Turned into the Panties of the Playful Witch

DARK FANTASY FEMDOM TRANSFORMATION EROTICA

M.L. PAIGE

"So, you wanted a pair of my panties. I think something can be arranged."

Dahlia, the Witch of 13th Street

Turned into the Panties of the Playful Witch

How hard could it be to steal a pair of witch’s panties? Easy peasy–that’s what Andrew Miller was determined to prove to his buddies. He rang Dahlia Casper’s bell and pulled the UPS hat over his face, holding the fake package stuffed with shredded newspaper and gravel in his hands. The intercom crackled to life.

“Yes?” Dahlia asked.

Dahlia Casper, the “Witch of 13th Street”... or so said the rumors. Though as far as rumors went, these came from Dahlia as much as anyone else. The woman advertised herself on Instagram and TikTok as a “witch for hire” and it hadn’t been hard for Andrew and his friends to track her down to her apartment on 13th Street and 1st Avenue. Not that any of the guys believed her bullshit. It was obviously just more influencer crap, the ol’ psychic fortune teller scam dressed up for the modern age.

“Package for a Ms. Casper?” Andrew asked.

There was a sigh through the intercom. “Fine, I’ll buzz you up,” said Dahlia.

“Ma’am, I need you to sign for this package and I’m unable to go upstairs. My truck is double parked outside. New company policy, I’m afraid.”

There was a stretch of silence and Andrew took a risk to push Dahlia.

“Ma’am? Can you buzz me in and meet me downstairs please?”

Another sigh over the intercom. Dahlia mumbled something to herself that Andrew couldn’t hear. “Okay. Be down in a second.”

Dahlia buzzed Andrew in and he got to work. The lobby had two staircases leading to either wing of the corner building, with a single elevator; the supposed witch was, coincidentally enough, on the 13th floor, so Andrew knew she would take the elevator. He called it before she could and when it arrived, he held the door open and punched a half-dozen floors, ensuring it would take a long time to get up to Dahlia. He set the package on a round marble table in the center of the lobby and bolted up the stairs leading to the wing opposite Dahlia’s apartment.

Thankfully, New York City made it easy to get floor plans of most every apartment building out there, clueing Andrew into where Dahlia's apartment was, where the elevator was, and how he could–if he was fast enough–get up the stairs and get to her apartment before the elevator even made it up to her.

As simple as the plan was, it left Andrew no less winded by the time he got to the 12th floor. He took the last flight slowly, making sure he didn’t arouse any suspicions. He scouted the hallway. Sure enough, the elevator bank was past a bend, allowing Andrew to walk to Dahlia’s apartment door without being seen. When he reached her apartment–Unit #13J–he took out his pick gun, a fifty dollar lockpick tool that made quick work of most basic locks. Had Dahlia been at home, she might have bolted and chained her door, but she was only stepping downstairs for a minute–or so she thought.

And so Andrew hoped.

He worked the pick gun in the door lock, grinning as he heard the lock click open. He pushed the door inward and quietly closed it behind himself. By now, the elevator was likely nearing the 13th floor. He couldn’t slow down now.

The Witch of 13th Street’s apartment was… unique. The lights were dim and warm, with heavily scented candle smoke hanging in the air and low, ethereal music wafting through the long, narrow space. There were beaded curtains in place of doors and plush fabrics on nearly every piece of furniture, the odd decor disorienting Andrew even though he knew the layout of the apartment: two smaller rooms in the front, joint living room and kitchen in the middle, a master bedroom with a private bath in the back. But for some reason, the layout felt larger and more winding than the floor plan had suggested, as if someone had taken the apartment and stretched it out somehow.

Just as Andrew was beginning to panic, he found the master bedroom. From here it was simple: find a drawer with panties and get out the window onto the fire escape. He was almost there.

He dug through drawer after drawer, only finding strange robes and shawls and other mystic garb that looked like it belonged in a medieval festival instead of an apartment. How seriously did this woman take herself, anyway? Was she certifiably insane?

There was a loud thump and Andrew jumped. He looked at the door to the private bath. Had it been closed before? He thought so, but he wasn’t sure. Had something pounded on it from the other side?

He shoved the questions out of his head and frantically opened the last few drawers of an armoire against the wall. He was almost out of time and even though Andrew knew he should cut his losses while he had the chance, he was so close. He didn’t want to stop now.

Finally, at the bottommost drawer of the armoire, he found it: a cache of silky and lacey panties, along with stockings and nylon and fishnets. Andrew grabbed the first pair of panties he saw–a frilly pink thong–and shoved it in his pocket. Time to go.

Andrew opened up the bedroom curtains, ready to slink out onto the fire escape. But there was no window. He opened up the other set of curtains, thinking maybe he had made a mistake, but there was no window there either. He studied the wall, even looking behind the armoire to see if it might be blocking a window, but sure enough, there was only painted-over brick in lieu of where there should’ve been windows leading out to the apartment’s fire escape.

