A Transformation Most Magical

Bratch and the unfortunate transformation

Chapter One: ???? In Which Bratch Makes Everything Worse (Again)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young wizard in possession of a troublesome spell must be in want of a closet to perform it in.

In Bratch Thimbleglen's case, the "closet" was in fact a dusty, half-forgotten summoning chamber at the top of the west spire of Flimpwick College for the Arcane Arts.

The door had three padlocks, two magical seals, and a notice pinned to it reading:

"UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES!"

"Seriously. DON'T."

This, naturally, made it the most irresistible room in the entire college. But still no one had dared.

But then no one was a desperate as Bratch was right now.

Bratch stood before the heavy oak door now, shivering a little despite the layers of wizard robe he'd wrapped around himself like a cocoon. His wand--a second-hand number made from hawthorn, slightly singed at the tip--shook in his hand.

"Right," he muttered in his soft feminine voice. "Simple. In, summon demon, fix... all this."

By this, he meant the soft curve of his wide waist, the pert swells on his chest, and the cascade of curly red hair that refused to stay pinned beneath his wizards hat. He tugged it down again and sighed.

The spell had been supposed to make him more attractive to girls. Instead, it had made him look like one of the girls he used to sketch in the margins of his spellbook--complete with rose-pink cheeks, high cheekbones, and a flirtatious cute little upturned nose. The sort of face, in short, that he might have fallen in love with himself... if it weren't staring back at him from the mirror.

And that was just the face. As for the body...

It wasn't fair. Bratch had never been what you'd call suave, or confident, or remotely capable of speaking in the presence of women without turning the colour of an overripe tomato. Girls were, to Bratch, ethereal creatures--smelling of jasmine soap and ink, tossing their hair in ways that made his brain short-circuit. They were terrifyingly elegant and effortlessly cool, while Bratch--who once panicked and bowed when a girl asked him to pass the salt--clearly was not.

From the age of thirteen onward, his crushes had taken on a sort of tragic, operatic quality. He fell hard, often, and always in secret.

There was Amelie Grunthwaite, who could levitate three apples at once and had a laugh that nearly made Bratch walk into a lamppost.

There was Zinnie Bellpepper, whose hair was always artfully windswept and who wore her cloak like a cape.

And then there was Fenella--tall, poised, and utterly uninterested in anyone who wasn't at least a Level Four Sorcerer with a good jawline and a dragon-hunting hobby.

He never spoke to any of them. He couldn't. His tongue had a habit of tying itself in elaborate sailor's knots whenever he tried. He once rehearsed a compliment for Zinnie in front of the mirror for two weeks and, when the moment finally came, accidentally told her she had "the nostrils of a competent badger." She hadn't spoken to him since. Bratch still had nightmares about it.

So he watched from afar, sketched their likenesses in his notebooks, and dreamed--quietly, desperately--of one day being the kind of boy they might notice. The kind who didn't squeak when asked a question. The kind whose robe sleeves didn't drape into his porridge. The kind with shoulders instead of coat hangers, a voice that didn't crack on the letter S, and--ideally--a chin that could be described as dashing rather than barely present.

He'd tried everything. Styling potions. Posture spells. One time, he even attempted a confidence charm, which only resulted in him loudly announcing his bowel habits in the dining hall. (He had, in fact, been very regular that week. The entire school knew.)

But nothing worked.

Until the spellbook.

He hadn't meant to find it. It was stuffed behind a pile of ancient prophecy scrolls in his father's private library, bound in thick, scaly leather and sealed with a clasp shaped like a demon yawning.

It whispered to him--not literally, but it might as well have. It felt important. Dangerous. And therefore, possibly effective.

The spell was written in curlicue script, with several marginal notes--most of which were warnings, but Bratch didn't read Old Demonic, and he'd been too excited to care. It promised transformation. Beauty. Charisma. It said: Be desired.

Bratch had whispered those words to himself over and over as he drew the chalk circle. Be desired. Not just be seen, not just be liked--but wanted.

For someone who had spent his formative years being overlooked, snorted at, and once physically used as a stepladder by a taller student, the promise was too intoxicating to ignore.

The transformation started subtly: a tingling at his fingertips and toes. Then warmth flooding his core, like he'd swallowed a sunbeam with opinions about fashion. His spine straightened with a series of gentle pops. His ribs shifted inward, cinching his waist into an elegant hourglass. Panic set in as his hips creaked outward, reshaped like clay under invisible hands.

His face, once round and freckled like a peeled potato left in the sun, lifted and refined. His cheekbones surged upward; his chin narrowed. His eyebrows arched with alarming grace. He watched helplessly in the mirror as long lashes fluttered over luminous eyes and his lips took on a natural pout he most certainly hadn't been born with.

His chest tingled and grew tight--then bloomed into a modest but unmistakable pair of breasts, perched neatly atop a ribcage that no longer looked like it had been designed by a committee of nervous mathematicians. Even his freckles looked more artfully arranged, like someone had taken a fine brush to his skin.

And the hair. Oh gods, the hair. His wiry ginger mop lengthened and softened into glossy curls the colour of polished copper, tumbling past his shoulders like he was auditioning for a shampoo advert. He tried to stuff it into a bun and failed. It refused to misbehave.

He squeaked. Actually squeaked. His voice had risen into a breathy, husky lilt--like a flirtatious ghost who'd just discovered jazz. When he stumbled backward, trying to process it all, his new center of gravity wobbled dangerously, leaving him clutching unfamiliar hips and shouting, "Whose idea was this?!"

One small thing (okay, not 'that' small)--had stayed the same. A single, dangling reminder that he was still, technically, a boy. Though even that looked softer now, a little smaller, a little more delicate--like the rest of him had set the tone and it was just trying to keep up.

He was cute--very pretty, in that girl-next-door way you couldn't stop looking at. Which was all well and good, if that's what you were after. But Bratch very much did not want whatever this was.

College life changed a lot after that. Turns out, being the invisible boy no one noticed was infinitely preferable to being the centre of everyone's whispered conversations.

The boys laughed at him first--high-pitched, mean-spirited cackles that echoed down hallways and across cafeteria tables. Catcalls. His robes tugged. His voice mimicked. His gait parodied with exaggerated hip-swaying.

The teachers offered no sympathy. They scolded him for disturbing the natural order, for dabbling well above his level, for becoming a distraction. One Transmutations professor even made a whole class out of his "condition," asking him to stand and turn slowly like a specimen rather than a student.

And the witches--those lovely, unattainable girls--looked at him now with amused cruelty. Fenella snorted milk out her nose when he passed. Amelie whispered something that made her friends howl with laughter. Zinnie caught his eye once and made kissy faces and calling him 'the femboy wizard,' a term that stuck in the college from then on.

But worst of all was the shift in how the boys looked at him.

At first it was just stares--long, curious, appraising. Then came the pinches, the lingering brushes of fingers. Hushed laughter behind his back. A grab at his now bountiful behind. They began treating him like a prize, a curiosity, a toy.

One bold seventh-year even followed him into the bathhouse with pure lust on his mind and an obvious tent in his breeches--until Bratch hexed him in the shin and ran out.

Even some professors weren't above it. He'd seen them stare at him, offer a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and once even a gentle pat on the bottom.

And then there was that one professor--Archibald Smoot, the oily and underemployed Head of Minor Transmutations--summoned Bratch to his office.

Professor Smoot had a habit of lingering. Of making long speeches about potential and second chances. That day, he shut the door and offered Bratch a seat, then perched on the desk beside him.

Bratch remembered how his skin crawled when Smoot reached out to stroke his cheek and said, "You've changed quite a lot, haven't you? Quite a remarkable development... if unstable. I think you need my guidance you poor young thing."

Smoot asked him to remove his robe. "To study the transformation," he said. "For academic purposes, you understand."

Bratch hesitated, burning with shame. He knew the look in Smoot's eyes. He felt it in the teacher's breath, hot and too close--stifling the air, pushing against his chest. It lingered like a weight, heavier than any spell, pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe. The warmth of the office seemed to multiply, the walls closing in as Bratch stood there, feeling too exposed, too seen in a way he never had been before.

His hands trembled as he slowly unbuttoned the top of his robe, the fabric dragging against his skin. He felt every inch of his new body in ways he never wanted to, the softness of his curves, the unfamiliar sensation of his chest tightening with every movement.

It wasn't just the way his waist cinched, or the way his hips swelled, but the realisation that someone--Smoot--was staring at it all, his eyes devouring him like a predator circling prey.

Bratch's face burned as his robe slid off his shoulders. His fingers fumbled with the clasps of his tunic, every touch making him acutely aware of the way his skin felt against the fabric. It was as though the garment clung to him with a mind of its own, reluctant to leave his body, unwilling to expose what was beneath.

But there was no escaping it. The way his chest heaved, the way the curves of his body seemed to ripple with every breath, were all things he couldn't hide.

He then slipped off his boots and hose. Now he stood in just his pale brown under vest which hung loose over his hips, just about protecting his dignity, but revealing his fleshy bare thighs and their young, soft white skin.

