Text and graphic art by Pablo Müller Commissioned by: The Quelch (Character design, general plot and editing coop) All Rights Reserved. This story contains strong adult content and should not be viewed by anyone under the age of 18. All characters found in this book are 18 or older.
Table of Contents
I remember the night I gave up my humanity. I was shocked, frightened even. Now, I understand the transformation started a long time before even then. No cross-dressing trans expects their changes to turn out this radical, me least of all. I had no reason to believe I could achieve much after proving powerless to convince others of something as simple as calling me Rhiannon instead of Ryan or treating me like the girl I knew I was. Why would they? It was a lot more stimulating to bugger me to oblivion. “Your son does not seem to fully share our institutional values, hence his constant victimization”, said the Principle, siding with my bully. My stepfather, Don, bought the excuse as he would a drive-by burger: without a care in the world. You cannot blame them, though. The Archbishop Shaw High School is no place for a trans gurl with a butt-shaking habit and love of the occult. I was as outplaced as a butterfly in a cave. What I didn't expect was that the very bats dwelling within would hint the way out. It happened during a school chapel ceremony sometime along the first autumn days. I hid on the furthest chair, my mind akin to the oaks outside: dry, twisted and stripping to the icy breeze. The young priest jabbered about depravity. “The sin of the flesh,” he loved to repeat. The phrase had a way of making me horny instead of scared. By chance or wickedness, he looked my way when he said: “He whose souls stay straight and just, shall enjoy the company of the Lord. He who bends, will burn on Lucifer´s lap.” Now I was steaming and proud of being a crooked, little thot. Maybe the priest was right. The only company someone like me would ever find was that of the damned. It was a soothing revelation for a wannabe witch like me. I thought a lot about Lucifer’s lap after that day. I didn’t want to wait till death to find out what it felt like, nor did I expect such a radical company. A lesser, friendly demon should do. I struggled for months, searching for a summoning spell, but I knew it was fruitless. My books were mere child’s play. None of those incantations were real. My only achievement was scaring Salem, my cat, with a fire spell that involved fine powders and a poor dead pigeon. Lots of feathery mayhem, but no real magic. Magic. The word turned eerily plausible the following Wednesday. It began like any other, with me stumbling upon my bully and his goons. "Hey, sissy, I heard you applied for the cheerleading team". “Leave me alone”, I said and turned my back on them. Colton was the kind of muscular stud with wild curly hair that drove me nuts, but he would never see past the prick under my skirt. I was a freak to him, and he was set on making my life hell. I ran to the library, picked a random book, and wept behind it. I had spent a good deal of energy building up shields against loneliness but, like rust, it eats them through regardless. “Are you ok?” Levi, the librarian, rarely spoke to anyone. He was an outcast in his own way. “Yes,” I lied and blew my nose, hoping to scare him away. He stood still with his greasy black, straight hair and his bent-in lip smile. “Not your kind of book, is it?” I closed the cover and read the title: Know your Bible. “What’s wrong with it?” I tried. “Don't act the fool. I've seen your picks: La Voisin, Alice Kyteler, Marie Laveau...” “I don't know what you are talking about,” I said. “Their secrets will not be revealed to you through their biographies. Just so you know.” I was perplexed. It took me long enough to get up and follow his flat steps back to the counter. “This book, however,” He said and handed over an old, leathered-covered behemoth. “Is a whole