What the hell was going on?

There was another loud THUMP! and Andrew was sure this time that it had come from the bathroom. He had to get out of this apartment. Now.

He rushed to the bedroom door and as he pulled it open, his heart seized up, feeling like it might explode in his chest. There was Dahlia Casper, the Witch of 13th Street herself, dressed in a long, silk robe the color of deep ocean that was patterned with chromatic stars and shimmering, wispy streaks. She was shorter than Andrew would have guessed, with rosy, freckled skin, long, wavy coppery red hair, and curves that looked especially thick under the robe on the woman’s otherwise petite frame. Bright, dazzling white teeth shone in her wolfish grin, her pale blue eyes gleaming with the joy of a predator that’s caught their prey.

She dropped the open fake UPS box at Andrew’s feet. A puff of shredded newspaper blew out of it.

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing but–”

Dahlia saw the panties in Andrew’s hand. She scoffed.

“You’re just a pervert?” she asked, almost sounding let down. She shook her head. “On my way up here I was thinking ‘Oh, maybe it’s the Guild!’ or ‘What are those twats at the Tower up to now?’, but all you were after was a pair of panties? I’m… disappointed. Who are you?”

“N-n-no one,” stammered Andrew, not knowing if he should give Dahlia the panties, drop them on the floor, or keep holding them. He instinctively looked down at the swell of the woman’s tits and ass under the rich blue silk and then looked away. “Please. I’m sorry. I’ll just go and–”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” snapped Dahlia. “Give me those!”

The Witch of 13th Street snatched the frilly pink thong out of Andrew’s hand. She looked down at the panties, shaking her head again and laughing to herself.

“For fuck’s sake, a pervert…” she said under her breath.

Her pale blue eyes hardened in a look of concentration; it seemed like she had just been struck by an idea. She flicked the thong back at Andrew and his reflexes sprang into action. He caught it without thinking, feeling the soft frilly fabric between his fingers. As he did, Dahlia undid her robe belt and the ocean blue silk poured off her body as the garment fell to the ground, revealing her nude body underneath.

Andrew had guessed at her curves before, but now he was sure that she had a tight, lithe frame with pert, teardrop tits, all-you-can-grab hips, and a full, peach of an ass that Andrew couldn’t keep his eyes off. He swallowed, hard, noticing then how still the air in the room had become. The scented candle smoke that filled the apartment made him slightly dizzy with its woody, rich scent. He felt like he had to sit down.

Then Andrew’s eyes darted to the V between Dahlia’s legs. The hair there was as bright and coppery red as the locks that flowed down past her shoulders and was manicured into a thick strip that Dahlia had allowed to grow like a bed of thriving wildflowers. The woman’s lips were as rosy as the blush in her cheeks and were tucked in tight, giving her pussy a puffy, delicate look.

Andrew’s eyes flicked back up to Dahlia’s smirking face, embarrassed despite the already chaotic circumstances for taking such an unabashed look at the woman.

“So, you wanted a pair of my panties,” she said, clucking her tongue. “I think something can be arranged.”

Dahlia opened her plump pink lips and dark words tumbled out in a language Andrew didn’t know and knew he was incapable of ever learning. He felt them in his chest and deep in his gut and then it felt like his ears had suddenly popped. Dahlia fell away–or rather, Andrew did. He watched in confusion as Dahlia and the doorway behind her swung out of view, leaving him staring at the bedroom’s ceiling, where the witch had drawn a constellation map in iridescent ink. He felt smaller, lighter somehow, and he realized moments later he could no longer move his arms or legs, or even see them. He tried to turn his head but it was like Andrew was paralyzed, stuck on the floor to stare up at the bedroom ceiling.

He went to scream but had no mouth.

Dahlia loomed into his vision, grinning down at him as her coppery hair tumbled towards the floor. She reached down–she seemed so very large now, like a giant compared to Andrew–and lifted him up with ease, spinning the view of his world so that he saw the bedroom all around. His world bobbed up and down as Dahlia carried him to a corner of the bedroom where a tall mirror rested at a slant.

Andrew looked in the mirror.

He was gone. All he saw there was the naked witch with her ample curves and trim frame, a pair of bold red panties in her hand that were level with Andrew’s line of sight.

Wait. Hadn’t the panties he’d stolen and been thrown back pink? And wasn’t it a frilly thong, not the lacey bikini cut briefs he was looking at now?

Realization hit Andrew’s subconscious before his waking brain. And even though somewhere deep inside he knew what had happened, he wouldn’t believe it until he watched his world move again as Dahlia lowered the panties in the mirror to step into them, pulling them up her creamy thighs and over her full hips with her poofy bush of fiery orange pubic hair.