Smoot's gaze never wavered. It crawled over Bratch's form, his eyes hungry, tracing the outline of his newly-shaped figure through the material with an intensity that made Bratch's stomach churn.

"Hmm, the spell has done a very good job of turning you into quite the pretty little thing."

'Pretty' was not how Bratch enjoyed being described. He liked it even less from Snoot.

The teacher's presence loomed over him, like a shadow wrapping around him, pressing against his ribs. It was suffocating. Too close.

"Come on the young Bratch. Let's see what you have underneath. No need to be shy in my hands."

Bratch could feel the weight of his own embarrassment settling on his shoulders as he reluctantly undid the leather ties around the collar and let the tunic fall to the floor.

He wished he could shrink, wished he could disappear, anything to make Smoot's gaze stop sliding over his body, lingering on his chest, his waist, his newly formed shape and the one thing that had stayed the same, his small delicate penis.

"Hmm, a delightful young body. Delectable even."

The way his skin, pale and soft, seemed to glow under the office's flickering candlelight made it all worse, made it seem like the teacher's gaze was pulling it from him, claiming it.

He couldn't bear to look up, couldn't face the professor's eyes--eyes that had already seen too much, too much of what Bratch couldn't control.

His breath was shallow now, his chest rising and falling too quickly as he stepped back, feeling the cold air of the room against his bare skin. But it wasn't enough to calm the heat of his embarrassment.

He could feel Smoot's gaze still crawling across him, now downward, to his hips, his thighs, and further still.

The professor circled Bratch once more. Fingers touched his arm. His shoulder. The small of his back. A hand lingered far too long too close to Bratch's most private areas.

Then came the offer.

"You understand the trouble you are in. The faculty is considering expulsion. What you have done and the disruption you have caused have been considerable..."

"But," he hesitated for dramatic effect while he licked his thin lips, "there are ways to keep you here, even after such a breach. I can put in a good word you know. Your father doesn't even have to know about your misdemeanour. All I need is a little cooperation. Let's call it a small favour."

Half an hour later Bratch left the office hollow-eyed and furious ashamed of what he had to do to keep his place. He chugged a flagon of water, spitting most of it out as he tried to clean his mouth.

He was furious at Smoot. Furious at himself. Furious at the spell, the school, the way everyone looked at him now--like a girl, a joke, a thing. He hated the attention. Hated the silence even more.

But he stayed enrolled.

He hadn't had a choice.

Professor Snoot, flustered and red-faced, had mumbled something about Bratch stopping by again soon. She could practically feel his hope radiating off him like steam from a kettle. And judging by the lingering stares of a few of the older students, Snoot wasn't the only one nursing ideas about repeat performances.

Bratch had had quite enough of being the one ogled, pawed at, and fantasised about--like some exotic sweet plopped onto a plate for everyone else to drool over.

He wasn't dessert.

He wanted to be the one doing the devouring.

Which was exactly why, tonight, he was going to summon a demon.

Chapter Two: ????‍♀️ One Small Summoning for a Wizard...

Bratch peeked around the dusty chamber, the tip of his hat flopping forward over one eye. He blew at it in frustration, the puff of breath catching on his lower lip--full, glossy, and maddeningly kissable. It was his lip, technically. But that didn't stop the flutter in his stomach every time he saw himself in a mirror.

He shook the thought away. No time for distractions. Focus.

The candles sputtered to life one by one as he tapped them with the end of his wand--each flame casting a flicker of warm light over the stones. The room glowed like an ancient shrine, or a bakery where something very sinister was about to rise.

He lowered himself to the floor, robes swishing like silk. They were too long in the sleeves and too tight in the chest--because they weren't his robes. They belonged to a girl. His own just didn't fit his wide hips and small breasts anymore, so he'd managed to sneak a set from the stores. They fitted the shape of his new body much better, the material softer and smoother than his rough garb. And they clung to him in a way that made his face go red every time he moved.

His wide brown belt cinched around his soft, curving waist, hugging him like an indecent compliment. The swell of his hips, the generous curve of his behind--these were not the features of a strapping young wizard. They were the sort of things that made old men leer and make noises through their teeth. So he hid them under a cape.

Ugh, he thought, shifting as the robe rode up again. Why does it always ride up right there?

He knelt and began drawing the spiral, the chalk trembling faintly in his hand. His sleeves kept slipping down his arms, and his boots squeaked every time he shifted his weight. Even the way he moved now felt different--his hips swaying slightly, unconsciously.

It wasn't on purpose. Not really. That was just... how this body wanted to move.

"I am a boy," he muttered under his breath. "I like girls. I want muscles. And facial hair. And... and a gravelly voice. Like my dad. Not... not this." He gestured vaguely at himself. Which mostly just made his breasts jiggle. And then he immediately pretended he hadn't noticed.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a candle holder. Just for a second.

The young girl staring back at him was gorgeous. Huge green eyes, framed by thick, dark lashes. A cute little button nose--pixie-like, almost. Delicate brows that sloped in concern over those perfect, freckled cheeks. She was achingly pretty. A young innocent. She was worried, clearly. Anxious. But even in her distress she was beautiful.

Bratch stared a moment too long before yanking his hat down again.

"Focus, Bratch. Stop eyeing yourself like some greasy shopkeep."

He took a deep breath, steadying his hands, and began sprinkling the powdered sulfur in a careful circle around the spiral. Then came the powdered moonstone, a dash of dried mandrake root (which he'd definitely not stolen from the herbarium), and three drops of something labeled only "Wink's Elixir" with a smiley face drawn on the bottle.

He had no idea what it did. But it fizzed. And fizzing usually meant magic, right?

"I call upon the shadowed veil," he intoned in what he hoped was a commanding voice. It came out slightly nasal, weak and much too soft.

"From depths unknown and stars unsung, I summon thee, oh ancient one..."

His heart pounded like it was trying to claw out of his chest. What if he was caught? What if this didn't work? What if it did?

A sudden gust blew through the room, sending his cloak fluttering like wings. The candles dimmed and then flared, throwing long, dancing shadows across the walls. The spiral glowed faintly blue. The air turned cold.

"Ohh, here we go!"

Bratch's thighs pressed together unconsciously, his whole body trembling. Not from the chill, not entirely. It was the fear. The fear that he'd gone too far. The fear that he hadn't gone far enough.

"I ask thee," he said, voice wobbling, "aid me in returning to my true self."

He hesitated, biting his lip.

"Even if I don't always know what that means..."

A low hum vibrated the floor. The chalk glowed brighter. Something was coming. Something ancient. Something hungry.

Bratch shuffled back slightly, the wide brim of his hat flopping again into his face.

"... Oh bugger."

Nothing happened.

Bratch held his breath, waiting, expecting... something. A bang. A flash. A poof, at the very least.

But the spiral just sat there, faintly glowing, like a chalk doodle drawn by a particularly pretentious ghost.

He blinked. Then sighed.

"Well that was anticlimactic."

He shuffled backward on his knees, the soft swish of his girl's robe brushing his legs, and waited a little longer. A minute passed. Then another.

He stood up awkwardly, boots thudding too loudly on the stone. "Alright. I see how it is. Ancient demon of secrets and transformation not available tonight. Very busy. Booked solid. That's fine. I'll just--just be here. Alone. In this very creepy room."

The spiral faded. The candles flickered but didn't go out.

Now quite bored, but still a little spooked by the whole place, Bratch wandered around the room. His curiosity, and his ever-wandering mind, betraying him once again.

The chamber was cluttered like the attic of a madman. Dusty tomes lined shelves carved straight into the stone walls, their titles in languages with too many z 's and not enough vowels. One spine read Flesh Made Glory, which he tried not to think about too hard. Another had a cover made of some kind of leathery hide that... might've blinked at him.

Then there were the trinkets. All sorts of them. A brass telescope mounted to a serpent's skull. A gemstone orb, deep purple and swirling with stormy clouds, perched atop what looked like a silver claw. A carved ivory totem of a woman, her hips wildly exaggerated, breasts pendulous, tongue sticking out in frozen ecstasy. It gave him a jolt, and he turned quickly away from it.

Another shelf held what he hoped were sculpted candles: long and twisted, some smooth, others ridged, all of them disturbingly... suggestive. One looked like a satyr's horn. Another looked like--

He coughed. Loudly. "Moving on."

As he passed a tarnished mirror, the reflection caught him.

The girl.

There she was again--sultry and mysterious, biting her lip with a little glimmer in her eyes. A curl had escaped from under his floppy wizard hat, spiraling down across his cheek like something out of a painting.

"Oh look at you," he murmured without thinking, stepping closer to the mirror. "Bet you could get a man to do anything you wanted."

He peeled off the belt with a flourish, shrugged his shoulders and let the robe drop to the floor, revealing the soft curve of his figure wrapped in the plain white shift beneath--thin, and scandalously snug.

He twirled a little, giggling, and turned his hip to the mirror. "How about it, sir? Like what you see?" he whispered in a breathy purr, placing his hand on his hip and winking, revealing a bit of leg. "I could be a very good girl..."

