The Centaur

The Centaur

The old woman surveyed the dead pony in the paddock. Standing next to her was a young man with tears streaming from his eyes.

"Let's get the old bastard into his stall," she said. "He'll be easier to deal with there than out here in the wind."

The young man nodded. It was chilly; just above freezing with a sharp up-slope wind toward the mountains that was dropping the air temperature. He walked around the body, pausing to gently stroke the animal's muzzle before picking up the animal by the hooves and easily dragging him toward the barn. The crone watched him with calculating eyes. Though still a teen, he had the muscular development of a grown man used to hard labor. He dragged the dead pony across the aisle and into a large stall. Framing its opening were ribbons of every color, declaring the pony a champion.

The old woman surveyed them bitterly as she listened to the scrapings as the boy adjusted the body for processing. The old pony had been her insurance for a comfortable old age. That was gone now.

Decades before, she'd been a witch of stunning beauty, whose mastery of tantric sex magic had made her wealthy and powerful beyond imagination. The religious folk called her a whore, but the men (and women) who flocked to her home for her ecstatic brand of magic left renewed, invigorated, and sexually powerful beyond all comprehension.

When her beauty (if not her power) began to fade, she took an apprentice. Against her better judgment, but because the oracles demanded it, she chose a young, stunningly pretty little boy she bought in the slave market. All the wags put their fingers next to their noses as she led him off on a leather leash, wondering why the bitch wanted such a beautiful catamite when she was fucking virtually every man in the village.

She wondered the same thing, herself.

Her magic did not respond to such innocent fair flesh. Her customers were those beginning to age who were in danger of forgetting the increasingly dormant power in their loins. He was safe from her. For a while. So she put him to work at her estate. At the time, she was wealthy beyond belief, and her enormous home and extensive estate reflected her wealth. The boy became her servant, and he seemed happy enough to clean and fetch and muck out the stables.

Several years later, however, her tantric magic recognized the quickly fermenting sexual power in the boy's body as puberty began to overtake his childhood.

At the time, her own beauty was beginning to fade, and with it the power over those who came to her seeking ecstasy through her favor and powers. She was no less powerful that before--if anything, her powers had increased as she aged. Nevertheless, her reputation was fading with her beauty, and with it, her wealth.

Sexual profligacy is not the best teacher of economic prudence.

Consequently, while not yet desperate, she was beginning to worry about her future when she first took the boy to her bed and, thinking he would be her successor, began to teach him the exquisite sexual torment it was possible to inflict on a partner.

Horny not-yet-man that he was, The Boy quickly learned the rudimentary techniques of tantric sex from her and before long was giving her more pleasure than she could ever remember having ever experienced in her long and corrupt life. Her lust-blinded eyes failed to see the golden horns that erupted from his forehead; nor did she notice that he was flexing his golden membrane wings to drive himself inexorably more deeply into her during intercourse. Her magic was more powerful than even she suspected. He was well on his way to becoming an irresistible incubus. Her tantric sex changed a man into something at once more and less than human.

For some time, she pinned her hope that her slave/protégé would make money for the estate; however, her hopes to substitute his beauty for her own were dashed early on. When The Boy had sex with a few of the farm wives seeking to gain control over their distracted husbands, the witch discovered, instead, that they had abandoned all sexual attraction to their husbands. And when a few of the virgins in the town offered themselves to him for a ritual deflowering, they became absolutely disinterested in sex with anybody but The Boy. The threat from the village men of burning the estate to the ground with them in it discouraged the old woman from whoring out her protégé for further adventures.

In her worry to maintain her power, she also failed to notice that every time The Boy had a sexual encounter with one of the girls or women in the village, his muscles (and other parts of his body) became, well, enhanced.

However, she desperately knew that she had to find another income in her twilight years (she refused to think of it as old age and, indeed, she seemed perpetually young until the truth of sexual union with another disclosed just how sunken her flesh had become).

The Boy (she never gave him a name) thrived on her teachings and would have finished his transformation into a true incubus had she possessed a few more years of power--let alone the awareness of what she was doing--before everything began to fade,. The Boy never knew (from her) of his potential. He never detected the horns on his head nor the wings in his back nor realized that it was the potential of demonic wings that pulsed his adolescent member so deep into her.

However.