He’d felt her put on those panties almost as if he was putting them on himself–or as he imagined they might feel–but even that wasn’t quite right. It was like Dahlia’s body was sliding all over him and not the other way around, like he was being caressed by her smooth skin and pressed against her soft ass and had his head nestled right up against the warm, fragrant, ever so slightly moist lips of her pussy.

And then he got it. She had, through whatever dark words she had uttered, turned him into the panties she now wore. What. The. Fuck.

“Ah, I sense you’re finally catching on,” purred Dahlia.

What did you do to me?? thought Andrew, forgetting he could not speak.

Dahlia hmphed a laugh. “I gave you what you wanted,” she said. “A chance to be up close and personal with a pair of my panties…”

Could Dahlia read his thoughts now? Andrew tried it out: Can you hear me?

There was more thumping from the bedroom’s private bath, this time sounding eager and urgent. Like something wanted to get out.

Rather than respond, Dahlia reached a finger down and pressed it against her pussy through the red panties. Andrew immediately felt the rush of her warmth, along with the scratch of her bush as if his entire “body” was being enveloped by the intense sensation.

“Shhhh,” said Dahlia in a teasing whisper. “Let’s have some fun.”

Dahlia’s finger was all encompassing as it pushed harder against Andrew’s body-turned-panty, as if he was getting a full body massage from a person-sized, soft, puffy pussy. Her lips rubbed him and slid under the press of him so that he could feel the more tucked-in, wet, intimate skin–all while he felt the swell of her hips and the curve of her ass on him at the same time. It was a disorienting, dizzying experience, and Andrew didn’t know either to groan in delirium, moan in pleasure, or lose himself to it all…

…not that he could do those first two things, not without a proper body. Which only left one option.

Andrew luxuriated in the feel of Dahlia’s slicking lips and her wet, springy bush and her warm ass. Even though he didn’t think he could smell anymore–how could he?–he nevertheless felt the heady odor of Dahlia’s sex washing over him, its feminine musk seeming to soak through his “body”, through every little bit of lacy fabric and through every little gap in the weave. It was like being soaked with pussy, rinsing Andrew outside and in so that even his brain seemed to be nothing more than a sponge for the witch’s lusty wetness.

Then Dahlia’s rubbing sped up and Andrew went from feeling divine to feeling like he’d ridden too many rollercoasters. Her fingers slid him in sloppy circles so he was going up and down and left and right all at once, her dripping turning to gushing that made Andrew himself feel like he was sweating in hot, damp weather with no way to dry off. He wanted to pull away and to have a chance to breathe, but Dahlia’s fingers didn’t care. She rubbed her clit through his lacey red panty body and her motions became so erratic that the rest of Andrew wedged itself into even more intimate areas of the witch’s body–along her waist, against her taint, into her ass crack. A wash of sweat and pungency and faded perfume mixed into the sea of pussy musk that was throttling his ability to think straight and through it all, Andrew could only manage one broken mental cry:

Stop! Please stop! Let me out!

To Andrew’s surprise, Dahlia did stop. But she seemed less concerned with Andrew’s comfort and more with pulling out the mirror in the corner towards the bedroom’s queen-sized bed, setting it at the foot of the bed so that she could see herself–and Andrew himself–when she fell back onto the bed to rest herself against a mound of pillows. Then, staring at the panty-clad V between Dahlia’s milky white legs, Andrew watched as the witch pulled the hem of the panties out, stretching them. Andrew too felt stretched, like he was bending backwards further and further, and then Dahlia let go, snapping the panties against her. She let out a little gasp of pained pleasure, while Andrew felt as if his entire body had been smacked by a wet pussy. It knocked him dizzy and his “sight” was bleary as he watched Dahlia stretch the waistband of the panties again. He braced himself.

No no no!

Dahlia leaned forward and laughed in the mirror so Andrew could see it. Then she let the waistband go and once again Andrew was full body smacked by Dahlia’s slit. It really hurt this time, leaving Andrew speechless and wanting to cry.

“What’s wrong?” asked Dahlia. “Not having fun?”

There was something like the sound of a sniffle in Andrew’s head, like he could think about crying even if he couldn’t cry in his current state. No, he whined in his thoughts.

Dahlia’s hand brushed the lacey fabric, sending a thrum through Andrew. In his mind, he let out a shuddering sigh. Dahlia’s hand crested down her lips and then slid along the fabric hugging her hip so that she was caressing her ass. She wedgied the panties in between her creamy cheeks and Andrew felt himself being shoved in there too, like he was being absorbed by the witch’s ass. The warmth of her overwhelmed him and the feminine musk of her was so strong he could barely think.

Is this what it was like to be a thing? To have no will and no control over what happens to you, to be at the total and utter mercy of whoever was handling you–your owner, thought Andrew–and to feel the world only through their actions: their attention, their neglect, their needs, their wants. It was a horrifying thought, one that made Andrew wonder what levels of sadism and dehumanization Dahlia Casper, the Witch of 13th Street, was capable of. What if she kept him like this forever? What if the rest of his life was lived in panty drawers and being pulled up over the witch’s luscious curves, Andrew’s “body” flattened between the swell of her crotch and her sheets and skirts and skintight jeans?