He dissolved into a soft laugh, cheeks flushing pink. "You are such a fool, Bratch."

But even as he posed--one hand behind his head, lips pursed in a fake pout--he couldn't deny how good it felt. How natural it was to sway his hips just so, to admire the delicate slope of his shoulders and the soft arch of his back. He leaned in close to the mirror, pretending to kiss it, and whispered something filthier than he'd ever said in real life, just to see how it sounded.

Behind him, the spiral pulsed. Dim. Then brighter.

Somewhere, a shadow moved.

The air shifted. Barely--a draft through the chamber, or the brush of something unseen along the edge of the room. Bratch didn't notice.

He bent over to pick up the robe, giving the mirror a teasing look. "Oops," he murmured, sticking his juicy bottom out and winking again. "Dropped something..."

Something watched.

It slithered, low and silent, just beyond the glow of the candles. Not quite in the room. Not quite out of it either. The veil was thin here. The spiral had done its job. The gate was open.

And Bratch, beautiful foolish Bratch, was prancing and giggling and posing like a tavern flirt, utterly unaware.

He reached up and adjusted his hat, tugging the brim to the side with a cute little tilt. "I bet some boys like a little mystery," he whispered. "Big hat. Little secrets..."

A tendril of darkness coiled behind him, slow as ink in water.

The candles flared.

Bratch blinked, startled. He turned slightly, shift clinging to his curves, the sleeves too short and the neckline slipping just off his shoulder.

"... Hello?" he called softly.

Silence.

He looked around. Nothing. Just the same old strange room full of slightly horny curiosities and dead air.

But the mirror... the mirror now showed a shape behind him. Unnoticed by Bratch.

Small, for now.

Creeping.

Unformed.

Watching.

The hairs on the back of Bratch's neck stood up.

He turned again, quickly. Nothing. The same shifting candlelight, the same spiral chalked on the floor now faded to a dull glow. His own breathing--soft, slightly ragged from all the giggling and dancing around--was the only sound.

He frowned, chewing his lip. "Okay... no more fooling around, this place gives me the creeps," he muttered, swooping up his discarded robes, suddenly feeling the cold.

A faint clink echoed through the room. He froze. Then realised it was coming from outside.

Creeping toward the window, Bratch pushed aside a dusty red curtain. Below, just beyond the small hedge wall that framed the rear courtyard, two guards had stopped to chat.

"Brilliant," he hissed.

They were supposed to be gone. His route out was through the back alley behind the library, where no one ever patrolled. But now they were standing right by the gate, chatting about ale or women or taxes or whatever stupid things guards talked about when they weren't stabbing people.

He sank down below the window ledge with a sigh. "Guess I'm staying here a while."

The silence settled again--thicker this time. Oppressive.

Feeling quite silly now, he slipped his clothes back on over his shift and drifted toward the shelves, the robes swishing lazily behind him as he walked. Every now and then, he caught a glimpse of himself in a polished brass plate or the edge of the mirror and faltered. That same pretty girl stared back. Lush and beautiful and just a little bit smug about it. The way she walked, the bounce in her hips, the way her outfit clung to her thighs like it missed them every time she moved.

He shook his head. It was almost like the girl was taunting him. Telling him that this was now who he was. He should give up and accept it.

"I am not her," he whispered.

But his fingers drifted across the book spines, distracted.

Some titles were faded beyond legibility. Others shimmered faintly with runes or pulsed with enchantment. One read: The Twelve Forbidden Positions of the Elven Moon-Rite.

Bratch snorted.

Next to it: The Lustful Golem and Other Summoning Mishaps.

Then: How to Bind a Satyr (and Make Him Enjoy It).

He blinked, cheeks flushing, and kept going.

Pleasure and Power: A Sorceress's Guide to Bedroom Hexes.

The Carnal Codex of the Crimson Coven.

He paused at: The Salacious Alchemy of Flesh and Flame.

He smirked.

"Well," he murmured, glancing toward the door, "If I'm going to wait it out..."

He slid the book from the shelf. The pages were yellowed, edges crisp and curling, but the ink inside was vivid--inky illustrations of entwined limbs and curving, magical anatomy. Men and women, creatures and enchantments, all rendered with a surreal, hypnotic beauty.

Each page was worse--or better--than the last.

Incantations for enhancing sensitivity. Charms to make the body more "welcoming." A diagram of a sorceress with three lovers writhing beneath her, their bodies wreathed in magical tendrils that definitely weren't ropes. A note scribbled in the margin read: Prolonged exposure may result in spontaneous orgasm. Use sparingly. Or don't.

Bratch swallowed hard.

His fingers trembled slightly as he turned another page. The girl in the sketch there looked familiar--tumbling red curls, freckled cheeks, parted lips as she bent forward, a magical blue glow clinging to her bare skin like morning dew.

His cheeks flamed.

"I shouldn't..."

But no one was around. The guards were still outside, talking. The door was locked. And...

His hand drifted down and he moved away his robes.

He leaned against the table, dropping the book open before him, letting his eyes flick from illustration to illustration. The shift rode high on his thighs, exposing smooth pale skin and the gentle swell of his hips. He sat down slowly on the edge of a chair, his knees parting slightly, the robe slipping off one shoulder to reveal the curve of his neck and the delicate line of his collarbone.

He watched himself in the mirror, the pretty red head, her legs wide and on display, her lips slightly parted, her sparkling emerald eyes lidded, full of lust. Wanton.

He closed his eyes.

The warmth flooded him quickly--desire, confusion, shame, and the undeniable thrill of being watched, even if only by forbidden ink and his own reflection. He whispered little things to himself again in that sultry voice, biting his lower lip and rocking his hips ever so slightly as he played with his small erect cock, same as he had many times before. That delightful tingle buzzing in his small hairless balls below.

Only tonight it felt different somehow. Like there was an energy in the room that was making this little femboy wizard even hornier than usual. Which is a hard thing to do given eighteen year olds are generally horny all the time.

Perhaps it was something to do with self abuse in an arcane tower? Whatever it was, it felt delightfully illicit.

He thought of what it would be like to tempt someone. To kneel down in front of a handsome wizard and slowly slide the belt from his robes. To be touched and praised and ravished like the girls in the books. To be taken, spread on a bed and treated like a worthless wench.

He gasped.

Something moved behind him.

A subtle shift in the air, the faintest scraping sound--like skin across stone.

But Bratch didn't hear it. He was lost in the moment, breath catching, cheeks pink, lashes fluttering closed.

The thing in the shadows didn't blink.

It didn't breathe.

It only watched.

Silently.

Patiently.

Enjoying the show.

Chapter Three: ✨ Spells, Smut, and Slime

Bratch moaned softly, eyes closed, lashes fluttering as he imagined the scenes from the book made real.

He was still perched prettily in the high-backed chair, legs drawn up beneath him, his shift bunched scandalously high on his thighs as his toes curled below, his legs too short to touch the ground.

The heavy book sat open on the table, but he wasn't reading anymore. Not really. His head tilted back slightly, lips parted as his breath came shallow and quick. One hand pressed against his chest, the other still nestled between his legs, gripped around his sex. His thoughts spiralled, deeper and filthier with each breath as he pleasured himself.

In his mind, he wasn't Bratch anymore. He was a courtesan, no--a lowly, pretty little servant girl with her bountiful breasts on display, taken in hand by some towering warlock, bent to his will. Stripped of her clothes, spanked then fucked from behind mercilessly. A worthless wench, used and discarded and thrilled by it.

His cheeks were flushed dark pink, his dainty lips parted around a whispered plea.

More and more in his private fantasies these days he was the maiden. He imagined what it would be like to feel the hard rod of a penis inside him. Alive in his mouth, or pushed into him from behind. His afternoon with Snoot wasn't all terrible. A secret part he didn't like to admit to, secretly enjoyed the taste and feeling of the cum in his mouth as the old wizard ejaculated into him.

It was obviously the transformation. Nothing to worry about. As soon as he was back to being a proper boy his fantasies would be back to normal. Best to just enjoy himself and not overthink things. Which had never really been a problem for this particular young wizard to be fair.

The room around him seemed distant, melting away as his imagination took over.

He didn't notice the faint sound of something slick dragging over the stone floor.

From beneath the far table, something stirred. Long, glistening tendrils eased themselves forward from the shadows--pale pink and thick as a man's wrist, pulsing gently, and dripping with a white, sticky ooze that shimmered in the candlelight. One coiled around the table leg nearest Bratch, anchoring it in place with a slow, wet squelch. Another slithered closer to Bratch's boot, pausing just inches from the soft leather.

The thing was now enormous. Hidden deep in the darkness, it coiled and shifted with an odd grace, pressing itself low to the ground to remain unseen. Its many limbs writhed silently, all focused now on the oblivious prize at the room's centre.

Bratch shifted in his seat, his movements smooth, almost feline. He pulled his robe and underclothes clear of his waist, now naked from the hips down as he pleasure his cock faster and faster.

