, anything other than the gradual tension jolting his muscles, forcing small twitches at the corner of his lips. He tried… to focus…

He was reading, the letters were blurred, what was it… the Wikipedia entry about vaginas?

Why was he… reading about…

Vaginas.

Vagina.

“JESUS FUCKING CROIAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

Max dropped his phone, and fell to his knees grabbing his forehead, pulling his blonde locks. Groaning and yelling in pain, his penis stiff inside his jeans.

“WHAAAAAAAAAAATH! Fire! FUCK! FIRE!”

Once more soaked in sweat, just like in his nightmares. His flesh boiling, he sobbed and cursed, standing up with great effort.

“I'm burning! GGGGGGH! FFFFFFFFHKK!”

Images flashing through his mind in constant bursts, images that utterly terrified him despite being something he thought he loved. Frames of all the pussies he had fucked in his life.

“I’M BURNING ONGHHHHHHHHHH!”

Incapable of standing the heat for a single second more Max quickly tore his shirt to rags, followed by ripping open his jeans, bursting the buttons open. After swiftly undressing he straightened his back and grabbed his throbbing cock, giving it a couple of strokes in the hopes of calming the agony.

“AGGGGGGGGH! GODDDESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSH!”

He raised his other hand in front of his disfigured expression while continuing pumping his dick. The tingle of pubic hair sprouting back into existence around his hand, growing long, black, very dark and silky, sliding down, hanging between his open legs.

Looking almost… like a woman’s mane…

Grinding his teeth, the pain made it hard for sound to come out of his mouth as his eyelids widened. His raised hand slowly deformed, slowly, but not too slow for him to feel every changed inch, nor to clearly see the transformation.

The palm was absurdly elongated while keeping their same width. Wiggling fingers shortened into stubs, mimicking their former selves, where the arm began the wrist popped out, a round bone visible under the skin.

It was not a palm but a sole.

Not fingers but toes.

Not a wrist but an ankle.

It was no hand, but a foot, he had a foot at the end of his arm.

Max cried out in despair as his feet twisted and contorted, the mane of black hair in his crotch completely covering him all the way to the knees. Something bit him down there, he raised his masturbating hand, which was also in his way to become feet, and fell forwards.

“AAAAHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!”

Another futile attempt to resist.

“Help me! HELP MEEEEEE! HELP MEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSS!”

He dropped down further, landing on all fours, his feet becoming hands just as his hands had become feet. Hands with long fingers and long nails, feminine, crafty, they moved of their own volition.

All over his body his skin was darkening.

Locked down into the doggy pose Max stared forward, squeezing his eyes closed, continuing to scream as his voice began to grow distorted by the changes and his neck began to sink into his shoulders.

“RORYYYYYYYY!” he begged. “RORRRRYYYYYYYYYY! ANYBODY! COME SAVEE MEEEEH! FFFFFFFFFFFKIIIIIIIIIING PLEAAAAAAAAAA! RORRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGH!”

Tears and sweat flowed uncontrollably, skin, bones, every muscle, the entirety of his self fluctuated like a shifting tide going from male to… something else…

Max rolled on the floor, ending up lying on his back, he could barely move.

His blonde curls curled to their limit.

“WOOOOOMAZZZZZ! WUUUUUUUUUMMMMZZZZZZZ!”

He sounded sloppy and moist, it was hard to control his lips, they were spread open, vertically, his tongue didn’t touch teeth… The smell… Was he breathing or wheezing? Why was there a pair of long tanned woman’s legs right in front of him?

Why was the world spinning over itself?

Why did he keep sucking between the woman’s legs?

“HEEEEEEEEEELPPPFFFFF! HEEEEEEEEEeeelfffff! Heeeeeeeeeefffffff…!”

His words were losing their strength, his eyes felt like closing, his body sat up without his permission, but he was still laying down. Above him a shadow covered his view of the hotel room, a shadow, the long, long mane of dark hair, flowing like a waterfall of silk.

There was something inside the hair, but it was hard to see it fully.

A smile.

An eye staring back at him, bright yellow and green eyes.

The most devastating sight he had been forced to confront so far… but he couldn’t escape, he couldn’t move, his body no longer belonged to him, everything smelt, everything tasted, everything was…

Salt…

The voice, the woman, spoke and what was left of Max, helplessly bonded by the horror, immediately recognized its tone despite it being the first time he had heard it.