In her fading years, she discovered that the mountain ponies in her stable could provide her with a predictable (if not munificent) income. Her little cobby stallion (which The Boy had named "Jack,") could enthusiastically cover several mares a week, producing muscular little foals that were much prized by the farmers in the community.

Jack didn't raise as much income as she'd earned when breeding the fathers of the sons who brought their mares to her, but it kept poverty somewhat at bay. The Boy cooperated, bringing the estrus mares to Jack. The little stallion wasn't all that much bigger than he was, and most of the mares were similarly sized. But the equines were much stronger than they looked. The village, and, indeed, the entire region, thrived on the labor of the small horses: her little stallion and his issue were the wellspring of the wealth of much of the region.

The witch watched as The Boy sobbed over the death of his friend. The dead horse on the ground represented the last of her hopes to live out her life comfortably. She began to remember spells, silly spells, forbidden spells she had been overheard as a girl.

If she weren't going to die in poverty, however, they didn't seem so silly.

"You! Boy! Cut off that pony's head and go bury it. I'll need the rest of it."

"Yes, auntie," he said. He had loved Jack, and taking Jack's head, his brain, and what had been the best of Jack away from whatever his witch auntie had planned for the rest of the stallion's corpse didn't bother him in the least.

The wind was bitter that evening. The sun had set, but The Boy carried a shovel out to one of the farther pastures where Jack had enjoyed leaping and running, and he began to dig a hole. The ground was cold, but not frozen, and after an hour, he had an eight-foot deep hole the size of a horse.

The Boy was extraordinarily strong (a side effect of farm work and tantric sex which even then was burdening him with power). Despite the cold night, he had taken off his shirt to keep it clean. He was also working hard with little effort; he jumped and caught himself on the side of the grave he had dug and easily pulled himself onto the turf.

It was a good place to bury the Best of Jack. Close to the forest, but overlooking one of the pastures where Jack had so enjoyed covering the mares, the sensations of which kept him happy for so many years.

The Boy was sobbing when he pulled himself out of the grave with little effort and walked back to the compound where the little horse had died. Once back in the barn, he chose a blade he himself had made and honed to razor sharpness and, as gently as he knew how, severed the dead pony's head from its body. He carried it in his arms over the hillocks, dripping blood down his torso, to the grave and dropping himself into the hole, laid it gently on the earth.

"Hey, Jackie," The Boy said as he gently covered the head with soft earth around the grave. "You know I love you. I'm sorry you don't get to fuck any more mares. You had so much fun doing that."

The Boy had no idea that much of the energy in the pony's brain transferred itself into his own body, any more than he had a clue about the old woman's experiments with turning him into an incubus. The woman wouldn't have been able to comprehend the consequences of her experiments on The Boy.

The Boy spent the rest of the night in prayer, quietly and slowly filling in the enormous grave he had dug, even going so far as to scatter surrounding detritus over the grave so that, to the untrained eye, the earth had never been disturbed.

The Boy arrived back at the compound around dawn.

"Where you been?"

"Burying Jackie, like you told me to."

Her eyes darted along the path he had walked to the compound. "You know where you buried that head?"

"Yeah."

"Good. We might need it later."

The Boy had absolutely no intention of ever telling the old hag where he'd buried Jackie's head. She did too much nasty witchy shit, and he had absolutely no intention of helping her use Jackie in her spells.

The Boy had been lonely for a long time. The Old Lady had taught him to fuck and use sex to control his partners/victims, but he'd figured out early on that it didn't take much to make just about anybody love you. Or think they loved you.

Whatever.

So when the Old Lady called him back into Jackie's stall and told him to sharpen not one, but two, of her eldritch knives, it didn't take a genius to figure out that she was up to some evil shit.

He watched her make a cut around Jackie's belly. "Help me turn him over, "she grunted.

He did so.

A circular cut bisected the skin just above the muscular hind legs. Then she began gradually to peel the skin of the lower body away from the dead pony's flesh. She wielded the knives with a skill and precision that bordered on gentleness. Every so often--each inch or so-- she would dust the revealed skin with a pink powder that instantly dissolved onto the integument of the equine skin.

Ever so gently, she perfectly peeled the skin away. The boy helped her, horrified as he helped her flay the skin off the dead pony from the waist down. Even more carefully when she reached the genitals, she delved deeper with the magical knife, severing hidden physical structures before continuing the precise flaying of the animal.