His cheeks flushed, the heat of arousal giving him a dewy glow. His green eyes remained closed, mouth parted as he let out a quiet giggle at the fantasy playing in his mind.

"Oh why sir, that is a very large sword you have there! Would you like me to polish it for you?"

The air around him shimmered with a heavy, invisible pressure--magic still lingering from the summoning, mixing with the thick scent of old tomes, burning candles, and something... new.

Something slick and primal.

Bratch shifted again, giggling to himself as he ran a hand down his side. "What would you have of me, my lord?" he whispered in a breathy, trembling voice. "I belong to you... every inch..."

These were thoughts and fantasises he'd buried. When he finally fixed things it would be he who was the warlock making use of the maiden, but tonight it felt good. To be the submissive one. To imagine spreading his curvy legs, his ass on display, needing penetration. Easier. More natural.

The tentacles crept closer. One arched above his head, hovering like a serpent ready to strike. Another curled around the base of the chair.

Bratch didn't notice the new droplets splattering onto the stone. Didn't notice the low, wet sound of something shifting behind him.

He licked his lips.

The tension in the room had changed. The arcane energy had turned heavy and sultry, laced with something darker, something that buzzed just beneath the skin. Bratch's fantasy only grew bolder.

Bratch slipped his hand inside his shift and played with his small breasts, tweaking his nipple as his other hand rubbed up and down his penis. He whimpered, his voice soft and needy, begging for touch, for approval, for someone to take him. Impale him. Make him shudder with ecstasy before filling him up with their seed. Breeding him.

The thing in the shadows waited. It could sense Bratch was close. It could sense everything about Bratch right now. Its moment was almost here.

Soon. Very soon.

His breath came in short now, trembling gasps, hips shifting unconsciously as a flush bloomed across his freckled cheeks and down his slender neck. Every inch of his new body felt impossibly sensitive--his skin tingled like it was woven from starlight and silk, his thighs pressed together with aching need as he furiously worked his small delicate penis, pre-cum dribbling down and wetting his fingers with its sweet sticky dew.

He was close.

The air itself pulsed with strange, electric magic, amplifying every shiver, every stolen touch, until even the brush of his own fingers felt like fire.

The girl in his mind was helpless, wanton, adored.

And he was her. Soft moans slipped past those kiss-swollen lips as he surrendered to the fantasy completely--just a sweet little thing lost in her own world, trembling on the edge of ecstasy.

Just as Bratch was almost tipped over the edge into the culmination of his orgasm, body quivering and a tremble from his pert lips, a sudden wet crack split the air behind him -- like raw meat slapped hard against stone.

SKRAACK-THWUMP!

His eyes flew open in shock, then widened in pure horror.

Too late.

Ssslsshhk...

A thick, glistening pink tentacle exploded from the shadows and snapped tight around his ankle. The touch was cold -- not natural cold, but wet, graveyard cold. And slimy. So slimy it squelched as it wound higher, slathering his skin with a trail of thick, milky-white ooze that clung like sap.

Another tendril shot from the gloom, slamming his wrist back with a wet thud. The slick made it hard to move. His fingers squirmed helplessly in the goo, too slippery to find any grip. Then a third came -- straight for his mouth, frozen in a scream that didn't have time to come out. It coiled around his jaw and across his lips with a shuddering slurp, muffling his scream into a whimper that dripped down his chin in slime.

And the smell--gods, the smell.

It hit him then, pungent and musky, like rotting flowers in a warm box, or a sweaty shirt left in the dark too long. Sickly sweet, heavy in the throat. It clung to his tongue, choked his nose, turned his stomach.

Bratch managed to slip free of the tendril around his mouth and let out a shriek that scraped the ceiling, a wild, unfiltered scream of pure terror as the tendril coiled around his ankle and yanked him off his feet.

He hit the stone floor with a graceless thud and was dragged across the chamber, robes twisting, hair flying, fingers clawing at the slick ground. His boots skidded helplessly behind him as the monstrous grip hauled him toward the pulsing heart of the summoning circle.

"No no no no--!" he wailed, voice cracking somewhere between soprano panic and theatrical disbelief.

The creature dragged him like he weighed nothing, like a rag doll soaked in oil. His body writhed, but the tentacles gripped him tight with their terrifying strength -- cords of muscle flexing beneath a slick, rubbery surface. They moved with unnatural control: fast when they struck, but slow as syrup when they slithered, deliberate and cruel.

"Oh gods--great flaming knickers of Thaelion--what is that?!" Bratch shrieked, eyes wide in revulsion as the beast slithered into the half light beyond.

SHLORK-GLUUURRRRRP. The creature pulsed wetly, a mass of glistening tendrils and unnatural mouths, slick with ooze and impossibly alive.

More coils slid out from the shadows, thick and veined like monstrous eels. They glided across the stone floor, leaving trails of viscous white ooze behind them. Where they moved, the candles flickered, shadows bent, and the very air seemed to pulse.

Bratch gasped, eyes wide as he was finally dragged into the centre of the spiral -- his spiral, still faintly glowing.

The stone beneath him was hot, sticky. The chalk lines shimmered faintly red, as if reacting to the monster's touch.

He kicked out, but another tentacle snaked around his leg, then his other free wrist, pinning him down in a star-shape--arms and legs spread wide. He struggled, slimed and trembling, but the creature was strong. So strong. The sinews beneath its skin flexed like steel cords. His muscles strained to resist, but it was like fighting the ocean.

"Get off me! I knew this was a bad idea!" Bratch howled, thrashing as the tendrils coiled tighter around his wrists.

SQUELCH-KRAKKK! The beast shifted, joints popping wetly where no joints should exist.

Another tendril crept forward. Thicker. Throbbing faintly. It slithered up over his belly, leaving a trail of white, sticky muck that soaked his shift as it slid slowly toward his chest. The ooze clung to his skin like melted wax, seeping into every crease, every curve.

It smelled even worse up close -- like animal musk mixed with spoiled sugar. His stomach churned.

The tentacle paused at his waist.

Bratch shook his head, whimpering. He could feel the ooze soaking through the fabric of his robe now, turning it dark, clinging like glue.

"Please--don't do this," he breathed, voice cracking. Tears running down his cheeks.

The tendril coiled around his belt-- Snap.

The leather snapped like string.

And then the creature ripped. Robe, tunic, and underthings tore away in an instant, shredded into useless scraps that flopped wetly to the floor.

Bratch screamed as a new tentacle wrapped around his mouth to silence him, naked now but for his tall brown boots, skin gleaming with slime, the soft swell of his hips and chest twitching in fear.

He was like a lamb at an ogre's banquet. No one was coming to save him.

Bratch shook his head. This was too far. Too terrifying. He shivered, tears of pure fear ran freely down his face as he contemplated his fate.

With a violent jerk he was spread open wider, held tight by living cords of pink muscle that pulsed all around him. A fragile, flushed figure pinned and helpless beneath a dripping, unseen predator.

He felt deeply vulnerable and alone. As if he was going to be devoured. Or worse.

The creature didn't reveal itself -- not all of it. But he could see glimpses now. Things slithering through the dark -- wet things. Coils as thick as his torso sliding across the walls and ceiling. The sound of wet meat dragging over stone echoed through the chamber.

And the air... the air was charged. Humming with energy that wasn't his. A sticky heat, a magic that felt wrong-- invasive, twisted, perverse, like it knew what he wanted and was twisting it.

He lay there panting, slime-soaked, naked and trapped, his pale skin glistening in the dim light, breath hitching as he watched a thick coil slither up his thigh again.

His panicked eyes roamed the room, darting here and there chasing the slithering shadows, fearful of what might come next. But still, he couldn't see the monster properly or work out where its centre was.

But it could see everything.

Chapter Four: ???? The Tension You Didn't Ask For

Bratch's body was frozen, held in place by the unseen force, but it wasn't just the creature's physical grip that paralysed him. Naked and vulnerable, his legs and arms stretched out wide in a star shape. But it was something else--something thicker than the slimy tendrils wrapped around him, something far more insidious.

The room, once dim and cold, now felt suffocating and warm. He could feel the sweat build up on his tummy and forehead. The air hummed, thick with an energy he couldn't quite understand, swirling in the corners like a living thing. He wasn't sure whether it was the monster's magic or something else entirely, but the weight of it was pressing down on him, flooding his mind with warmth and vertigo.

His thoughts felt... slow, like the words he tried to form didn't quite match the rhythm of his racing pulse. The energy twisted around him, sinking deep into his skin, making every nerve tingle in ways that shouldn't feel... pleasant.

He should definitely be terrified, but here he was, getting all hot and bothered like some noblewoman stuck in a locked tower, awaiting rescue--except there was no handsome prince on the way. Only an oily monster that smelled like the aftermath of a bar brawl and old socks.

His mind was foggy, fighting against this rising pressure. The sensation was foreign and unsettling, like his own thoughts weren't his anymore. It was as if something was nudging at the edges of his brain, urging him to surrender to whatever was lurking in the shadows.

Give in.

His hands clenched, desperate to hold on to reality, to force his body into action, but it was as if his muscles had forgotten how to obey.