With deep dread, Andrew imagined Dahlia spread out on the bed in her panties, wearing him, with a man at the foot of the bed. He imagined with as much of a shudder as he could manage what it would be like to for some strange man’s hands to be caressing the witch, touching Andrew as he touched her, his fingers stroking Dahlia’s pussy through the red lace, along with his tongue and his cock… ugh.

Dahlia left him wedged up her ass for a few minutes and then picked her wedgie out. It was like Andrew was granted a breath of fresh air. With both hands, she carefully peeled the panties off and Andrew’s view went chaotic again, tumbling through the air in Dahlia’s hands. She settled his panty-self on her stomach and spoke to him.

“Are you going to behave?” she asked.

Andrew tried to nod, but couldn’t. Yes, he thought at her. Yes, I will, I swear!

“Hmmm. I’d like to believe you, just so I could get on with my evening but I don’t know. You tricked me. You snuck into my home. You went through my intimates. Do you understand what a violation that is?” she asked.

I do. I really do, he thought. It will never, ever happen again. I promise!

Dahlia let out a sigh through her nose, her teardrop breasts rising and falling with the exhalation. “I need to think about it,” she said. “And I know what always helps me think…”

Before Andrew could psychically protest, Dahlia spoke more dark words in that deep, arcane voice of hers. Andrew felt his body change again. He felt tighter and taller. Stiffer even, somehow. Though his view of looking up between Dahlia’s tits had not changed, except for the fact that his line of sight seemed to roll back and forth ever so slightly. He wanted to stretch very badly and the mental image of him standing tall with his arms pinned to his sides and his neck craned back came to mind. But what did it mean?

Dahlia reached down and it was like she was picking up Andrew by his legs, swinging him through the air so he could see the bedroom in a slow, whooshing arc. Then he saw the mirror at the edge of the bed again. There was Dahlia, with her knees bent and feet up on the bed, legs spread into a V. The panties that Andrew had been were gone. He instead saw both of Dahlia’s hands as they fiddled with something long and smooth and flesh-toned.

No. No, no, no. That couldn’t be it. She didn’t. She wouldn’t! Would she?

Dahlia’s finger flicked against Andrew and his entire body started to buzz and vibrate violently.

The witch had turned him into a dildo.

“You’re going to help me think,” she told him with a wide, menacing smile. “I hope you’re not claustrophobic.”

Dahlia turned the dildo so that Andrew was facing her pussy, which was now tremendously huge and daunting in his view. She pushed his vibrating head against her wet lips, soaking him and enveloping him in the soft, wet feel of her skin. He felt her sink him in and his world went dark, the sensation almost indescribable. It was like someone had rolled Andrew up in warm, wet silk from head to toe and then had sandwiched him into a tunnel of slick, firm cushions that pressed against him from every angle, all while he shook uncontrollably from the inside out. Even though Andrew didn’t think his body needed to breathe like this, he still felt the rising panic of suffocation as Dahlia plunged him deeper and deeper into her, letting him stay nestled there. He heard her sigh through her body, a great big deep sound, and was splashed with her gushing wetness. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t feel anything except Dahlia’s all-encompassing pussy squeezing him tightly.

I could leave you like this forever, you know, her voice rang in his head. You wouldn’t need to eat or drink anything, you’d just live in my nightstand drawer as my ‘special’ vibrator.

Andrew whimpered in his mind, his buzzing brain too much of a jumble to form words.

Oh yes, continued Dahlia in his head. You’d sit there, day in and day out, waiting for me to take you out of your darkness. And you would have one purpose–to be buried in my pussy and get me off. You would be able to feel me squirming and hear me as I cum, but that would be it for you. Then, when I was done with you, I’d pull you out of me and, poof! Back in the drawer you go, smelling of my sex and waiting to be used again. You wouldn’t even be able to sleep like this, your entire life reduced to this one, simple, perverted purpose…

Dahlia started to push Andrew’s dildo-self in and out of her. He felt the slightest bit of relief as she pulled him out, like his legs up to the knees or mid-thighs could suddenly breathe again, and then he would be shoved right back into the confining warmth of her, his full body tremors pushing up against the witch’s insides. Why had he messed with her? What had he been so easily goaded into trying to steal from this woman, this witch? He could’ve just stayed at home and none of this would’ve happened.

