Hexing belongings (Man into ¿¿?? horror TF tale)

(Man ¿¿??)

It would be beyond absurd to tell you his name, because a dick never has a claim to person-hood.

A son, older brother, father, lover... rapist...

A bad person.

A farmhand.

For a lifetime and two weeks he avoided his fate. For a lifetime until that night at the Red Bill Saloon. Sweaty, drunk and boasting to his pals he hit on that woman, the woman, full of pity and contempt, rejected his advances.

He got angrier, drunker, and followed the woman into the bathroom... tried to force himself inside her... he traded away his whole existence for two pathetic minutes of disgusting and unforgivable behaviour, because she was not just a woman, but was also a witch. A witch able to dictate the future, to tell what he was.

Where he belonged.

“You will learn your place...” hissed the witch with her glowing eyes and nails as the farmhand tried to move backwards with his pants around his knees and his cock, scared flaccid, flapping about. “Learn the lesson! Become the lesson! No man, no person, not even a beast... but the echo of a thought in a beast’s sex!  A penis! That’s all, nothing else, where you belong... HORSE COCK!”

Her sentence.

The farmhand ran away, painful flashes sparkled in his brain, but he couldn’t escape from the burden of the doom and gloom placed upon his flesh.

For two weeks he avoided it, or at least tried to, tormented at first by just the oddest of thoughts, roaming ideas that made his stomach feel empty and heavy.

His cock didn’t get hard anymore, shadows were always hiding in the corners of his eyes. Soon he saw it, the ghost following him, at first it was blurry in the distance, but soon the whisper of clops reached his ears.

Nightmares haunted his dreams, horrific visions that lead to him stiffly rubbing his head against the pillows in a desperate motion as if he wanted to penetrate the cloth with the whole of his body.

The treacherous ideas wired into his mind finally made sense when he saw it.

A phantasmagorical horse.

A ghost stallion.

He was sure it was a male beast despite his ghastly form lacking any phallic organs, having only an empty space between his legs. He was sure, certain to an horrific degree... because that empty space was where his fate awaited, where his flesh belonged...

That thought stiffened his neck, made him unable to catch his breath, made his heart race.

No matter how much he wanted to deny it.

For two weeks the stallion pursued him, even waking him in the middle of the night on top of his bed. He screamed in terror and the equine ghost went away... but it was just a matter of time...

His humanity had an expiry date.

The hex, as was to be expected, eventually caught the pathetic farmhand. For days he lost sleep, gaunt and shaking, scared of every shadow, his penis cold and flaccid despite his attempts at arousing it. He put a lot of effort into his flimsy attempts at denial... in a last attempt he went back to work, to the farm...

His coworkers, the friends that had goaded him to approach the witch, met him with worried looks. He tried unconvincingly to laugh it off. He had a hard day of work until his lunchbreak during which the men sat on the wooden fence around the meadows.

Our sad protagonist had one last cold beer, he hadn’t drunk even half of it when the stallion came to claim what was his, appearing from nowhere in the middle of the grassy field. Everybody was in shock at seeing the ghost, even more so when the farmhand dropped his beer and tried to run one last time, screaming in terror.

It was then that the horse did something it hadn’t done up until then...

“NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIGH!”

His powerful whinny sent a shock wave that bent the grass, made hats fly and blasted the farmhand’s clothes away in a single blow. Now nude in front of his peers the man managed to take a couple of steps before collapsing onto his knees.

He felt a ground nailing pain that held him in place.

The farmhand groaned, pleaded, begged in desperation, but he couldn’t move his place and posture at all. His coworkers might have considered rushing to his aid, but his body, his doomed flesh, began to change and they all froze in terror as they witnessed that twisted spectacle.

He screamed and screamed, his hand scratched in the dirt, his back covered in sweat. Something none of those present have ever heard, the sound of inflating muscle and tissue.

At his rear his ballsack, sore as if a hundred needles were piercing it, began to swell. The skin darkening as his scrotum reached inhuman size.

Equine size.

The darkened balls of a stallion.

But nothing else in his body changed to match the equine and his terrified cock remained limp, even attached to that powerful equipment. In despair he kept pleading for help, for forgiveness.

None was given.