The skin of the upper hind legs was stretched taut with the animal's powerful muscles, and The Boy felt his eyes tearing up again as he remembered watching Jack use those muscles to leap and cavort and, when pinning a somewhat unwilling and skittish mare, to drive himself more deeply into her before releasing and breeding yet another prize foal in her depths.

The woman noticed the tears. "Don't drip on my work," she said matter-of-factly, referring to the blood-red integument she had so painstakingly flayed from the body of the animal.

She was almost done. Previously, she had severed the hooves, and all that remained was to peel away the skin around the fetlocks, leaving the handsome dark feathers that had been one of Jack's finest traits.

She scattered more of her powder over the red skin before meticulously turning it right-side out again and laying it neatly next to the flayed body of its former owner.

She stood up then, wincing as her old bones and muscles betrayed her, and walked over to the work table where she picked up a double-pint-sized flagon, which, with bloody arms and hands, she carried over to him.

"Drink this," she said.

One of her potions. He looked at her as he swallowed the liquid.

"Now put it on," she said, pointing to the skin.

"No," The Boy said quietly.

She sighed. "If you don't put it on, you will suffer from exquisite pain, both physical and mental, for the rest of your life.

"And you will live a very, very long life."

He began to feel a burning in his belly, and he knew she wasn't lying. He knew too much about her witchcraft, and he remembered far too clearly how she had corrected and coerced him in the past.

He walked over to the skin. Peeling off his boots and socks, he released the fastenings on his overalls and let them fall to the ground. Stepping out of them, he sat down on the ground next to the skin and with no hesitation, stuck his legs into the wet, bloody openings and pulled the skin on like trousers until his feet stuck out the holes where the pony's hooves had once been. Standing then, he eased the skin up over his lower legs. It was too tight for his muscled calves, but the skin stretched.

When he pulled it up over his thighs, it was too loose from the powerful equine muscles it had once encased. But the skin contracted, even as he felt his muscles expanding to fill the space.

He pulled the skin higher. The old woman was at his side then, and with a touch of her finger he was painfully erect; she unceremoniously slid the equine sheath over his member, all the while she was stretching an opening to allow his testicles to drop into the enormous equine scrotum that still contained Jack's lemon-sized testicles. The Boy was tempted to scream when he felt their tissues melding together.

Then, gently, she used her hands to smooth out the wrinkles in the skin over his thighs and buttocks, all the while making certain that his anus aligned well with the hole in the horse-skin where the pony's rectum had been.

During this time, the skin had been tightening and stretching over his body even as his body swelled and changed to accommodate the skin. Waves of nausea and weakness swept over him, and he grabbed the table as the witch examined her work.

"Go to bed," she ordered him. "You can dispose of the carcass in the morning. There will also be work to do tomorrow."

He staggered out of the barn and through the biting wind toward the house. The pony's skin seemed to be eating into his own, dissolving it while tightening and inflating his body, turning it more equine. More powerful. The late-morning sun was pale to nonexistent as he entered the house and made his way through the halls and up the stairs to his room, where he fell face-first onto his bed and was instantly unconscious.

***

The smell of food awakened him. He raised his face from the pillow, only to be thwarted by a cascade of hair that impeded his vision. He pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. Unfamiliar hair fell well below his shoulders until he swept it with a hand behind his back, not failing to notice that the cascade extended the length of his spine.

He should have felt groggy from sleeping over eighteen hours, but he felt.... alive! Invigorated! Potent! HUNGRY!

Standing up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror of his luxurious room. Memories of the day before were too raw to be forgotten, and he surveyed the creature he'd become.

Jack's skin had melted into his legs, the glossy coat graced by the blond hair that had been above his fetlocks now cascaded down his calves, curling naturally around The Boy's ankles.

Had The Boy bent over like a horse, his equine genitals would have seemed more natural. But his upright stance and gravity pulled his enlarged testicles down until they hung, pendulous, between his legs. His equine penis was snugged into a swollen, monstrously large sheath on his belly that ended just below his navel.

Overnight, the transformation the witch had begun on him had continued, so that coarse, curly hair that was neither equine nor human had sprouted between his abdominal muscles and climbed up his frame only to flourish in a riot on his muscular chest.

The hair was pale blonde and contrasted strikingly with the dusky, almost black color of his skin, which was shaded with darker golden, much shorter horse hair.