As Andrew was pumped in and out of Dahlia’s tight warmth, grim resignation seeped into him. He’d been at the mercy of others in his life, but never, ever like this. For all the power Andrew had in his transformed body, Dahlia might as well be a god, able to change and reshape him on a whim. He could feel his identity slipping away from him, along with the creeping terror of living the rest of his life–however long that would be–stored away in Dahlia’s nightstand, probably with whatever other sex toys were stashed in there. He imagined lying in wait next to fat, realistic phalluses and ben wa balls and pastel, abstract buzzing massagers, all of them–and him–coated with the permanent smell of the witch’s puffy pink pussy. He felt her walls clench around him and he could barely tell where his vibrator-body ended and where the woman began, seeing himself for an awful second as nothing more than her toy.

In what felt like a miracle, Dahlia pulled Andrew all the way out of her. To his surprise he actually felt cold in the open air. Then the witch pushed his “face” to her lips, dragging him up so that he was buzzing against her swollen clit. She sighed happily and moved him in lazy circles. For Andrew, it was like having his face rubbed in a puddle of warm lube.

“You sure you don’t want to stay this way?” asked Dahlia tauntingly, punctuating the question with a lusty sigh.

Andrew tried to fitfully shake his head, failing to feel anything other than the witch’s clit. Please NO! he managed to think-shout at her.

“What, you don’t like being close to my pussy?” the witch asked. “Maybe you’d rather go inside again…”

Dahlia drew Andrew along her lips which were unbelievably sopping wet now and inched him inside of her just a little bit.

Please please no not that please no please! begged Andrew. It felt like his teeth were chattering and like he would throw up, impossible as both things were for him in that moment.

Relenting, Dahlia dragged the tip of the vibrating dildo down further, tickling the length of her lips and then her taint and then her pink, rosy asshole, pushing Andrew’s “face” against that musky rim. He tried in vain to pull away, unable to do anything other than watch himself get closer and closer to her.

“Oh, what am I thinking? You’re not supposed to mix toys like this. That’s a perfect recipe for a yeast infection.”

More dark words. More changes.

Thankfully, the buzzing stopped, even though Andrew still felt like his body was vibrating even afterwards. He seemed to grow shorter and squatter, like he was becoming pear shaped, and his entire body seemed to grow even tighter and harder than before. He felt… cold. His vision faded away and when it returned, he was looking at something up close and patterned. The bedspread, he realized. The cold, almost icy feeling across his skin was met with a warm kiss and as Dahlia seemed to move to give Andrew a view of himself in the mirror, he glumly saw what she had made him into this time:

A metal butt plug.

The warm kiss of Dahlia’s asshole grew and Andrew was rocked back and forth against the witch’s ass while she slowly worked him into her. He could see himself disappearing into her in the mirror, the little jeweled base of the plug twinkling in the mirror, nestled between her haunches until it was all that remained visible of the plug while Andrew’s body was overcome with musky, intimate heat.

Dahlia let go of her ass cheeks and Andrew felt like his face was being smothered by her bottom, the full, pert cheeks only granting him the slightest bit of mental breath and a meager line of sight to the mirror. Dahlia adjusted herself on the bed and squeezed her hole around the man, reminding him exactly where he was–not that he needed the reminder.

“That’s nice,” she said as she relaxed her legs, stealing away the last little light, sight, and air from Andrew. She took a big breath and stretched out on the bed, wiggling her hips to feel the butt plug inside her. “Maybe that’s a better job for you. I don’t use a plug nearly as often as a vibrator, but for someone as shitty as you, I think it suits you.”

Andrew grumbled, more and more aware of the damp pungency of Dahlia’s ass. It felt like it was clinging to him, somehow permeating his body and taking root deep within the man-turned-butt-plug. His face was flattened by the witch’s hot, sweaty ass and even though he could think at her like this, he was only just barely able to do so.

I’ll make you a trade, he pleaded with her. Anything you want. Just change me back and let me go.

Dahlia sat up, the pressure on Andrew increasing. She squeezed her rim several times, giving the man a twisted, bizarre massage. Through the haze of feeling, he heard a muffled thump, no doubt from the bathroom door again.

“What could you possibly have that I want?” she asked him.

Andrew didn’t have an answer to that. His once cold “body” now was beginning to feel unbearably hot, the metal heated up by Dahla’s netherwarmth.

“Okay, you stay a butt plug then,” the witch said in a teasing, singsong voice. “Hey, it’s better than being a roll of toilet paper, right? Though if you decide you want that…”

No! Wait! Can’t I… do something for you? he begged. Like, uh… worship you? Make love to you?

Dahlia scoffed. “You really think I have any shortage of lovers? Seriously, you don’t even compare to the bottom of that barrel…”

Andrew sighed in his mind. Despair came over him. What else could he offer her? What else did he even have? Was he doomed and this was all some sick, perverted game on the witch’s part?

As if sensing his hopelessness, Dahlia mused: “Well… maybe there is one thing. One thing I can’t change you into–without you desiring it.”

What? thought Andrew.