The smell of the monster--sickly sweet and pungent, like something rotting just beneath the surface--was overpowering, curling into his lungs. At first, it had repulsed him, made him want to gag, but now, there was something strangely comforting about it. Like it was... his new normal. Or maybe he was just going mad. Either way, the more he breathed it in, the more he felt his mind slip, his focus unraveling.

"Great," he thought bitterly, "So I'm about to be eaten by a tentacle monster, and I'm actually getting used to the smell. Perfect."

He had to focus. He had to stay alert. Whatever this thing was, whatever magic was at work here, it didn't belong in his world. He wasn't supposed to feel this way, and he certainly wasn't supposed to feel good about it.

But then, there was that strange pressure again, tightening in his chest, pulling him toward the shadows where the monster still lingered, still watched him. He knew he should be terrified. Should be fighting. But the more he tried to think of escape, the more his thoughts slipped away, replaced by... curiosity. A twisted, fleeting curiosity, like he was being drawn into a game he didn't know how to play.

"Why am I feeling like this?!" Bratch wondered, shaking his head internally. "This is the sort of thing you should only see in horrible grimoires. Not... real life! And especially not with me in the middle of it about to be sacrificed!"

The magical influence, thick as honey and just as sticky, wrapped around him like a heavy cloak. He couldn't remember if he'd always been this susceptible to it--this vulnerable, this feminine.

But the more he struggled, the tighter the hold became. Every time he pulled against the invisible forces binding him, it was as if the monster's power swelled, pressing against his chest like a thousand tiny hands pushing him further into the muck of his own confusion.

All of a sudden a new tendril looped around his legs, around and around in a spiral, from his calves all the way to the top of his shapely thigh, glistening in a mix of his own sweat and the odd milky ooze of the creature. This one moved slowly, almost tenderly. Like the creature was enjoying itself.

The tip of the tentacle rested uneasily on his tummy. Bratch risked a look down. The tip was only inches from his privates.

Then he noticed it, he was still fully erect, harder than ever in fact. His small penis stood from his chest, the small fuzzy triangle of bright ginger pubic hair below as he waist pulsed slightly and his cock twitched.

His mind kept drifting, chasing the tendrils of thought he couldn't quite catch. He remembered the other week in Smoot's office, the weird feeling he'd gotten when he was humiliated and made to feel like a plaything, a thing to be used. How Smoot's cock felt as it had slipped between his lips, how warm his penis was when it was fully in his mouth.

How he had started to use his tongue. He'd told himself that it was to get the ordeal over with, but part of him enjoyed giving pleasure that way. Feeling the cock twitch in his mouth as he teased it.

The taste of it, the smell. And then when his cum exploded in his mouth as Smoot held his head in place, how it slithered down his throat. How he hated it, felt such shame, but some buried part of him, a part that was her, enjoyed it.

He was angry, but ever since the spell it was something that he wanted. Craved secretly. Perhaps it was even before the spell. Something Bratch never wanted to admit to himself.

The parallels were uncanny. The monster's influence seemed to tug at those memories and feeling, threading them into his current disarray, making him question what really frightened him.

Was it the creature? Or the realisation that he was beginning to want something--something that wasn't just survival? That his new feminine form was better than what he had before, and perhaps he should enjoy its bounties.

Bratch muttered to himself, growing frustrated. "C'mon Bratch. This isn't you. I thought I'd escaped from that whole mess. But nope. Now there's a disgusting monster about to do something even worse."

He shook his head, desperate to break free, but all he could feel was the building pressure, the invisible force wrapping around him, pushing him toward the very edge of his thoughts.

It was as if the air itself was alive, carrying something with it. Something seductive. And his body, traitorous as it was, was responding to it in ways that terrified him.

No! Focus, Bratch! He needed to break free. He couldn't... let it take over. Not like this. He wasn't supposed to feel this... conflicted.

The creature had to be behind it. There was no other explanation.

And yet, part of him wanted to know what came next. Part of him couldn't help but feel that whatever was about to happen wasn't all bad. He couldn't explain why, but the thought gnawed at him, a growing curiosity he couldn't shake. Would the monster touch him? What would it do?

No. I need to fight. I can't let it... do anything to me.

But the battle was becoming harder to win. The magic was seeping deeper into his mind like a toxin, clouding his thoughts, leaving him swaying on the edge between panic and an impossible desire to give in.

He had to focus. He had to think of a way out.

But all he could think about was how, despite everything, he couldn't seem to resist the pull.

Maybe it wouldn 't be so bad?

The pressure in the air thickened, and Bratch felt his resolve weakening as the room seemed to pulse with the magic that had trapped him here. His body relaxed, became soft and compliant in the grip of the monster. It was so confusing, so wrong, yet he couldn't help the flutter in his stomach, the thrill that buzzed underneath his skin.

He felt his boots being pulled off as another set of tendrils looped around his arms, then another rolled around his tummy. They were almost like magical vines that were doing their best to make him part of the same organism.

As they grew they tightened around him, pressed tight into his skin, wrapping him, keeping him still and exposed, but part of them.

His pale skin was slick with it now--completely drowned in the creature's endless, pulsing ooze. It coated him in thick layers, smothering every inch, seeping into places he didn't want to think about. Making his skin glisten.

He'd clamped his mouth shut at first, fighting to keep the slime out, but a thin stream forced its way past his lips. The taste hit him like a slap: rich, tangy, brine-sharp--so revolting it nearly made him gag.

But then something shifted.

Each swallow dulled the disgust. The flavour changed, or perhaps he did. What had been vile became strangely intoxicating, almost addictive. His tongue flicked out without thinking. His lips parted.

And then he was drinking it in as if it was the sweetest honey.

The growing pleasure inside Bratch was like a slow, creeping warmth, settling deep in his chest and expanding outward with every passing moment. At first, it was subtle, a tiny pulse of heat spreading through his limbs, but as the minutes passed, the sensation became more insistent. It was as if his very bones were being soaked in something sweet, thick, and inviting. A warmth he couldn't place, but that felt strangely comforting, and just as dangerously tempting.

His mind, once sharp and full of panic, began to lose focus. The edges of his thoughts softened, blurred by the intoxicating pull of the pleasure threading through him. Each breath he took, the thick air filled with the monster's pungent musk, seemed to fuel the warmth spreading through his veins. It was almost like the air itself was alive, soaking into his skin, into his very lungs, until every fibre of his being felt fuzzy and distant.

Again he tried to fight it, tried to force his thoughts to remain coherent, but it was like trying to hold onto the wind--impossible and ultimately pointless. The magic, the creature's presence, it all mixed together into a swirling mass of sensations he couldn't untangle. His mind flickered between clarity and clouded confusion, the thin line between fear and something else blurring as his body responded in ways he didn't fully understand.

The warmth pooled lower in his abdomen, making his stomach tighten, but in a way that didn't feel wrong. It felt right in a way he didn't want to admit. His body--no, his mind--was betraying him, leaning into the feeling even though he knew it was madness. The pleasure wasn't just physical--it was mental, seeping into his brain, bending his thoughts, making him long for something he should be fighting. Something that was wrong.

"I... I can't..." Bratch thought, trying to hold on to some thread of rationality, but the thought slipped away, forgotten. "Why does this feel... good? It shouldn't feel like this. Stop."

But his body didn't obey him. His skin tingled as if it had come alive, the magic pulling at him like strings on a puppet. His mind wandered, jumping from one fleeting thought to another. Could it be this easy? To just give in? His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the growing heat filling him, saturating his thoughts with a strange sense of contentment.

His pulse quickened, his heart pounding as his mind continued to cloud, and his thoughts turned--unbidden--toward something darker. He imagined himself giving in, imagined the creature taking what it wanted, and the more he did, the more his body surged with heat, the pressure inside him growing until it felt like he was about to explode with it.

It was the strangest combination of panic and pleasure, and he couldn't seem to separate the two. Each breath was a mix of fear, a trembling excitement, and an overwhelming, suffocating need to just let go.

His muscles ached to pull away, but they didn't move. His hands twitched, a low, involuntary sigh escaping his lips. The room swirled with magic, with energy, and with a growing pressure that pushed against his skin, slipping into his bloodstream. And, as much as he wanted to scream, to fight it, part of him--deep down--knew the truth: He was already lost.

It was a horrible, undeniable truth, and the more he tried to reject it, the deeper he sank into it.

The pleasure was still building, an endless tide that consumed him piece by piece, and he realised, with a strange shock, that it was starting to feel impossible to resist.

Then, something moved, jolting him out of his dazed stupor. From the shadows directly in front of him, a new tendril emerged, its slick, muscled length slithering across the floor with unnerving grace.

Sllsshhk... slrrrp.

Unlike the others, this one was thicker--heavier--with a rounded, swollen tip that glistened in the low light. The end was bulbous, disturbingly so, like something meant to swell and press and fill. Along its back were a line of small bumps, ridges that followed a seam down the length of this new odd tendril.