Hunger distracted him from looking at his transformed self in the mirror. He hurried to dress, but discovered that he couldn't pull his overalls up over the swollen muscles of his thighs. In desperation, he pulled a working kilt out of his closet and wrapped it around his middle while desperately trying to find a shirt large enough to cover his his chest.

He couldn't find one. Eventually, hunger drove him from the room and he walked into the kitchen shirtless and balefully looked at the witch, seated at her end of the table, dressed in black, and eating gruel with a wooden spoon.

"So," she smiled, "I see my fine centaur has emerged from his cocoon!"

He ignored her and went to the stove where a pot of oatmeal was cooling on the hob. Unthinkingly, he lifted it up and proceeded to pour a gallon of the gruel down his throat. He dropped the empty pot onto the stove with a metallic thud and looked at the woman. She, for her part, was applauding him slowly, mockingly.

"A fine breakfast! A fine breakfast!" she exclaimed. "That should give you plenty of energy for your new duties!"

"What might that be, old woman?" he asked insolently.

She narrowed her eyes. "Earn your keep, Centaur," she mocked. "Elias Thorngold's mare is in heat in stall eighteen. Go cover her!"

His eyes widened. "What! I'll do no such thing."

She smiled. "You will," she said calmly as a heat began to burn in his core that, unchecked, would have left him sobbing in agony before too many minutes had passed.

The pain became too much. He dropped his head. She smiled in satisfaction. "Go!"

Walking out of the house, he had no intention of "covering" the mare, but as he got closer to the barn, some perfume only he could smell and not elude caused him to quicken his steps. He walked into the barn where the scent of the mare overwhelmed any other instincts he might have had.

He unbuckled his kilt, which fell to the straw. He opened the gate and walked into the enclosure.

The mare, for her part, wasn't smelling stallion the way The Centaur was smelling mare, so she objected to this human disturbing her when all she wanted to do was to rut.

She attempted to bite him, but found herself turned by insanely powerful human arms that climbed up her rump like a stallion's forelimbs. Instinctively, she raised her tail and felt the beginnings of penetration.

The Centaur didn't need to get on a box to reach her. He pulled her back even as the sheath on his abdomen released the equine cock. As it emerged from its sheath, it dripped with a gelatinous lubrication. It felt as if it was growing out of some secret place in his body, lengthening impossibly. He could feel the enormous weight of the thing, even as it stiffened into stone-like hardness. Something took over his body then. In retrospect, he thought it might be Jack's transferred memories, imprinted somehow into his body, as he guided the equine member inexorably toward and into the mare's receptive core.

She might have whinnied in surprise. No stallion had ever gotten her this quickly before. The Boy remembered Jack had always quickly pistoned into the mares, made violent thrusts, and found his release within seconds.

But The Boy was a man as well as a beast, and he guided himself into her as a man would, slowly, enjoying the slick lubrication that slowly allowed his member to spread her channel. The mare quivered and snorted then as she accepted the unfamiliar sensations that were pouring into her from the breeding.

The Boy closed his eyes in ecstasy as the overwhelming sense of power flooded into him. Once a tantric witch, always a tantric witch. And what efforts the old witch had used to turn him into an incubus came to fruition as dark, membranous wings tore open the skin on his back and aided as he plunged ever deeper into the mare. He could have enjoyed her forever, but some imperative drove him to begin pistoning into her. One! Two! Three! and a river of fecund semen poured into her even as his tantric power caused her to experience an orgasm of her own, drawing the sperm inexorably into her womb.

The ejaculation cemented the nerve pathways between the old pony and The Boy, turning him irrevocably into The Centaur.

They did more than that, however.

The old witch's efforts to turn her protege into a tantric witch and incubus also meant that the power of the sexual act flowed out of the mare even as he impregnated her. The Boy--now The Centaur--did not know this any more than he had understood the power and the dominance that flowed into him any time he bred a female human.

The overload of Power forced one more ejaculation out of his member, this time the product of his combined human and equine testes, by then grown to proportions much larger than could be explained by the amalgamation of the human and equine tissue.

"Mine," he whispered into the mare's ears as he bent over her back. "My best."

Something flowed out of him then in addition to the semen. Some Power exploded into the mare then, ensuring her fertility. The Centaur smiled, even as the memories of Jack and his power and his ecstasy melded into his own memory. The mare would eventually foal, and the little colt would be a champion, fiery and noble, with an intelligence that seemed almost human at times.