different story.” I accepted the gift with a chill creeping up my spine. For a second, I thought the pentagram on the cover was rotating. Impossible. “You have one week.” Overtaken by thrill, I bagged the heavy book and escaped school. My backpack stripes dug into my shoulders on each clack of my girly heels. The burden of forbidden knowledge was a pleasure to endure. "What are you doing here?", my stepfather questioned, spitting breadcrumbs. "Don’t you have football today?" "I don’t feel well," I murmured and hurried upstairs. "Take off those damn shoes!" he commanded, falling on deaf ears. "Ryan!" "I’m Rhiannon!" I shouted before slamming the bedroom door. The dark purple book smelled peaty, like sodden Earth. Gothic calligraphy scratched the brown pages like it was drawn by a blood-stained knife. It was hand, or claw-written, in an old, obscure form of English. I squinted, biting on my lower lip. The tome appeared to be part of an extensive witchcraft collection. The title, to my uttermost satisfaction, was The Art of Summoning. There were about fifty pages of warnings and protective seals that you had to learn by heart before attempting a summoning, some with names as corny as Soul Locket or Blood Pledge. I wished I had the time, but a week was not nearly enough. I’d have to take my chances and skip that part. I slid my thumb on the pages edge, blowing the moldy scent to my face until I reached the first summoning spell: Owl of woe. The spirit of Andras fly to thee and tell you the years left to live. Harmless enough. I escaped out the window, grazing the roof like a cat to search for the missing ingredients. I had found a way down that avoided all the critical windows in the house so Don would never notice my absence. Most of the ingredients were easy to come by, but annoying to collect. The shell of a rotten egg I could handle, but six well-fed living mosquitos? Like I said: annoying. I returned with everything, except the last and most important one: three hairs of the summoner's head. I lost myself in the bubbles of the cauldron and hesitated. I didn't want to know my years left to live. What if they were too few? Or too many? Salem meowed. “Really? You wanna know?” I said. ”Well... if you insist.” I grabbed my tweezers and got three of his void-black hairs and a bonus bite on the wrist. ”Hey! What's your problem? You have nine lives anyway!” The ghastly stew cooked a little while longer, with the now dead mosquitos spilling their dinner like tiny sinking oil ships. I brushed the brownish potion all over the windowsill and then closed it. Now I was supposed to wait for the upcoming dusk to bathe the window with moonlight. The sun was setting. It was the slowest sunset you could think of. I picked up the book again and dwelled in the diagrams of the more advanced spells. Demonic Lover. My heart skipped a beat. You shouldn't have demon and love in a single phrase, but the recipe gripped my attention till I lost the sense of time. Salem pulled me of my trance, hissing like he was possessed, arching his back with his popping yellow eyes fixed over my shoulders. It was nightfall. I jolted back and turned to find an immense black owl, standing right outside the window. The bird’s eyes were as lifeless as bottomless pits, and its claws sturdy enough to steal a baby from its cradle. It gazed my way, and I felt my life would pour out of me. Then its head turned sideways, with a creepy twist, until it found Salem. The cat growled and flashed his fangs. The owl hit the glass with its beak, waited three or four seconds and did it again. It never lost eye contact with poor Salem. I thought I would pass out. After the fourth knock, the demonic spawn took off and disappeared in the black of night. Four years later, Salem would meet his end in the jaws of our neighbor’s German shepherd, but I didn’t know that. All I knew was that the book worked, and my loneliness was finally coming to an end.