“Gypsy cunt,” was the first thing she said, chuckling gleefully whilst poking Max, she had a melodious voice with a thick Romanian accent. “Gypsy cunt,” she repeated, enjoying the extra emphasis. “This flesh is mine, it will never be given back, because you never owned it to begin with. Every moon from now on you will be put in your place, every moon until the moon no longer fills the sky…” only darkness, the sound of the music vanishing into the distance, the woman’s voice echoing inside his heart. “When treacherous seed will forever seal your fate…

Darkness.

Only darkness.

Then shattering unknown pleasure.

Then back to the darkness.

It wasn’t traffic noise that woke Max up the next morning, but rather the sensation of having something inside his mouth… something flaccid and spongy and… He opened his eyes and found a ginger crotch in front of him and a penis inside his mouth.

“MMmmGHHHGGGG!” he recoiled, spitting out the cock, screaming. “AAAAHHHH!”

That cock belonged to a pale skinned ginger haired man that was laying in the hotel bed with Max, they were in a sixty-nine position and, woken by Max yelling, he had found himself with Max’s large dick right over his face and had also begun to shout. The unlikely pair kept up the screaming competition until Max reacted, spurred on by fear and rage, punched at the ginger’s scrotum, muting him instantly.

Max got up and grabbed the ginger by the scruff of his neck, he dragged his sorry ass to the door and threw him out of the room, also tossing his belongings out into his face shortly afterwards, then closed the door with a slam. Naked in the hotel’s hallway the ginger grabbed his sore ballsack, sobbing on the floor, he would wonder for the rest of his life why what he considered the luckiest night of his life had ended up with him having smashed balls… and what happened to that dangerous bombshell of a woman that seduced him at the pub…

Inside the room Max walked up and down, slapping his forehead, his mind racing trying to puzzle out what was going on, when another feeling, a taste of mint and something rubbery in the back of his throat, made him stop.

He coughed, gurgled, opened his mouth and pulled something from inside.

Swinging in front of his eyes, wet with his saliva was a condom.

A used condom full of cum.

The screaming restarted instantly.

“AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!”

Max threw the condom out of the window and rushed to the bathroom to puke. He cried and kicked and scratched. Anger, frustration.

“Noooooo! It can’t be! NOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

The utter humiliation, the utter defiling of his being.

“Help…! I need help! Dad…!”

He crawled out of the bathroom, shaking uncontrollably from head to toe, and found his phone. There was actually no clue in his head who he could call for help, but it ended up not really mattering much. When he opened the screen his fingers stopped, his eyes opened wide, confronted once again with a horrific omen.

Someone had changed his phone wallpaper.

Someone had changed it to a close up picture of a vagina. A plump white vagina covered in golden pubic hair.

Someone.

The woman.

The damn witch…

Max shook his head.

“No, no!”

Yet seeing that pussy was like looking at his own reflection in the mirror. His lips trembled… someone else's whisper spoken in his voice…

“Gypsy cunt…”

The phone fell from his hand, Max dropped into a fetal position, hugging his body.

“It can’t be…! It can’t be…! This is not happening to me!”

He was so very wrong.

Since that first incident every night afterwards the witch came back to claim what was hers, every night he changed. Every morning he found himself laying by the side of another man, every morning a different flavour of rubber in his mouth.

Cherry, chocolate, vanilla, coke…

Any resistance was futile, any plea just met with cruel chuckles. He wasn’t even permitted to dream anymore. His nights, and soon his life, was just darkness and touch, a vagina’s vigil.

The morning after tasting strawberry a fist knocked on his bedroom’s door.

Rory’s voice came from the other side.

“Max, bro? Are you there?”

When Max opened the door Rory was met with a surprising sight.. The usually pristine Max was a shambles, a three day old beard on his face, gaunt, with bags under his eyes, covering himself with a blanket.

Max pulled Rory in.

“Rory, Rory…” he mumbled, closing the door.

“What happened dude? Are you sick?” Rory looked around at the dishevelled hotel room, there were women's clothes all over the place, underwear. “Have you been having an orgy without me?” he joked jovially.

“I’m cursed!” Max answered.

That claim, despite being spoken with absolute conviction, didn’t dispel any doubts. Rory knew Max well enough, he knew he wasn’t lying and that was even more worrying.

“What do you mean?” Rory slowly asked.

“I’m cursed! I’m cursed!” repeated Max. “ When we went to the castle, that night in the inn, I… peed on her grave…! Now every night, every damn night! She, the woman, the gypsy, the witch, she comes out and… She takes away my body! I change into…”

“Her…?”