Dahlia leaned back so that Andrew could see the mirror again even as he remained plugging her anus, grateful for the whiff of cool, fresh air. The freckled witch tapped her pussy, sliding a finger from her taint all the way up to her clit. Was she serious?

Y-you… you want to turn me into your… your…

Dahlia nodded, her coppery hair brushing against her bare breasts.

“This will be a slightly…different…transformation,” she said. “You won’t be inanimate. Not fully, anyway.”

She let this information sink in for a few moments.

“Well? How about it? I understand if you want to stay right where you are.” Dahlia punctuated her words by squeezing tight on the butt plug, making Andrew feel like he was being held tight by the witch’s asshole. For a moment, he thought she would squeeze so hard he would lose consciousness, whatever little of it he had left, that is.

Okay! Okay! I’ll do it! cried Andrew in his thoughts.

Dahlia pursed her lips together, the soft pink pillow of her mouth almost pouting at Andrew in the mirror. Her eyes shone like cold stars, the frigid stare hiding something that unnerved Andrew.

“Excellent,” she said, rocking back and lifting her legs up into a perfect V with all the muscle control and grace of a ballerina. She reached for the base of the plug, wiggling Andrew out of her ass and then held the now-warm metal object away from her body in a tweezered grasp, looking at it disdainfully. “Ick.”

Shame flooded through Andrew. Even though he knew he wasn’t really the butt plug–nor any reason it should be “ick”–the witch’s dismissive tone and her nose wrinkled in disgust nevertheless felt imminently personal to him. His embarrassment distracted him as Dahlia began another dark chant. This one was much longer, the sounds more guttural, and even the abyssal language seemed somehow even more corrupt than before. Dahlia pushed Andrew towards her crotch, his body feeling like nothing more than light, faint wisp that could be blown away with the slightest breath. Then, as he touched her pussy, there was a strange sinking feeling, as if Andrew had laid down on a fluffy mattress that just kept giving and giving. He continued to sink, feet first–if he could feel his extremities at all–until it was as if his entire body was submerged, everything except the last gasp of his face.

He saw he was looking at the mirror from the line of sight of Dahlia’s crotch. No eyes looked back at him, but he did see that her once puffy, pink pussy was different. It was even rosier now, the lips ever so slightly thinner and no longer tucked in… almost like actual lips on a mouth.

What happened next broke Andrew’s brain.

As he was staring at Dahlia’s pussy in the mirror, a long, thick, wet tongue spilled out of her. It drooled on the bedspread and flapped about wildly, like a flailing tentacle. It moved up as Andrew thought about it moving up and then moved down as he imagined it moving down. He tried to move it to the left, with his mind. It whipped over to the left, licking the inside of Dahlia’s thigh and the crevice between her leg and crotch. He tried to move it to the right and it whipped the other way, a thick strand of spit-lubricant trailing from thigh to thigh.

It was a tongue alright. Andrew’s tongue.

“Whaff if dith?” he asked, surprised to hear a gurgling voice instead of his thoughts echoing in his head.

Dahlia let out a long, indulgent cackle. “It’s what you agreed to,” she said. “I told you you wouldn’t be totally inanimate.”

Andrew lashed his tongue back and forth, slapping it sloppily against Dahlia’s thighs. The spittle that landed was thick and sticky and soon there were a half-dozen gooey strands joining her legs. Dahlia tut-tutted and cleaned away the strands with one rosy hand, wiping her fingers clean on the thick landing strip of her coppery bush, which to Andrew felt like someone was wiping their wet hands clean in his hair. He moaned and there was a comically wet gurgle from Dahlia’s crotch.

“Hahahaha… this is going to be fun,” she said to herself.

The witch sprang up off the bed, Andrew’s vision going wild, and then she sauntered towards the door of the private bathroom, Andrew about to feel her hips swaying in an exaggerated gait from his “position” at Dahlia’s crotch. Something on the other side thumped against the door several times, like it was begging for freedom.

“Relax, relax,” Dahlia said to whoever–or whatever–was behind the door. “I’m coming.”

She swung the door open.

Though Andrew had no eyes to see from, his line of sight was still very much as if did. He had to strain his “sight” up at the hulking being on the other side of the door and even then he couldn’t quite figure out what he was looking at. A man or man-like thing for sure, with huge, bulging muscles, a hulking stance, and a heavy dusting of hair across his chest, and down his stomach, and at his crotch. At the very top of Andrew’s sight, he caught a dazed masculine face, with lidded eyes as if he was half-asleep and shaggy black hair. Andrew’s eyes darted down. Hanging from the wild, overgrown bush of pubic hair was the biggest cock he had ever seen. It was a thick length of tanned, intimate flesh with a reddened cockhead at the end that had a pearly drop of precum dripping from it. Big, hefty balls hung behind it, as ungroomed as the mound of pubic hair, and somehow Andrew could smell–or merely sense?–an incredibly strong male musk that was tinged with semen and sweat and faded cologne that reminded him of barbershops and campfires.