It moved with unsettling purpose, again, different from the others. More sentient, more focussed. It was twitching as it slithered forward in slow, deliberate pulses. Each movement made the tip throb faintly, a viscous bead of ooze welling up before stretching into a long, silvery strand that dripped to the floor with a wet, splut.

It looked disturbingly alive, more organic than the others--it's round shiny cap and the small grotesque parody of a mouth, or something far more intimate. The ooze leaked steadily, thick and glistening from its lips, and Bratch couldn't shake the sense that it was hungry. Not for food. For him.

Pllop... pllip...

Bratch's heart skipped a beat. He realised what it looked like, and that filled him with even more dread as he contemplated what it wanted to do to him. A deep, primal fear surged inside him, the sight of this new appendage filling him with a terror that made his skin crawl. But also made him want it, welcome it. Something inside him expected it to enter him.

His breath caught in his throat, and for the first time since it all began, he couldn't shake the feeling that something far worse was coming. The bulbous tendril inched closer, and he couldn't look away.

Sllsshhk... slrrrp.

The penis like tentacle was now between his legs, slowing, as if taking its time, Bratch's naked thighs quivered as the slime made the soft supple flesh of this legs shine with it's viscous coating.

Slowly it moved towards his crotch, he could feel the powerful muscles as it squeezed between the soft flesh of inner thighs. Bratch's breathing was now faster, almost too fast.

The engorged crown was now inches from his crotch, its powerful flanks pushing into Bratch's ample creamy thighs. It felt alive, pulsing, warmer than the other tentacles. Definitely with more intelligence and command of itself. More gloop cascaded from its maw as it considered its next move for a moment.

Bratch was now consumed with both horror and something odd. Something he didn't expect.

Desire.

He looked at it in fascination. Up close he could smell its odour, much stronger than the others. The thick, domed cap glistened, and seemed to regard him. His breath was heavier now, full of want and need.

Bratch felt a nervousness in his backside. His arse twitching, caught between clenching and opening up wide and welcoming. It was like all his senses were focused on his rear entrance now.

The pulsing knob moved again, its head tilting down and slowly it pushed into his soft cheeks and wormed its way in between them, squeezing and wriggling frantically as it sought out his small bud of a virgin sphincter.

Flatch-flatch-flatch

"Oh god no!" he felt as the thing started ever onwards. But despite himself, Bratch wanted it to penetrate him, even though he was afraid.

The tentacles around his body twisted tighter, improving their grip on him, making his flesh bulge, lifting him slightly, pulling at his legs to prize them even wider. Getting him ready.

Skritch-squelch

He felt this obscene core-stem start to push and burrow into him with growing fervour, using its muscle to press against Bratch's small virgin bud, squirting it and coating it with goo to ease its passage. It was evidently trying to fuck him.

Did Bratch want to be fucked? His mind was still so confused with lust and fear.

The hot pulse of red hot pain shot through Bratch as the tentacle pushed in harder, stretching his sphincter wider and wider, squirming wriggling as it did everything to worm its way inside of him as the pain radiated out, making Bratch gasp and moan.

A new smaller tendril wrapped itself around Bratch's neck, gently applying a firm pressure as the one around his mouth slipped away, finally letting him free to gasp in at the air and spit out the ooze that had pooled in his mouth.

He could now shout or scream for help, but instead he sucked in the air in deep breaths before releasing it, his lips in a pout as he focussed on the mix of intense pain, but also pleasure in his body.

The pain was pulsing through him, he gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes shut. It felt like a right of passage. That he had to suffer this to get to something wonderful. Sacrifice himself to it. He had to be a good girl for the creature.

A good girl.

At once he was horrified, scared that something so large and powerful was trying to get inside his most sensitive area, but also thrilled, wanting it, needing it, more and more.

"Gahhhh!! Ohhh please! Unnhhhhhh!"

Bratch felt a sickening pop as the creature's tip pressed deep into him, the unnatural intrusion sending a violent shudder through his spine. It was as if something inside his body had been forced open, a tightness splitting beneath the pressure, the sensation both brutal and oddly... electrifying. The feeling lingered, a strange mixture of pain and strange pleasure, as the creature settled deeper inside him.

Bratch felt every ridge on the top of this giant cock as one by one they slowly squeezed into his now very stretched hole as the tentacle penis pushed in deeper.

With one more thrust the tentacle slipped all the way into his cavity, wriggling frenetically as it pushed further into him, the pain dulled, melting into a slow, mounting pleasure--and a strange, shameful satisfaction that his body was yielding so willingly to the intruder.

"Unnhhhh!"

Now buried deep inside him, it began to pulse--slow, deliberate throbs that sent heavy vibrations through Bratch's trembling frame. Every nerve lit up with raw electricity. Then it drew back, just a little, the ridges bumping against his cavity, before plunging forward again with force. Bratch gasped, his body rocked by the motion, every textured ridge and pulsing vein scraping along his insides in a rhythm that felt overwhelming... and wickedly precise. Hitting something magical inside of Bratch that sent waves of pleasure through him.

It was fucking him.

It felt amazing.

Schlck.

From the shadows directly in front of him, a new tendril emerged, its slick, muscled length slithering across the floor with unnerving grace. It was similar to the foul engorged crown that had just burrowed between deep into his soft fleshy posterior and was now rudely engaged in coitus.

Ssssslrrrp.

It twisted and undulated like a serpent, each movement accompanied by a wet, sticky suction sound, the floor slicking beneath it.

Just like its twin, this new penis tentacle moved with a deliberate, almost hungry intent. The swollen tip glistened, ooze trailing in slow, obscene droplets as Bratch stared, heart hammering, at its disturbingly suggestive contours.

Prrrchhh. Glp-glp.

The second core-stem slithered across Bratch's tummy. A thick glob of ooze burbled from its tip, dripping in slow, syrupy ropes onto Bratch's bare skin. The end twitched open like a grotesque, puckered mouth, and the gloop began to seep out in wet spurts, some splattering onto Bratch's terrified face.

The tentacle halted mid-slither, rising up into a poised cobra-like curve.

It hung there, swaying gently in the air, glistening with thick ooze.

Ssslsshhk...

A low, wet rustle echoed as it shifted slightly, the musculature beneath its slimy skin tensing and flexing.

It seemed to be watching him. Waiting.

Bratch froze. The thing wasn't moving randomly--it was considering him.

The strong musk filled Bratch's nostrils. It was the same smell as before, the one he at first found awful, but now delighted in, making him feel heady and warm.

It was familiar though. Very familiar. It was then it hit Bratch why he'd thought of Smoot. Of course. It smelt of a man's phallus, only much more potent. As if that unique odour had been magnified a thousand times.

Bratch found himself licking his lips before he opened mouth wide into a large 'O', inviting this new invader into him.

Then penis like tendril moved closer. Bratch extended his tongue. The pungent smell drawing him to it.

His tongue slowly licked a circle around the gleaming cap. More ooze spurted out as he did so, as if pleased with his teasing. Brach moved his tongue underneath the cap, to a part where cap connected to the fleshy sleeve that encased the pulsing knob.

Then in one unnaturally swift movement it slithered into his welcoming mouth.

Ssssslrrrp.

Like the one already buried inside of him, it wriggled as its powerful muscles pushed it in further than Bratch thought was possible, stretching his jaw wide. Then, just like its twin, it started to pulse back and forwards.

Bratch gagged, coughed and spluttered as he tried to contain the beast in his mouth. Drool and snot dribbled from the edges of his mouth and his nose. Ooze seeping out of its engorged crown and dribbled down Bratch's throat.

Slowly Bratch moved his head back and forwards, as much as the tendrils around his neck would allow. Slowly he fellated the fleshy bulb with his lips locked tight around its muscular shaft. He was pleasuring the odd protrusion, using his lips to lock tight around the shaft, his tongue to tease it under the bulbous cap.

"Ummm-hummm. Uuuhmmm-hummmm." As Bratch slurped and sucked at vile shaft he could feel the thing buck and stretch in his mouth as it reacted to his sucking. He felt a warm glow in his tummy that he was being such a good girl for it.

Bratch's eyes rolled back into his head. The feelings, the taste, the smell. It was overwhelming. It felt right, that this was his place, to have both his holes filled. To be a servant to this creature. To let it insert itself into him, to fuck him, for Bratch to pleasure it as best he could.

He wanted it to unload its sticky seed inside him. Make his tummy swell from its juices. To satisfy its needs as its loyal and willing servant. To please it would please him. As if this was a fantasy made real.

Just as Bratch dared to think the thing had reached its final form, the thick tendril inside his mouth gave a sudden, convulsive twitch. A bubbling shift in the glistening slime--blrrrggk--and from the sides of its glistening trunk, three smaller tendrils erupted, springing free out across Bratch's tummy with a wet splutch.

They were thinner, almost spindly, than the main body, but alive, wriggling with an unnerving eagerness, like eager fingers or probing tongues.

The ooze that coated them clung in long, syrupy threads, dripping in languid ropes as they flexed and reached into the air, slick and glistening under the dim light. They looked like something half-formed, born not of flesh but from the slime itself--unnatural limbs conjured from filth and instinct.