Toes shrunk on his feet and inside him, his entrails started to shift. The whole tract from his colon to his throat contracted, making the farmhand choke and cry. Slowly organ after organ began to shrink around that tube. Stomach, kidneys, lungs, all of them very loudly diminished as his body turned into that tubular shape.

He felt the pull even in his neurons.

Veins swelled too, marking his skin.

With his gaunt eyes he stared at the witnesses, blame and spiteful insults were shouted with a gurgling voice that sounded mockingly rough as the farmhand’s neck stiffened.

Bones cracked, twisting in impossible ways, legs atrophied. The sad excuse for a man put his face against the ground, crying in pain.

They were so focused on the horrific transformation, on those denigrating and hard to understand mutations, that they had almost forgotten the apparition that had put this whole nightmare process in motion.

But the stallion was still there and he made his presence known, perhaps annoyed that people were paying more attention to his junk than to him.

“NeeeeeiiIIIIiigh!”

He no longer passed unnoticed and his watchers noticed something - that at the same time as the naked farmhand on the ground had changed the ghost’s outline had become more clear-cut.

More detailed, no longer a misty blur, but a solid thing.

Living, fleshy, real...

The farmhand shook his head in complete panic.

The stallion began to clop towards him at a decently imposing pace.

The coworkers at first thought the worst, that the horse was going to mount the farmhand as a mare... but then they noticed the lack of genitalia on the stallion... along with the phallic shape the farmhand’s body seemed to be agonizingly slowly acquiring...

And they understood that their first thought wasn’t bad enough...

A life as a brood mare would have been too good for him.

Their pal’s fate was worse than worse.

The farmhand’s rear was darkening as if his gigantic ballsack was consuming everything below his waist. The shadow of the stallion covered him.

A sturdy hoof landed on  each side of his head.

He couldn’t even drag himself away, his neck was so bulky that even moving the head was hard. Those legs could very well have been the bars of a prison, the delimitation of the confines that his existence was going to be forever cruelly reduced to.

A horse’s cock.

Whilst he was having trouble thinking rationally, his degenerating brain had those words, that virile image, vividly burned in every contemplative thought, as if nothing else existed beyond it.

He moaned and complained, still asking for any possible help. His flaccid cock began to fuse with the skin of his belly, soon looking just like any other vein in his stretching skin.

Against his will, as everything else happened to him, his rear rose up, buttocks spread, seeking an attachment. His lizard brain tried to rationalize that if he was about to become an equine penis no matter what, being a dick without a crotch, a shivering detached chunk of cock meat on the grass, would probably lead to death.

Between the stallion’s legs was where he belonged.

It didn’t make him feel any happier.

Never had the farmhand screamed so hard.

And never would he again.

Some of his coworkers covered their mounts in disgust. The stallion bent his back legs, lowered his rear.

Horse crotch and deformed rear met.

There was a sucking noise and then the flesh sealed.

The stallion snorted, satisfied, and stood up... and the farmhand-cock was effortlessly dragged along. The beast swung his tail, enjoying the weight of his new organ.

Between his legs what remained of the farmhand kept screaming with a failing voice. Whilst his legs had greatly diminished into the forming shaft of the scrotum, he could still flap his arms around and so he did just that.

He tried to scratch his owner’s belly, hold himself onto the grass, do anything as if anything could save him from the dickish ending of his tale. His mind didn’t have any more time to think straight, full panic was mixed with the primal simplified meandering that might pass for what a penis would wonder if it had the right to a brain or a persona.

Many more times he shouted no, many more he denied to be what he was.

His owner’s answer was to stand up tall and contract his muscles, as if he was showing dominance to the farmhand, to the cock, teaching such a noisy rebellious penis that he was now a thing that belonged to him.

An organ and little more.

The farmhand’s panic and horror exploded as the electric order sent by the stallion became rule and dogma. There was no hope of arguing against it or resistance.

His whole body stiffened forward and rose up.

A compulsion to jerk forward that felt similar to puking.

But the next thing to come out of his mouth would not be puke. His mind was flooded by a vision of gallons of sperm, a white ocean of warm equine seed.