Dahlia reached up to what Andrew saw was a collar around the man’s neck that was adorned with a large, heavy metal D-ring. She grasped it in her fingers and started towards the bed, leading the man.

“I told you I wouldn’t forget about you,” she said to him teasingly, plopping down on her back, bouncing slightly off the mattress. She pulled a couple of pillows forward so she could sit her hips at the edge of the bed, the man kneeling without having to be told. Andrew could see the man’s face more clearly now and saw that there was a distant look in his eyes, his mouth hanging open hungrily at the sight of Dahlia’s pussy. It was like he was a single-minded drone, wanting one thing and one thing only… which so happened to be what Andrew had been turned into.

“Hope you’re a good kisser,” said Dahlia. It took Andrew a moment to realize she was talking to him.

“Nooo, pleaaff!” he begged in his pussy-wettened voice.

Neither the man nor Dahlia responded to his pleas.

Dahlia snapped her fingers and the man moved towards her pussy, extending out an eager tongue. It was horrifying to feel the stubbly face against him and the darting, unabashed tongue plunge past the pussy lips–his lips–and lap feverishly at the inside of Andrew. He felt the man’s strong nose on his–technically Dahlia’s clit, he supposed–and became even more horrified as the touch of the man’s nose made Andrew want to blush. It was a warm, tingly sensation and he hated that he actually enjoyed it. Well, not “him” him, but his pussy-self that was reacting to the clit caresses and slit licking from the big brute. He couldn’t help but go to moan and, when he did, a gush of viscous, lubricating liquid poured out from his “lips” and onto the man’s face, streaming down his chin and speckling his chest. Andrew was even more speechless than he’d been since he’d fallen into the witch’s clutches. He heard Dahlia cackle delightedly.

“You alright down there?” she asked, while the drone-male went back to making out with Dahlia’s pussy.

The tingly lusty feeling rose again in Andrew and he gushed more lube, his tongue spilling out like a squishy, warm carpet to lash against the man’s tongue. He tried to pull it back but had to fight the perverted instincts driving his behavior, gurgling out a half “Heellppp!” as the man redoubled his oral worship.

“Have you had enough?” Dahlia asked.

“Yefff! YEFFF!! STOF IF!!” burbled Andrew, spitting wetness onto the drone-male’s face; it didn’t faze him at all.

Dahlia whistled low and sensually, speaking a dark word afterwards. The man stopped licking. He stood up and to Andrew’s bewilderment, the drone-male’s cock begin to stiffen and inflate. It was like someone was blowing up a long, thick balloon right in front of his eyes and Andrew saw the veins of the girthy shaft pulse as blood was brought from everywhere else in the man’s body to make his cock so hard it had a heartbeat throb to it.

“May…I?” the man croaked. His voice was laced with the overly careful, needy urgency of someone who has been long denied. Andrew wondered how long Dahlia had kept him in the private bathroom, winding him up like this. Surely she’d meant to enjoy him herself, but with Andrew’s intrusion, she’d found an even more lewd way to indulge herself.

Dahlia reached down to feel how she was, rudely rubbing her fingers in Andrew’s “face” and not caring how she made his nose feel like she was twisting it off or how his lips were being slapped firmly by the witch’s palm. She wiped the secreting wetness of onto the inside of her thigh and then gave her coppery bush a pull for good measure that made Andrew feel like someone had yanked his head up suddenly.

“I’m all yours, big boy,” she told the drone-male.

Andrew wished he could’ve looked away from what happened next. He wished he could’ve shut his eyes or clamped his heads over his ears or even shut his pussy-mouth as tight as it would go, denying sight, sound, or even the slightest whiff of entry. But he had agreed otherwise. He wasn’t inanimate–not fully, as Dahlia had promised–but he was still the witch’s pussy. And he still had to take the dick the witch wanted, no matter how big or hard or excited.

He stared transfixed at the throbbing shaft as it came closer. With his bizarre instinct, he tried to pull his “lips” open and let his pussy-tongue loll out, welcoming the male’s cock. He slid it along the wet, sticky tongue and slotted it deep, deep inside of Dahlia–and Andrew–until Andrew thought he would choke, not that such a thing was even possible in his current state. He gagged and gurgled nonetheless, wetness sputtering down the drone-male’s length and the maddening need to get this huge cock out of him burned bright in his mind. Paradoxically, the opposite thought burned just as bright: He wanted it. He wanted more. Give me give me give me.

Andrew’s “tongue” flapped against the underside of the man’s shaft and against his balls, its slick tip scooping along his taint. He tried to recoil but something–Dahlia, perhaps–wouldn’t let him. Instead he was compelled to lick the man’s taint again, sparking his pent-up lust even further. The drone-male began pumping away in Dahlia/Andrew, his cock somehow becoming even more engorged as he drove it deep, deep into the witch’s warmth.