As he slowly withdrew inch after inch from the mare and her vulva contracted to contain both the semen and the magic, The Centaur smiled. He looked down at himself and his dripping member. With only the lightest touch of thought, he watched as the equine member retracted into its sheath, which absorbed the monstrous appendage even as it released from his abdomen and dropped down between his legs: significantly enlarged, but seemingly human.

Again with his will, he shrank the proportions of his centaur body, that had grown in size and strength in order to overpower the mare, to more normal human proportions even while he walked out of the barn and crossed to the porch where the witch was watching. "She sucked the life out of me, Auntie," he whined as he drew close to her. "What happened?"

The witch was in shock at the diminishment of her creation. Suspicious, she had only begun to narrow her eyes when The Incubus/Centaur reached her and touched her. Before she could defend herself, he had seized her. "My beauty," he whispered, "we are going to enjoy so much pleasure together."

Immediately, she exploded with her most powerful spells which, to her horror, melted into the body of her Boy. "Ahh, that feels so good," he said. "It will feel even better, later."

She found herself in her bedroom. Stripped naked. He was hovering over her, golden horns on his forehead and wings so large they touched the walls of her bedroom. "You are so beautiful!" he said.

And she believed him.

He knelt down and kissed her. As he deepened the kiss, her face began to wrinkle and collapse. Then he withdrew his tongue from her mouth and began to explore her body. His tongue touched her right nipple and he drew it into his mouth, where its bounty began to collapse around his lips. He repeated the process with her left nipple. It, too, deflated. All the while, she was moaning and occasionally screaming as he surgically withdrew her life essence from her body and soul, while leaving her mind intact in ecstasy.

He moved down her body, each touch of his hands or tongue robbing her of what little beauty she still possessed and stealing from her the glamour that had preserved her beauty for so long.

She was a female husk.

"You're so beautiful," he said. And she believed him.

He eased into her, and his member began the real work of taking from her every spell, crafting, charm, and potion. "You're so beautiful," he said.

And she believed him.

He was a gentle lover, easing his metamorphosed member into her gently, then doing everything in his power to bring her to ecstasy. He crested her into heaven over and over again and she shouted her fulfillment to the world.

Night after night he pleasured her. He brought her food in bed, feeding her morsels with his hands before taking her again. And each of her orgasms fed him, strengthened him, filled him with her power until, one night after incomparable ecstasy, he succeeded in drawing from her the pearl of magic that was her core, her very being.

The next morning, she awoke on her back and tried to roll over. It hurt. She groaned. She realized she was in bed with a man. It was The Boy! She couldn't move. He rolled over and kissed her on the cheek, then propped himself up on his elbow, looking at her. He was all muscles, cascading head hair turning into a mane, with pony hair covering his chest.

She wanted him then. She reached out a shrunken hand to caress the fearsome musculature of his chest.

He ignored her and stood up and walked to the door of the privy. His cascading head hair partially obscured the mane that had erupted from his back and curled its way down his spine to a muscular equine ass covered in pony hair, followed by an equally magnificent palomino tail. She watched as he gripped his large human member and it transformed into an equine penis that relaxed in his hand and dropped from its sheath before a heavy stream of urine poured into the pissoir.

She tried to move, surprised at her weakness after days and nights of bliss. She felt as if her very bones were old. "What has happened to me?" she bleated.

"Oh, I took all your power," he said matter-of-factly as he continued to piss.

Finishing, he shook the enormous member dry and turned around. She was almost blinded by his beauty. He had taken all that she had left of her own, and augmented his own.

He shimmered then, and the monstrous equine muscles faded to be replaced by the beautiful boy she knew.

She tried to bring up a spell to punish him. Nothing happened. He smiled and leaned over and kissed her. She felt the very skin of her lips dehydrating by the contact. Anything he touched went into his body. He smiled, and she saw his lips were as full as hers had been when she first began to seduce the men and women of the village. She might have moaned.

His eyes crinkled. "I have returned you to your true age. I have taken all your gifts. I know all your plans and have stolen all your power. I know how to wield your power far more effectively than you ever did yourself.

"I have hired a girl to take care of you. Try not to piss your bed too frequently, as she is not a particularly patient person until I have satisfied her. She'll bring you down to the kitchen after she's mucked you off.

"I'm sorry I can't join you for breakfast. I've three mares to cover this morning.

"In the future, why don't you call me 'Jack.'"