“NO! I change into…” Max gulped. “Her vagina! She turns me into her vagina! Into her fucking cunt! She takes my body and I’m her sex and she’s been using me! Using me every night, fucking as if I was just a body part…!”

Max spoke frantically, nodding. Rory frowned.

“You’re…” Rory mumbled, struggling to follow what he was hearing. “You’re a were-pussy?”

Max didn’t like that, he grabbed Rory by the collar of his shirt.

“You think it’s funny?!”

Rory realised that beneath the blanket Max was nude, a flaccid penis wiggling around near his crotch. He also noticed something else, something slightly odd on top of what was an already weird situation, Max now had a bush of pubic hair around his cock, a bush of deep black pubes in contrast with the blonde shade on his head. The phallus and the ballsack also seem to be of a darker skin tone.

“I don’t know…!” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “Put yourself in my shoes, man, you’re throwing a lot at me right now!”

Max shook him.

“She uses me! Every night she finds some guy to fuck and they fuck me! They fill me with their cock and I feel her pleasure and she cums and…!”

“Does it feel good?”

The shakedown stopped, Max remained silent a few seconds, his face grew red, he bit his lips.

“That’s not what matters!” he yelled.

Rory nodded scared.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“You don’t believe me!”

“Even if I did believe you, what do you want me to do?”

“Help me!”

“How? You peed in a grave and now you turn into a twat, how am I supposed to help?”

“Stop her! Stop her from using me!”

“And how…”

“Rope,” Max declared. “We’re going to need rope!”

A plan was set in motion.

Good quality rope was bought, and then they waited for the end of the day to come. When the orange sky began to darken Max lay on the bed, completely naked. Rory firmly tied him by the wrists and the ankles, Max's muscular body was spread into a cross.

“Tighter!” Max ordered.

“If I tie it any tighter it’s gonna cut off your circulation.”

“I don’t care! Remember,” said the bonded man. “Remember, it doesn’t matter what she does or what she says, don’t let her fuck with me anymore!”

“Sure, whatever you say boss…” Rory sighed.

After Max was securely tied down Rory stepped back and went to take a look out of the windows. The taint of the night had claimed the sky, a half-moon smile appeared through the clouds, the changes and the screams began anew, just like every night, but this time with a witness in the room.

Rory was taken by surprise by the sudden outburst of yelling, he rushed to the bed.

“Max! Max!”

“AAAAAAAAAARGH!”

Max twisted and coiled on top of the mattress, pulling the ropes that tied him down. His muscles tensed, his cock was erect. Rory's expression gradually turned pale as he saw the transformation in action. The screaming, the snapping and popping, sounds that became background noise as he became incapable of denying the sight before his own eyes.

His focus was stuck on Max’s genitalia, feeling like the mutation was happening in his own crotch, the same sensation that chills those with a dick when they see someone else getting kicked in the crotch. The prince’s penis swelled, round and wide, like a balloon, before being engulfed by the dark pubes that flowed and spread, growing into a large untamed mane. The balls had also swollen hugely, almost as much as that phallus, the pair slid down and separated, two orbs of tender smooth flesh, thick nipples in the centre of small areola sprouted on each.

Breasts.

Boobs.

A tempting pair of tits.

The dark tanned skin spreaded from the former-crotch, conquering the white without any opposition. Then up turned down, the down became up, the anguished male into a sensually sweaty female.

As the man diminished, the moaning of the woman eclipsed the fading cries of pain.

Rory gulped.

Then a squishy shout caught his attention.

“DON LEFFFF HEFFF FFFFFFCUK MEEFFFFFFFFFF!” groaned the blonde vagina on top of the bed. “DONFFFFFFH LEEEEEEE FFFFFFUUUUUKKKK MEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeffffffhhhhhhhhhhhfllllshhhhhhhh…”

Max’s voice died into a vaginal wheeze.

The plump pale pussy spread, spitted some sex juice and stopped, remaining motionless.

In mere minutes the transformation is over. It began abruptly, but ends with a slow slumber. A woman tied upside down lay on the bed, purring in pleasure until she realises she’s bound by wrists and ankles.

She pulls at the ropes, then looks at Rory and chuckles.

“You, lackey, is this it? Is this the best my cunt could think of?”

It takes Rory a while to bolster the courage to answer.

“Who are you?” he asks.

She chuckled again, a sharp laugh that could pierce hearts.

“I won’t spoil this tale, lackey. If you want to know my name, my past, you will have to dig through the pages of history,” she speaks as if she was retelling a perpetual riddle. “But let me tell you, it would be wiser for you to step back from the narrative at this point, but you aren’t wise and you will not…” she grabbed the ropes. “And that will be my cunt’s sweet bane…!”