Sick of them. Arrogant, lowborn scumbags, that’s what they are. I had yet to meet a Crossroads demon who had earned his name the hard way. Anyone can get their hands on a soul through a deceitful pact with a brain-dead human, especially when you have exclusive access to all crossroads and summoning portals. Us Succubi missed the Middle Ages. There was so much darkness and death that even we were allowed some upstairs fishing. We used to get the best soul deals with nothing but a round of dirty sex. But since those suckers gained universal portal control, Succubi have endured boring, monotonous existences, reliant on the occasional direct summoning for any action. Just how are us girls supposed to get an ounce of power stuck in Hell for all eternity? I won’t lie. Hijacking a Crossroad Demon’s summoning hex had been a desire hard to contain, so when Melek, a dorky runt of a demon was called upon, I couldn’t help but risk it. Making Barthomus angry was not scary enough to stop me. Growing your power had it risks. Also the fact that Melek was being summoned as a mate for the mortal irked me somewhat; I was sick to death of those losers encroaching on succubi turf. I had overheard the place: Old God-tarnished Louisiana. Not my favorite place on the surface, but July was scorching the fuckers alive, so the time was right. I waited for the fire ring portal to light over Melek’s horny head and clawed him right through his overgrown skull. Pushing him aside would not have worked. Once a demon is summoned, only ending his flesh will allow a switch without breaking the link. He’d probably end up with a new physical form anyhow in a millennium or two. The rookie invoker’s words flapped in my mind as I was engulfed within the unholy chasm Melek had left aflame. The silver-white of my mane cascaded down my ripped back, shining red to the flare. My tight crimson flesh heaved in pain and anticipation; the call for ascension made my meaty breasts quiver and my venous club rise to rigidity. I wrapped my wings around my body, like a cocoon of contained lust, and almost vomited to the violent plane shift as the portal spewed me atop the surface. To a body made to withstand magma-level heat, the human crust felt unbearably cold. I unfolded my wings and stood proud and menacing on my black high-heeled boots. My summoner gaped in front of me. I found her childish costume ridiculous, and yet it’s skimpiness and the doe-eyed expression of its wearer turned me on. I could barely tell she was a ‘he’. Her makeup was on point, and her skin, well taken care of, plus that ass of hers’ would make any cis girl envious. How cute she was didn’t matter anyway; I’d suck her dry in an instant then find myself some more prey. “Aww… does the slutty witchy have a name?” The whiny human quaked like a twig in a storm. She stared at the humongous prize pulsing between my legs, muted in awe.
“I’m Jezebel, by the way, and I’m not the lover you asked for.” I said with an evil smirk. She suddenly wept and shook her head in denial, but I was not a vision that would vanish away. I was the first real thing in that dumb fantasy life of hers. “Did you hear me?” I said, making the wooden floor creak under the weight of my iron-like legs. “I’m a succubus, and I’ll drain the life out of your worthless soul.” “I-I’m Rhiannon…” she answered at last, her face looking all crestfallen. “I guess not even demons will have me…” Her voice broke, and her makeup smeared in a river of tears. “I hate this. I hate everyone! Kill me already!” she begged on her knees, overtaken by grief. Of all Succubi, I’m not known for my compassion, but this skinny raven-haired babe was pathetic enough to make me want to cheer her up. I’d take her soul one way or the other, so I might as well grant her one night of thrills before ending her misery.I brought her up from the floor and hugged her tight, squeezing her head between my great round breasts: “Hush there, honey-boo, come to Jez.” Once the sobbing settled, I clenched the back of her girly neck and kissed her. Rhiannon gasped, frozen, then gave in, yearning for my tongue and caressing my firm body with devotion. I played with her perky nipples and licked her jaw, making her moan. Her shaking hands slid down and wrapped around my mighty tool. Her eyes open wide, her heart pounding in her chest. “You want it?” I whispered and resumed kissing her lips and sucking her tongue. She stroked harder and moaned, sticking her body against mine to feel the pressure of my manhood on her belly. I was in control; I always am. But cuddling with this lowly witch made me uneasy. There was something about the sound of her voice that felt oddly familiar. Her mouth was too cozy, her embrace too comforting. I pushed her off me and onto her knees. “Suck it.” She obeyed with desperation, licking my long shaft from the base of my smooth, heavy sack to the bulging spearhead. I’d never heard anyone moan like that while giving head. Was she that needy? Or did we click so well? I preferred the former, but my pleasure hinted otherwise. The tickling of her tongue and the lovely squish of her hands around my juice bags drove me mad. “Damn you! Stop teasing me and swallow!” I said and slammed into her face with a sudden hip thrust. She gagged on my impossible girth and drooled over the floor. When her red, flooding eyes connected with mine, I remembered good sluts have three types of tears: Sorrow, happiness, or cock tears, but the last two tend to mix. There was no possibility in this world, or any other, for me to fit past her throat, so her persistence was commendable. This little slut drooling, spitting, gagging, and coughing over and over my mirthful demon cock disserved compensation, so I steered the knob of my tail to her behind. That taught virgin gap had yet to feel anything alive inside it. I made Rhi squirm and yelp in bliss as I wormed my way inside, teasing her muscle rings with my heart-shaped prong.