As with his clit-nose, the more the man pumped himself into Andrew’s pussy-self, the hotter and wetter he got. Soon his tongue was smacking against the man and he was gushing so much that even he could feel the bedsheets below were getting soaked, along with Dahlia’s coppery bush and the drone-male’s unkempt patch of pubic hair. It created a sensation like rubbing Andrew’s face against wet shag carpet that emanated the smell of sex, and Andrew would’ve hated being in the middle of it… if it didn’t stoke his own lust, even though such a thing felt so, so far away.

The man sped up. Dahlia moaned. Her legs wrapped around the drone-male’s body, pulling him closer. He fucked her even harder in response, until his weighty balls were slapping against Dahlia–and Andrew–as if someone was slapping both his cheeks at once, over and over again. He tasted the same cologne-sweat-semen smell as before, but now it had manifested into something thicker and stronger. He gagged, but his gag was just more wetness spit out onto the drone-male’s cock, and he wondered if–dreaded that–this moment would ever end.

The cock in Andrew pulsed in a distantly familiar way and the balls pounding his “lips” seemed to tighten. The fucking sped up, Dahlia drawing him closer.

“I want every drop,” she told the drone-male. “Get it in as deep as you can.”

Taking her direction, the man started to thrust harder, so hard that Andrew felt like someone was slamming up against the back of his throat. In any other situation, he’d be coughing and sputtering uncontrollably, but not this time. Here, his “throat” was wide open and his lips welcoming, little contractions firing that made Andrew feel like he was suckling on the dick inside him. Once more he felt that paradoxical sensation: He wanted it. He hated it. He would take it all until he could take no more.

Andrew knew it was over before either Dahlia or the man did. He felt the signature squirting motion and was the first to taste the thick, creamy cum as it spilled into him. He gagged on it, but it was far too viscous for him to be able to make a sound past the pumping seed that coated his faux-tongue and the inner walls of his mouth. If the man had tasted obnoxiously masculine before, now he tasted like gross, rude Alpha Male all the way, all bitterness and bleach and salt. Yet Andrew had no choice but to drink the man down, feeling his essence seep into inch of him… if there was still anything left to him to seep into aside from Dahlia’s pussy.

The witch egged on the drone-male to keep pumping until he was exhausted and, once he was done, she pushed him aside with her bare feet. He got to his knees, looking towards a far corner of the bedroom, and Andrew wondered if there was any brain left in the brute. Dahlia clenched her pussy, making sure to keep every last bit of cum deep inside her. Andrew stared ahead into the mirror, where the slightest of creamy rivulets drizzled down Dahlia’s taint.

“You have a choice,” she told him in the mirror, her freckled face deep pink with blush, her fiery hair covering one pale eye. “You can leave my body and drink all that icky filth down oooorrrrr he can lick it out of your mouth.”

Andrew was sick. Neither choice seemed like much of a “choice” to him, but he knew he needed to get away from this witch as soon as possible–and the first step to doing that was to get his body back. He tried to speak but Dahlia held her pussy lips shut tight, forcing him to think-speak.

I’ll go back to my body, he thought at her.

“Hah. Are you sure?”

I’m sure, he followed up immediately.

Dahlia snorted and spoke dark words. Andrew’s sight went out for a second and then he was on his knees on the other side of the bed from the male-drone with a mouthful of hot cum. His body went to spit it out.

“Nuh uh uh,” warned Dahlia. “Drink it or we can play many, many more games.”

Wrinkling his nose and squinching his face, Andrew swallowed the cum. It was vile going down his throat and somehow even worse when it reached his belly, making every breath smell like a sex-crazed himbo with too much cologne on. He desperately wanted to wash his mouth–and his stomach–out with cold, fresh water.

“We’re not done yet,” said Dalia, as if reading his mind.

Andrew looked at her nervously.

“Did you act alone tonight?” she asked him.

Andrew shook his head, no longer caring how he might throw his buddies under the bus. That made Dahlia grin.

“You’ve been gone a long while, I’m sure. They’ll have many questions. And there’s something I want you to say to them: Tell them you came here and were seduced by me. That I was a horny, man-obsessed shutaway who happily gave you a pair of my panties and wouldn’t you leave without a nasty, dirty fuck. Then you tell them to come up and get their own. Can you do that?”

Andrew looked down at his hand. The frilly pink thong was in it again somehow. He was certain that if he did what the witch wanted, his friends would suffer a similar fate–if not worse–to the one he had suffered. He might be dooming them to an existence as the Witch of 13th Street’s panties or dildo or butt plug… or wet, sopping, tongued pussy. How could anyone willingly put someone else through that torment?

Andrew took a deep breath in and said: “Whatever you say.”

Screw ‘em, he thought. If I did it, so can they.

“That’s the spirit,” said Dahlia, dismissing Andrew with a wave of her hand.

THE END

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