Her nails glow darkly, a flash from her palms, smoke, a snap.

Heat cuts the knots cleanly, the woman sits on the bed, calmly removing her bonds.

“Stop…!” Rory wanted to sound authoritative, but it barely managed to come out as pleading.

“Stop or what?”

Rory didn’t have an answer for that. The woman untied herself and looked back at the lackey. She had the appearance of posing while measuring the only man left in the room, not worried or ashamed, an aura of dominance. Her mane of black curls was long and wide, big enough to seem as if she was perpetually wearing a dark dress or a dark cloak over her shoulders. Somehow her hair always covered half her face, if not all of it, in a shadow that only allowed the wild glow of her yellowish green eyes to be seen.

Smooth dark bronze skin that possessed its own inner warmth.

Her face was sharp, with a prominent nose and chin, her eyebrows were thick and fuzzy. She was tall, spectacularly tall, her limbs too were very, very long, giving her an incredible reach. Those fingers and the long nails on her hand match the length of the rest of her body and at the end of her lengthy legs her feet were also big. She was fit, athletic, with well toned muscles, the curve of her breasts was enough to make a man salivate, thick dark nipples with small areola. There was only one patch of discordance on her body, the patch of white skin on her crotch, the golden blond pubic hair and the plump tight vagina.

The woman didn’t have to make any effort to display her supernatural nature, it just irradiated from her… the menacing pressure of a predator…

She stood on the bed, her eyes still on Rory, who was trembling, feeling equally scared and horny. Her head touching the ceiling, her size would dwarf many men, perhaps all men, and that without doubt including Max. She passes a hand through her blonde pubes, Rory stared directly at her sex and thought: “What other hope could he have other than to be her cunt…?”

Rory clenched his fist, looked at the floor, mumbled something…

“Louder,” demanded the woman.

“You’re beautiful…” he muttered.

The woman gave a single chuckle, then jumped gracefully off the bed, rubbed Rory’s head as if he was a dog.

“You’re a sweet coward, lackey.”

She kneels down, searching amongst the women’s clothes spread around the room, she shakes her wonderfully firm buttocks in front of Rory's face, her twat squeezed between her thighs. Shortly after that she found what she was looking for, a pair of white panties.

“Y-You can’t leave…” Rory babbled.

The woman put one leg into the underwear, followed by the other, pulled it up and once she reached her crotch continued pulling, using her thumbs to stretch the panties elastic waistband.

“You can’t stop me,” she said confidently, the fabric of the panties pressed forcefully against her vagina, the contours of the shivering pussy visible through the cloth. “My cunt, my coochie, it hears, it knows, your weak impotence, your feeble attempts at restraining me…” she pulled further, stronger, moaning. “The inevitable conclusion of the borrowed time that allowed its assumption of manhood… It makes it wet because it is me and mine!” a stain of moisture formed in the fabric.

The panties waistband slipped from the tips of her thumbs, the loud slap of them on the flesh woke Rory from the spell.

“You have to stay…!” he begged the woman who continued ignoring him, picking up a simple white dress from the floor. “We could… play cards…” that silly request truly caught the woman’s attention.

Whilst buttoning up her dress she glanced towards the guy, curious and impressed. Towering over Rory she leant forward, Rory closed his eyes… She kissed him on the forehead.

“We will play cards on another moon. Don’t stay up too late, lackey, and don’t you dare be in my room when I get back.”

With that the woman left barefooted.

Rory stood still, still holding his breath for as long as he could.

“Fuck!” he gasped. “Fuck!”

The cycle continued.

Next morning Max and Rory were in the hotel bedroom, sitting in comfy chairs, facing each other. Max was only wearing jeans. The pair were deflated in their seats, spread like crumbling pudding, silently staring into nothing.

Max’s fingers squeezed the arms of his chair.

“We could play cards?” he said reproachfully and with obvious raw resentment.

Rory hadn’t slept all night, he had waited, sitting in the hallway like a loyal dog obeying his mistress. The woman had petted him on the head when she came back with her final prey, a drunken Indian looking guy who had left before morning. Rory didn’t enter the room until he heard Max’s angry screams.

“I couldn’t think of anything better…” Rory replied.

“You didn’t even try!”

“You haven’t stood front of… her!”

“I’m in that bitch’s fucking crotch!”

“My point stands…!” Rory slid lower in his seat. “She’s…” he muttered. “She’s… beyond… I could barely look at her…”

“Beautiful, you said she was beautiful, you bastard!”