Bratch's stomach turned, but he couldn't look away. There was something hideously mesmerising about it, like watching a wound open and sprout teeth.

The smaller tendrils span in the air a moment, then to Bratch's horror, descended down to his breasts and cock. Hovering menacingly above them.

Then one moved with a sharp, precise move, straight into his nipple with a sharp pain that made Bratch squint and convulse slightly. He would have screamed if his mouth wasn't full of this giant tentacle cock.

Then the second followed, burrowing into his other breast, more exquisite agony for Bratch. He could see ooze slowly pumping down the stems of these small tendrils and into his breasts. Into his body.

Bratch felt the pain ease slightly. There was still a sting in his poor extended nipples. But he could feel his breasts warm gently. It felt slightly soothing. And then as he looked he was sure, no it cant be? Yes, his breasts were growing. Slowly and surely they gently ballooned in size. He could feel them becoming more sensitive, the skin pulling tight. The extra heft of their weight.

Then tentacle cock slipped out of his mouth, ooze seeping from its small mouth as it shuddered slightly. Creamy ooze slipped out his lips and dripped down his chin. It was good to be free of the penis in his mouth for a moment, but he immediately missed its presence too.

With growing horror Bratch looked at the third as it circled around his erect cock. It seemed to be teasing him, knowing he dreaded this insertion the most.

Finding his voice again Bratch pleaded with the creature. "Nngh--w-wait, not there! Gods, what are you--no, please, that'll hurt!"

Bratch strained to look, panic rising in his chest--but the tendril coiled around his throat tightened, a warning squeeze that silenced him into stillness. He could only shudder, helpless and trembling, as the dread of what came next gripped him. A whimper escaped his lips, eyes brimming with tears at the anticipation of pain he knew was coming.

Then, all of a sudden the thin tendril descended in a flash. Bratch would have writhed with the unimaginable pain if he could move more than an inch. It felt like his phallus was on fire, as if molten lava was being poured down his cock's eye and slowly dribbling down his shaft.

"GUH-HRK! NNGGKH!" Batch tried his best to scream, but the tendril around his neck held his windpipe tight

Batch writhed and wriggled as best he could, his eyes bulging as the tentacle slithered into his cock.

"Ah--gods, it burns!" Bratch gasped, his voice cracking with pain. "Nnngghhhk!" The sound tore from his throat, raw and desperate. "What are you doing to me?"

Like the other spindly tendrils in his breasts, he could see ooze inside the pipe of the thing now in his cock. Little bumps marching towards his poor penis. He grimaced as he expected more pain as they travelled inside of his cock.

He cried out as the bumps met the tip of his penis. He could feel every millimetre as they travelled down his erect shaft. And then the pain subsided somewhat and a tingling warmth started to fill his balls. Soon they started to feel heavier.

Bratch felt a strange satisfaction pulse through him as the creature's attention intensified, a bizarre sense of approval that washed over him like a wave. He wasn't sure why, but a part of him wanted nothing more than to be a 'good girl' for the creature, to meet its needs, to please it.

He felt oddly proud, like a reward had been bestowed upon him for what he was going through, even as the pain surged, knowing it was a necessary part of the trial. The creature cared for him in its own twisted way, guiding him, moulding him--and all he wanted was to be what it desired, to endure the pain so he could be its perfect offering.

Bratch felt a tremor deep inside, a shiver of certainty that everything had led to this moment--the end was near, the crescendo was building, and it would be magnificent. Transcendent. And Bratch wanted more than anything to experience that.

It was then he noticed it--a sudden bulge forming along the thick, glistening length of the tentacle that had first slithered inside him. It pressed outward under the slick surface, firm and deliberate, like a pulse of pressure forced through a tight hose. Or a snake regurgitating something in reverse--wet, obscene, unstoppable.

Shlorp.

The bulge began to move.

Slow at first, then faster, gaining a steady rhythm as it travelled down the muscular tendril with a slk-slk-slk that echoed faintly in the charged, humid air. The ooze around it squelched and rippled as the swelling mass surged forward--closer and closer to the point where it disappeared inside him.

Bratch's eyes went wide in horror as he saw the bulge pulsing toward him. "Oh no... what is that? I can't take all of that! Don't--don't put that in me, please!"

Bratch moaned without meaning to, equal parts fear and a rising, shameful heat. His body tensed, trembling with anticipation. His breath came shallow as the wet lump approached, and he could feel the vibration of its movement within him--a deep, intimate tremor that set his nerves alight.

Closer now.

Shlllck... shhhk...

His heart raced. His eyes dilated as his breathing increased through his nostrils.

Something was coming.

And a growing part of him... wanted it. Wanted it badly.

"Hmmm, fill me up. Impregnate me with it! Breed me." He couldn't believe he was saying these words, but a primal desire was taking over him.

As the bulge made up the shaft of the tendril in his arse, as it made it towards the head he felt the bulge push at the soft edges of his thighs as it engorged the slimy phallus, stretching Bratch'seven further.

The head started to move faster, frantically in and out of his tortured hole. Shaking Bratch as it did, like a rag doll. Harder and harder, faster and faster, building and building to something powerful as the bulge of liquid sat there biding its time.

The other phallus slipped back into Bratch's mouth once more. It too began to plunge in and out faster. Bratch tried to pleasure it as before, but now he was just a passenger. A hole there for it to fulfil its now desperate need, to fuck, to spill its seed into. A willing receptacle for the creature to unload into.

"Mmmnn--ahhhnn!" Bratch gasped, the sound torn from his throat, half-moan, half-whimper, trembling on the edge of a scream.

Bratch gasped as he felt the power of this creature. He felt the tip turn around and hit that special place, that magical spot inside of him that sent wave after wave of pleasure through him.

Bratch's thoughts screamed in desperation, unable to escape his lips with the tendril lodged in his mouth, but the creature seemed to sense the frantic plea coursing through his mind: O-oh gods--don't stop--d-don't you dare stop--

His body trembled, every muscle taut, quivering on a knife's edge of unbearable bliss. He could feel it--deep, intimate--like the creature was right there with him, joined in a perfect, obscene harmony. They pulsed together, locked in a shared rhythm of mounting ecstasy, poised at the brink of something devastatingly wonderful.

Building and building. Closer and closer. Faster and faster.

Bratch's whole body moved and writhed, his glistening stomach, slick with ooze, pulsing up and down. His wet thighs pulling in and out. His arse pushing up and down on the shaft inside of him. He felt wonderful. Wanted, fulfilled. He felt... feminine.

His breath became deeper. He could feel the warmth of the creature. He could sense its feelings. It was coming so soon. Focussed purely on Bratch.

And then he felt it. It was there.

With a sudden, violent shudder, the creature erupted inside him-- ejaculating into his cavity - an overwhelming surge that blasted through his core like a wave of molten bliss. The force of it shattered his composure, dragging Bratch with it into a blinding, breathless climax that left his mind reeling and his body convulsing in helpless ecstasy.

The liquid inside of him felt hot, too hot, alive and furious. It boiled and fizzed inside of him, far too much for his small body to take. Filling up ever pore, every muscle, every vein. It felt like the end, but it also felt... Wonderful.

At the same time the phallus in his mouth pushed in deeper, just as angry and desperate as its twin. It shook and quivered as Bratch struggled to breathe. Then it came as well.

Liquid surged into Bratch's mouth, hot and thick ropes of sticky fluid, flooding his senses as he struggled to keep up with the torrent almost drowning him.

It was too much to take all at once, but he welcomed it, swallowing greedily. The salty, musky taste filling his mouth like a rich, forbidden nectar. Despite its potency, he couldn't help but crave more, each swallow sending a wave of satisfaction that made him feel dizzy with pleasure.

In fact it was beyond wonderful--sublime. His body shook as if hit by lightning. Bratch experienced an orgasm like no other. He felt an intense tingle in his engorged balls before a volcano of his on cum erupted out of his plugged penis, the sensations sending sparks of pure electric through his every nerve.

An orgasm of pure blinding white power from another dimension. It was as if Old Mage Flindlewhap's Arcano-Fireworks spectacular (the kind that was banned from three kingdoms after accidentally disintegrating a bishop's tower) was taking place inside of him at that moment.

His senses exploded. Colours he couldn't name danced behind his eyelids, and every nerve in his body sang out in radiant, uncontrollable bliss.

His heart thundered like a drumline of caffeinated goblins, beating so fast he thought it might burst from his chest in a shower of glitter and poor decisions.

Bratch was slipping. Reality, that tiresome, inconvenient thing, was unraveling like a badly knitted sock. The horror of the evening--the summoning, the slime, the screaming--had all been washed away in a warm, glittering tide of absolutely spectacular sensation. Nirvana reached.

The room around him blurred, then melted, as if the walls themselves had decided they'd seen enough and politely bowed out turning to bright painterly warm primary colours.

His body looked strange from his dimming eyes--plumper, curvier, delightfully swollen in ways he didn't quite remember authorising. He might've panicked, if he hadn't been too busy feeling like a marshmallow dipped in warm honey and set adrift on a chocolate river.