When he felt the salty taste at the back of his throat he groaned loudly between his tears... the stallion contracted his muscles again, making the cock cough as his whole head cracked forward, half of it deforming into the club end of a horse’s cock.

He made the mistake of grabbing his sore neck and that hand merged with the skin, fusing. His other arm was forced backwards and also began to be consumed by the phallic torso.

The stubs of what were once his feet shook in sorrow above that heavy scrotum.

Bones disintegrated inside him, consumed and recycled by the metamorphosis into nutrients for the horse. Whilst on the outside you could still maybe say that superficially the stallion’s penis vaguely reminded of a twisted man, on his inside he felt the weight of how much further he had been exiled from the concept of humanity.

Not much left.

His organs were now insignificant, a small heart and a pair of even smaller lungs attached to a pair of tubes. The urethra and the cum tube. Mostly just muscles and  nerves, his head gaining the shape of a massive gland.

And a brain so compressed that he couldn’t even remember his name.

Nor his work.

Or life.

Just a cock... a cock that hated itself...

One of the farmhands, despite his companions’ warnings, had approached the stallion, getting closer to that deformity between the beast’s back legs.

He approached slowly and saw the thing... the penis looked at him with pleading eyes. The farmhand tried to reach him with his hand.

For a third and last time the stallion jerked off and this time nothing stopped it.

The guy fell back on his butt.

The cock closed his eyelids, gurgled something similar to a no, opened his mouth wide and that first powerful shot of pre-cum came out of those testicles and splashed the grass.

He tried to speak to the farmhand, to beg once more, but his words were a gurgling incoherent mess, babbling insanity that he coughed out as saliva and cum dripped from his lips.

On the ground the farmhand frantically shuffled backwards on his butt.

Above that penis the stallion snorted, sneezed, sniffed... the mares weren’t even close to the area where this bizarre scene of transformation was devolving, but it was enough for the male horse.

The heart of the beast began to beat and the shards of humanity remaining in his cock despaired. The dick came to the realization that he had barely any control left of his existence, the beating of the cock made him grow erect, he could barely wiggle himself, firmly nailed in the place where he belonged.

Sorrow and anger motivated the man-made-penis’s last stand, but it only made the certain diminishment of his flesh an even quicker ordeal.

Screaming with a pitiful voice he shook as much as he could.

He shook and wiggled his phallic form as the last remnants of his features vanished into smoothness. The scrotum fully formed, one of his eyes closed as his head pushed further into the gland and never opened again.

The stallion whinnied in excitement as his cock’s struggles turned into masturbatory pleasure for him.

Several times the cock hit the fur on the horse’s belly and the horse allowed him to rub against it. The skin of his cock was hardening and turning a vivid pinkish red, losing any remaining traces of hair.

Once those last moments of change occurred the already gruesome symphony of the metamorphosis reached a disturbing peak.

The cock seemed to be trying everything and more to tear himself apart even if it would cost him his life.

And yet, the stallion’s groin was his place, a right that seemed defined at a point that could have been said was from birth.

It couldn’t breathe, had no hearing, nor a rational brain.

The screaming mouth shrunk into a vertical slit.

The tiny eye that remained on the cock’s head looked at the farmhand, gurgled out a final mashup of grunts that were intended to be words.

For years to come the farmhand would be tormented by wondering what were those last words the cock spoke, but he would never figure it out.

Powerful and potent the stallion rose up on his hindquarters, shook his front hooves.

“NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIGH!”

The eye on the gland was sealed.

With blasting strength he came, a large splat of cum in which would later be found the fillings of the man his cock used to be.

Landing back down on all fours the stallion shook his head, waved his tail. Between his legs the dripping penis grew flaccid and the shaft slowly retracted like some sort of fat shy worm.

But it would be a mistake to give any agency to that penis, to pretend it was a separate entity from the horse. It was just an organ, an organ that belonged to the stallion, considering it as anything else was nothing but an absurdity.

Surrounding the masculine beast a few sweaty humans stared in frozen terror at the equine creature.

So pale they seemed to have aged years in mere minutes.

The stallions, as was obvious, didn’t much care, the pleasurable orgasms still vibrated along his nerves, his scrotum was trembling, and his mind was only thinking about getting some water and food and the mares that he would certainly mate with in the near future.