“She is beautiful…”

“I don’t care! Don’t you understand? She’s ruining my life! We have to find a way to stop this!”

Rory had a hard time looking at Max’s face, he just took short glances so as to not remember the golden pubes and the vaginal lips.

“It is… really that bad, to be a vagina?”

Max's words failed, he opened and closed his mouth a few times, breathlessly, blushing, then slammed his fist down on the chair’s arm.

“It doesn’t matter! I don’t care how good it feels! Be my guest, let her turn you into her damn pussy! I’m not a cunt! I am a fucker!” he hit his abs like a gorilla. “I am a man! I am THE man! We have to fix this NOW!”

He tried to sound defiant, manly, but after his last outburst the two of them fell back into silence.

“We are as blind as you are between her legs…” Rory said after a while with a detached tone. “We need information, who is she? What is she…”

Max answered almost immediately.

“She’s a witch.”

“How do you know?”

How did he know? Her chuckle inside Max’s head, her taunt, because you are my cunt…

Max shook his head.

“I just know.”

Rory nodded.

“Well… that’s not enough, we need more… and I have just one guess where we may find it…”

That cliched scene from a tale about horrific curses in which the damned protagonists go in search of clues to untangle the mystery tormenting their lives is cliched for a reason.

You don’t have many options when confronting the unknown.

They didn’t go to any random library, Rory had a better suggestion: Max’s heritage, the old books at the old castle. There they had a better chance of finding the information they sought, after all, the traveller’s tomb was very near.

It took half a day plus an extra one hour’s trip to reach the small country town near the castle, it took them nearly three days to make the journey. Three days, three more nights of irremediable sex and transformation in which Rory didn’t even dare to confront the witch. But they made it, they arrived at the castle, searched the dusty tomes of the library and found the information.

Sour knowledge.

A magickal prophecy.

In a final corner of the last shelf was a book hidden behind a decrepit bust and covered in fine cloth. It was a book about regional folklore, local fairy tales and with a dark ancient account of events long forgotten perhaps written in the mediaeval ages.

Tales about princesses being turned into frogs.

Swan songs about queens becoming swans.

Huntresses into bears or does.

Farmers joining the ranks of their livestock.

Spinster bleating like goats.

Spiteful mothers in law petrified as garden decorations.

The recurring element to all those stories was the narrator telling them, the storytelling witch, a gentle giant figure travelling from place to place teaching lessons with her rhymes.

Malicenta was her name.

Malicenta Donaflor.

Tales with a whimsical vibe until a grim twist in the very last chapter, after a tale about a noblewoman finding herself in the kennels.

Dark clouds, conflict, violence and persecution, a landlord who shared Max’s surname desired the witch, but the witch had no desire for such bonds. The landlord gathered his guards, chased and chained the gentle witch and used the excuse of the church to sentence her.

The last two pages -  one containing an horrific drawing of a tall shadowy woman figure being burned at the stake, smoke and flames covering her nude form, her undying anger impregnating the black ink.

“That’s her…” Rory mumbled, while he and Max read the book side by side.

The other page was the witch’s last words, spoken as she burnt.

“Men’s time will forget this defaming offence, but Sensualith’s grace shall always remember! The ending of my story is not ash, landlord, you will die forever haunted by this act and once enough moons pass the morning light will witness my return as your bloodline concludes as my cunt!”

Rory slowly put the book down.

“It’s your fate to be her vagina…” he said.

Max immediately punched Rory in the face hard enough to make the poor lackey drop to the floor. The enraged prince flees from the library, going to the lord’s main bedroom and locking himself in.

Fire crackled in the fireplace and a storm gathering in the distance.

The night was near.

Max stripped himself naked and pushed a large throne like chair in front of an enormous mirror.

He sat confronting the glass.

Between his legs his dormant penis rests.

Dark skinned and with dark pubes.

Once his pride and joy, now just a black rod attached to his body.

“You’re just my cock!” Max shouted at the flaccid flesh whilst grabbing it. “Your plan is going to backfire!” he laughed maniacally, pumping his penis. “You will be the one that ends up as MY sex, you stupid hag! Look at yourself in the mirror! You are my cock! MY COCK! I am a man!” the man screamed as his hand pumped faster and faster, concentrating all of his strength on the masturbatory action. “I am a man! I A M A MAN!”