Before he could ponder any of this with his usual anxious flair, a dreamy, syrup-thick sleep wrapped around his mind. He tumbled headfirst into it with a sigh, slipping into some hazy, wonderful land beyond thought--somewhere soft and squishy, where everything smelled faintly of vanilla and sin.

Chapter Five: ???? A Slippery Slope

Bratch was floating.

Not in the air--his body was still very much pinned to the cold stone floor by coils of slime-slick tentacle--but in his mind. It was like lying on his back in a warm bath, staring up at a ceiling of velvet. Every inch of him throbbed with ecstasy, the ooze coursing through his veins like honeyed lightning. It was inside him now, pulsing gently, a rhythm not unlike a second heartbeat.

"This is nice," he thought, in the way one might consider a holiday in the countryside or a second slice of cake.

And indeed, it was. Nice. Warm. Fuzzy. Bratch's eyelids fluttered as his lips parted in a soft, dreamy sigh. His mind felt like it had been gently shaken out and replaced with marshmallow fluff and slow-burning fireworks. Every worry he'd ever had--failing his exams, his father's dissapointment, being mocked by the other wizards, waking up looking like an elf girl--floated away like dust on the breeze.

But then--

"Bratch..."

The voice was small. Faint. A whisper in the corner of a mind soaked through with bliss. He blinked, suddenly aware of the stickiness clinging to his chest. The heavy weight of the tendrils across his limbs. The wet suction of something puckering against the back of his neck.

"Bratch. Wake up. This isn't you."

He twitched. Only slightly--but enough for one of the tendrils to tighten around his thigh, possessive, almost annoyed.

A tiny shiver crept down his spine. His brain, swaddled in ooze and pleasure, still registered something else: danger. The spell was thick around him, thick as fog and just as cloying, but a single thought bubbled up from somewhere deep inside.

This thing is trying to make you love it.

His eyes opened fully now. The chamber around him still pulsed with that strange, organic light. The tendrils glistened with fresh ooze, their slick surfaces twitching rhythmically. The main tentacle--the one that had sprouted extra limbs after plunging into his mouth--undulated before him like a pleased python. With the thing released from his throat he could breathe properly. Maybe even shout for help.

He should be screaming. He really should. And yet...

"... Maybe after just one more squirt," he thought distantly, before the voice inside him--clearer now--snapped, "NO."

And then he felt it.

It began with a pulse. Something he both saw and felt as it rippled through his body.

Somewhere deep within the tangle of slick tentacles, a ripple passed through--blue and electric, flashing like lightning under flesh. Bratch blinked groggily, senses staggering back into focus. The summoning room started to reappear from the mists of his pleasure.

He was being lifted, then lowered, then lifted again, like some grotesque sacrificial offering on an organic carnival ride.

"What now?" he mumbled, barely audible under the squelch and squirm around him.

The energy built fast. The tentacles tightened. The light grew brighter. Bratch could feel it building--something was going to happen. His breath caught.

Then it did.

With a sound like a thunderclap inside a meat locker--SPLORT-THWACK-BOOOM--the entire creature erupted.

A blinding white light exploded outward, obliterating everything in a dazzling cascade of ooze, flashing magic, and shredded tentacle bits. It splattered the walls, the floor, and especially Bratch who fell to the floor with a mighty bump.

Then silence.

Bratch lay there, panting, slimy, half-conscious, his limbs twitching. Slowly, he sat up, drenched in gloop. He could feel it trickling from everywhere--even places he hadn't known could leak. It felt like his body was deflating as the strange substance leaked out of every pore, every orifice.

His every muscle and fibre ached. He could feel the ooze pouring out of his hole, which felt five times larger than it should have done as the cool air of the room reminded him.

The room felt... different now. The pressure in the air was gone, the unnatural energy dispelled. Only the putrid scent of the monster's last, messy moments remained--a blend of scorched cinnamon, rotten fruit, and something uncomfortably like melted crayons.

Bratch groaned and stood. That's when he noticed it.

He was taller.

His limbs stretched longer, smoother, stronger. His waist cinched in elegantly, while his hips flared with an almost exaggerated, statuesque grace. His skin glowed like polished alabaster, slick with a sheen of lingering ooze that somehow made him shimmer like a freshly summoned succubus. His chest was full and proud, his thighs thick and powerful, every inch of him sculpted into soft, dangerous curves.

He was--she was--undeniably beautiful. And not in the way Bratch had ever imagined. This wasn't a pretty-boy illusion or a girlish glamour spell. This was something divine. Her face was still his, in a way, but honed--cheekbones carved to cut hearts, lips full and kissable, lashes dark and sultry. Her hair had grown too, tumbling in waves around her shoulders, catching the dim light like fire through smoke.

She turned slightly and saw her backside in the mirror, and nearly gasped again. It was impossible. Round, perfect, taut, shameless. Even the slime couldn't hide the bold shape of it. She was like a living statue of erotic heroism--a forbidden idol from some ancient temple where desire and danger went hand in hand.

The cock was still there. My god was it still there. No longer small and insignificant, but meaty and mighty as it swung between her legs. Thick veins running down the hefty shaft ahead of two large heavy balls.

Bratch--no, she--stared at the mirror, breath trembling.

Power stirred in her fingertips, dancing there like sparks waiting to leap. Her thighs tingled with residual pleasure, her core pulsing with something new--something wild and limitless.

Her lips curled into a grin. Not a shy, awkward twitch, but a confident, knowing smirk. She--yes, she--felt alive. Not scared. Not embarrassed. Not clumsy.

Just... powerful.

And deeply magical.

And maybe, just a little bit terrifying.

But also, damn, she looked good.

Chapter Six: ????‍???? Behold! The Boobalich!

This new Bratch, or whatever this amazing amazon was now, stood in the ruins of the summoning chamber, ooze dripping from her body like the last tears of a vanquished god. The magical residue shimmered faintly on her skin, each droplet refracting the light like tiny, glistening gems.

The mirror hadn't lied--she had changed. Not just a little. Not subtly. Utterly.

She took a breath. Power hummed through her bones, a low, intoxicating vibration that stirred her blood and curled her toes. Somewhere deep inside, a sliver of the demon still clung to her--a thin thread of its power fused with her own. It pulsed softly in her chest, not a threat now, but a source. A combination that was both powerful and potent.

And she felt good.

She closed her eyes, lifted her arms, and whispered a spell that didn't come from a textbook, but from instinct. From her. Blue fire flared around her feet, and with a sound like a gasp and a sigh--fffwomph--the ooze coating her body evaporated into fragrant steam. Her skin shimmered clean, flawless, radiant. Her hair cascaded down her back in perfect, sultry waves, glistening like molten copper. Dark makeup bloomed onto her face with a sweep of unseen brushes--smoky eyes, scandalous lashes, lips painted the colour of crushed velvet.

Then, as if summoned by her very desire, the outfit began to appear--ribbons of black silk and gold snaking through the air, curling around her curves like a lover's hands. They wrapped her slowly, deliberately, pulling taut with teasing precision until the robe formed around her: pure glamour and sin made manifest.

It hugged her body like it had been sewn by lust itself. Midnight black, cut to reveal the sweep of her thighs and the curve of her waist, it draped over her chest with dramatic slits that dared the viewer to look--and threatened them if they did. The fabric was impossibly soft, barely-there silk with subtle glimmers of starlight woven into the seams. Gold chains looped around her shoulders, falling across her collarbone, drawing the eye like a path of breadcrumbs straight to temptation of those perfect pendulous breasts.

The robe trailed behind her like liquid darkness, embroidered with runes that pulsed with faint violet light. Her boots were heeled and thigh-high, gleaming and sharp enough to count as weapons. Her long hair framed it all like a halo of sin and sorcery.

She looked like a goddess of ruin, a queen from some forgotten realm where pleasure and power were currency. And she loved it.

With a flick of her hand, the heavy doors of the summoning chamber creaked open and she strode into the corridors of the College of Magic like she owned the place. Her hips swayed with effortless confidence, her heels clicking with power. Students stared, slack-jawed, while teachers averted their eyes or stammered uselessly.

She smiled.

Let them talk.

Let them wonder.

Let them fear.

She was going to cause chaos. To fuck and be fucked by whatever she wanted. She was going to topple kingdoms, humble kings and lords. Upset the balance of power in the land and laugh as she did so. People would worship her and weep at her feet. Beg to just have just a glimpse of her beauty.

But she had one thing left to do before she made her grand exit.

Bratch's smile grew sharper as she turned toward the faculty wing, where a certain crusty old pervert named Snoot kept his office tucked away under layers of pretension and pipe smoke.

He had mocked her.

He had humiliated her.

And now he was going to find out what happened when you underestimated a sorceress with demon magic in her veins and a very naughty sense of revenge.

Today, Professor Snoot was going to learn a lesson he'd never forget. It would be more embarrassing, more painful and more public than anything he'd done to any poor young student, that was for sure.

And Bratch--no, the sorceress--was going to enjoy every second of it.