His shout accompanied the thunder that broke the sky, he clenched eyes and teeth as the rain slapped against the windows. Max put in all his effort and might, he groaned, his wrist hurt but he didn’t stop, he didn’t stop until he couldn’t pump any further.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”

And yet… that dick remained cold in his hand, flabby and weak and cold like death.

Lightning illuminated the room.

Max fell back into the seat, gasping, exhausted.

His penis throbbed in his palm, it shook.

Malicenta.

Her laughter.

Echoing around the walls.

“Rebellious little vagina, do you really think a cunt has any chance to impose its will on its owner? That’s why your cock no longer feels, you are no man!” the thunder roars. “That’s why you see no future going forward, I will live for many more tales, you will rest in my underwear, pussy! It would be easier if you accepted that simple truth, but this I admit is much more fun.”

Max didn’t need to look around to find the source of the voice. It wasn’t in his head but right in front of her eyes. In the mirror Malicenta was the one sitting in the chair and he was nowhere to be seen.

Malicenta was no reflection.

She moved with her own volition, as she sat crossing her long legs.

It was the first time Max had come face to face with the mistress of its existence, a sensual feminine figure composed of flaming shadows. The sight left him breathless, his brain couldn’t avoid agreeing…

The witch was indeed beautiful.

“No need for you to swear it, pussy,” Malicenta chuckled. “Your thoughts are mine.”

“F-Fuck you! LEAVE MY BODY!”

“It’s not yours.”

Malicenta opened her legs, inside the mirror her groin matched the rest of her body, her original vagina, it was flabbier… no plump pale skin or golden pubes… Max grew tense when he saw it, tense with anger and envy.

His penis hardened.

It was wrong

It was wrong to remain a man instead of nestling as a cunt in that crotch.

Lightning.

“NOOOOOOO! GET OUT OUT OF MY HEAD!”

“It’s not fair to accuse me of being the cause of all your torments, it’s by your own doing that you have the thoughts of a sex hole,” she pokes her clit with the tip of a nail and her vulva and the area around it quickly reforms into their proper form, plump and white and covered with blonde pubes.

“I have done nothing to deserve this!”

“Oh, do you want to plead innocence? You cannot deceive your owner, little pussy, I know many tales and I know your tale. All the women that you trick into having sex…”

“They enjoy it!”

“So do you, cunt, but what about the one you got drunk and pregnant… Did she enjoy it too? Wasn’t she your lackey’s beloved? You could have been a man when she asked for what was fair, but it was much easier to push her down the stairs. That is why nothing of worth is lost when your fate is met. Some will surely say you’ve got it too good, a pussy is devoid of blame.”

Max stood up.

“I WILL KILL YOU!”

“No, no you will not, in fact rather the contrary.”

Malicenta raises a hand, lines it up with the delusional man’s head, her nails glow and she smoothly spins her wrist, as if she was turning down an invisible dial. As the motion of the hand flows Max follows, his head rotates over itself while his face quickly shifts into the vagina he’s meant to be. His body drops onto elbows and slams the floor as everything transforms around his crotch.

The cunt gurgles completely emasculated.

In the mirror the witch stands and smiles.

Outside the storm rages.

In the town near the castle, in a backroom of the inn, the inn’s maiden moaned in pleasure. Malicenta had arrived, soaked head to toe, wearing only a shirt so wet it was transparent. The maiden should have been scared in front of such a force of nature, but the witch had easily seduced her.

“This last night I have a taste for the female,” has been all the explanation the witch had given.

They hug and kiss and lick.

Malicenta allowed the maiden to corner her against the wall.

Guided by lust, the maiden travelled down the witch’s body, kneeling in front of her hips. She raises the damp cloth, the blonde pubes shine, sparkling with rain water before her eyes.

“It is yours tonight,” Malicenta told her, fondly petting her head. “Yours to do with as you please.”

The maiden blew, nudged, rubbed, groped, pressing those vaginal lips together.

Then she leaned forward and placed a sucking kiss on the cunt.

Thunder reverberated in the distance.

The witch filled in for the missing moans, sliding down the wall as she enjoyed that particular kind of tender sex that only women can share.

Her cunt melting away in the maiden’s mouth.

Lightning.

Daylight.

Max didn’t wake up until well past midday. Laying naked on the floor, sore and cranky and wishing for nothing more than to rest inside a pair of cotton panties, he only came back from the oniric world because his phone was ringing incessantly. He picked up the phone only to receive more terrible news.

His dad had died last night from a heart attack.

He was the last to carry his surname.

Still only half-awake his brain could barely assimilate that information… The world grew silent around him, but the echo of Malicenta’s chuckles reached his ears. The prince threw the phone on the floor, the vagina frozen forever more freezed on the cracked screen.

With diligent determination he dresses and goes to pick up the tools.

Shovels and a sledgehammer.

Then he went to look for Rory and found him in the kitchen. The lackey’s left eye was still swollen shut by a purple bruise. Max didn’t even say sorry, he just pushed one of the shovels into Rory’s chest and declared.

“We're ending this now!”

The traveller’s tomb…

The first time it had seemed like an accident, but now Max had no issue walking back to that gravestone, it was as if their steps were being guided by fate. Rory followed him closely, carrying the tools, his pleas for them to just leave fell on deaf ears.

Sledgehammer in hand Max stood in front of the stone.

“You think I am a pussy?!” he shouted. “THEN SUCK ON THIS!”

With all his might he strikes the gravestone with the hammer, smashing it into rocks, he keeps swinging until rubble is all that remains. Putting the hammer aside he grabs a shovel, giving the other to his lackey.

“Dig!” was his barked order.

The two men get to work, pulling up the grass and lifting the soil.

It didn't take them long to uncover the linen cloth bound by rusty iron chains.

Malicenta was denied even the dignity of a casket, just a bag of cheap cloth, which raised the question: Where did the gravestone come from?

Max didn’t care, he jump in

“Please, bro, let’s just leave,” Rory begs.

“Shut up, coward!”

The prince tears open the cloth, revealing the witch’s skull, black scorched bone. He laughs insanely, unzips his pants, pulls his flaccid penis out and shows the skull to it.

“This is you! This is all you are, hag! Forgotten trash!” He lifts the shovel over his head. “You don’t even exist!”

“Max, no!” cries Rory.

The flat head of the shovel aimed to hit its mark, but instead landed on the soil when the skull exploded before even being touched. A black cloud of ash and bonedust surrounds Max, he swings his arms around, coughing, climbing out of the hole, but can’t escape the dusty shroud.

“LEAVE ME! LEAVE ME!” the man screams, rolling around on the grass as the dust chews his clothes into nothing, stripping him fully nude once again as if he never had had the right to wear cloth.

From the dust a skeleton forms above Max.

Rory drops to his knees.

A woman’s laughter echoes, followed by Malicenta's phantasmagoric voice.

“Bound bone by bone the up becomes down and the down goes back up!” the skeleton merges with Max’s body, the bone dust penetrates his skin, the skeletal hand enters his feet… those feet are hands…

A bony crotch drifts towards his head.

“Noooo! Noooo!”

“Bone by bone we become one!” Malicenta gloats triumphantly. “And in one there’s only ME!”

The dust is no more.

Max is left down on all fours, coughing and snorting, squeezing the grass, covered in sweat, a throbbing erection.

“It’s not night yet…” he groans. “It’s not night yet, bitch, you can’t… come out if it isn't hhhhhhh!”

Changes began to contort his body even in the sunlight, one of his legs twisted over itself, quickly reforming into an arm and a hand that aimed up and grabbed at the air as if it was pulling the skies. Clouds rotate, darkness comes, a mantle of shining void replaces the surrounding empyrean, never before seen stars and bright pink moons.

A witch’s laughter.

“What’s going on!” screams a panicking Rory.

“HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” cried Max.

His lower body was completely out of his control as he rolled around, struggling to regain what he deludedly thought belonged to him. Malicenta rebuilt herself in the flesh, her mane, her head, her arms, her breasts.

Rory stared at the struggling entity on the floor, an unreal sight, one half of the body the torso of a woman, the other the torso of a man. Attached right in the middle, trapped in a conflict for the victory of a singular true self.

A conflict the witch was certain to win.

Max’s arms became her legs, he did all he could to resist, but that wasn’t much. The existence of the man diminishing as the soft bronze skin of the witch took over the white of the once prince unopposed.

“NOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOO!” he shook his head and pulled with his neck to no avail. “Rory! Rory, you stupid bastard! Stop looking! Help me! Stop her! KILL HER!”

Malicenta leaned back, crossing her arms behind her head, enjoying her body.

She spread her legs.

“Fuck me, lackey,” she said, winking at Rory with her only visible eye. “Love me.”

Rory was on his knees, trembling, immobile….

He pulled down his pants and began to crawl towards his desire.

Max became pale when he saw his bro’s cock out and erect.

“Don’t you dare!” he yells as his head spun over itself one final time, leaving it in line with the rest of the crotch. “You dimwitted coward! Don’t you dare! Cuckless virgin good for nothing! Stop! STOFFFFFF THIFFFFF RIGHT NOFFFF!”

His neck sinks into the pelvis, lips folding into vaginal folds, the vulva shaping around a toothless mouth that barks impotently with a clit and pubes on top.

A cunt with eyes to witness the bane of itself.

The lackey mounted the witch, the witch hugged and fondled the nape of his neck.

“Love me,” she repeated, also hugging his lover with her legs. “Fuck me, fill me with your true man’s seed!”

Rory grabs her hips, readies his cock, and looks down.

At the pussy opening and closing, and eyes going crazy with despair.

“Nofffffff! Ftooffffffff fleafffff, fleafffffff! Lefffff meeeeh fffffffffiiii a fffuffffffyyy! I fiffff feeefff fooooog fufffyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”

The lackey gulps.

“I’m sorry bro… you just look too cute as a snatch…”

“NOFFFFFFFFFFGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHLLLLLLL!”

The folds of that cunt spread as the penis slowly penetrates, stuffing his carnal innards, forever silencing a voice that might as well have never been there. Rory groaned, it was hot and wet and so, so, so damn good.

Witch and lackey embraced each other in sex, she hugs his waist with her long fingers, helping to ease the motion of the tender thrusts gradually increasing in speed as their shared moans and gasps increase in volume.

In her groin the eyes of the gypsy’s cunt suffocated, staring at the large penis between them, pumping them full, tearing them apart with pleasure. They roll blankly and are sealed shut and gone.

“Yes! YES!”

Malicenta opens and raises a hand, dark flame in her palm, it blurs and forms into a shape. A tiny projection of the man her vagina pretends to be, a naked Max floating between her fingers, screaming silently and masturbating.

The tiny pathetic phantasm of a man twists and contorts gracelessly in the witch’s palm, forcefully tucked over its own form until only a sphere remains… a sphere with a vagina in the middle, a pussy-ball being clearly fucked by an invisible phallus…

Rory gives his all, tears slide down his cheeks.

“I love…!” he gurgles before being interrupted by Malicenta’s passionate kiss.

Around the friction of the penetrating cock the white skin of the pussy, the little that remains, grows tanned to match the surrounding area. The blonde pubes turn black one by one.

The speed was at his limit.

“GGngood goddessssssss!”

One last push, all the way in, so deep his balls slapped against the skin.

An orgasmic release.

Sperm overflows.

Rory collapses exhausted on the witch’s sweaty chest, his shivering dick slowly goes flaccid and slips out of a vagina full of cum.

“Shhhhhhhh,” whispers Malicenta, petting his head. “You did better than good, go to sleep now…”

The lackey obeys, mumbling in the slumber, falling from one dream to the next.

Malicenta left him sleeping and got up.

Birds shining, the sun high in the sky.

The grave was gone, in its place a bush of poison ivy, the tombstone was just rock and pebbles on the ground. Grass felt amazing between her toes. She walked away from the darkness, standing before tomorrow's horizon, hugging her body and chuckling.

A quick glance down at her crotch revealed that a single lock of blonde remains in the middle of her black pubic bush. Malicenta smiled, tangled one of her long fingers around that lock and plucked it with a single firm pull that reverberated in the plump vulva of her vagina.

“I don’t need pretenders,” she said, letting the wind take the last few golden hairs.

The witch stood up tall, spreading her arms and legs, welcoming the morning’s light over her nude body. Hers and only hers.

She closed her eyes and proclaimed:

“Praise be the Mother Muse!”

Some weeks later a plane crossed those blue skies, leaving the British lands.

A gorgeous woman going by the name of Mala, Mala Malicenta, was travelling on that plane. She dressed like someone rich and famous, wearing sunglasses, her hair always covering half her face, a radiating otherworldly presence taking over the mundane, yet her seat was in economy class, where she was sharing a friendly chat with a granny who was on a trip to visit her grandchildren. During her long absence the world had grown quite different, planes, phones, canned food, synthetic clothes…

One of the cabin crew, a male one, passed close to Mala’s seat. Mala, quick to react, grabbed him by the bow tie and gently pulled his head close to her mouth.

“My pussy needs some licking,” her lips whispered sensually. “Could you go to the bathroom in five minutes and help poor old me with that?”

Mala released the steward, he nodded, looking very red and very sweaty before leaving. The witch crossed her long legs satisfied and went back to her conversation with her companion in the next seat.

Yes indeed, the world had changed because life had changed, full of so many new wonders and nightmares to see, and she intended to taste them all…