Before I realized, I was moaning too. Feeling my imminent spill, Rhiannon stroked me with both hands and opened her petite lips, swollen and shining with a grimy mixture of makeup and pre-cum to the chin. “Yes, baby!”, I yelled and fired a volley of big fat spurts right down her throat and all over her face. Rhiannon devoured me and stayed there like an obedient leech till there was not a drop left to suck. That is when I noticed her belly tattoo. The ancient Wicca runes around the all-seeing eye. A combination long forgotten by modern humans and, most disturbingly, the same belly tattoo I’ve worn for eons. As she gobbled the cum with her eyes shut, our tattoos seemed to glow. It cannot be, I thought. The pale glimmer was gone seconds later, but my mind would not get over the meaning: Power. Unbridled, overwhelming power. I lay over her, kissing and groping for more, but my excitement got cut cold, for the floor turned to jelly under my knees. The hex was breaking from the other side. “Barthomus, No!”.
It was Gloria’s idea to take Ryan in. I knew from day one it was asking for trouble. Gloria always wanted a child, and I couldn’t give her one. Oh, but when Gloria’s was mind set on something, she would bust my nuts like a woodpecker till she got it. The adoption was no exception and, just to screw me over, she chose to kick the bucket right after. Yes, I said chose. I also suffered cancer, but I fought it through. Now here I was, crawling my heavy ass up the stairs for the hundredth time to have a man talk with the boy. Gloria encouraged Ryan’s faggotry, but not me. With God as my witness, I’d straighten him up. “Ryan, what is all that racket? open the door!” “Go away!” he dared reply. “Open, boy, or I’ll bring it down and give you a whoopin' you'll never forget.” A hassle of steps and zippers reached through the door: Those damned costumes again. When the door opened, a sour stench hit me. The room was in chaos. “You have a lot to explain.” “Stop it, dad. I’m not a kid anymore.” His defying stare was a novelty. He looked different. Self-assured in all the wrong ways.“Your friend told me everything,” I grunted, “He is downstairs.” Ryan’s face warped when he saw Colton sitting in our living room. If I could have switched sons, I would have. The guy was the Quarterback Star of the school football team: Perfect grades, good Samaritan, and, to top it all, a healthy heterosexual stud. Colton had taken the trouble of coming all the way to our home in hopes of helping his good friend from straying any further. He wanted to believe Ryan could be saved. Like I said, give me the papers, and I’d sign the son swap blindfolded. He had told me about his efforts to include Ryan in the football team, only to have him disgrace them by asking for a cheerleading spot. Cheerleading! He confessed Ryan had molested other kids in the bathroom and bullied them for being too manly. But what really got me going was the witchcraft book. “He’s lying, dad!” Ryan cried when confronted. “He’s the one bullying everyone!” “I told you he would turn things around, Mr. Tucker. It must be the book,” Colton said. I raided the room and found the wicked tome under the bed. Ryan screeched like a banshee and fought for it. I’m not a violent man, but I had to rough him up for his own good. “Boy, I am burning this garbage right now; you hear me? And from now on you’ll behave normal. No more costumes, no more girly shoes. Normal!” I shouted and left him begging in a tantrum. I thanked Colton for his brave support and walked him to the porch. I asked if he knew where Ryan had gotten the book. “From a freak called Levi, but don’t worry, Mr. Tucker. He won’t bother Ryan anymore.”
Due to his delicate condition, no one at school was allowed to visit Levi at the hospital. Except me. He had been asking for me the moment he woke up. I had spoken to him only once, so his family was reluctant to get me to him. Colton and his ilk had surpassed all limits of bestiality. His toothless face looked bruised beyond recognition, and they had carved “FAG” in his back with a pocketknife. Why on Earth would they do that? Girls avoiding him didn’t make him gay. I was to blame, for sure. No one should talk to me. Least of all be friendly. “You have to speak out,” I encouraged, but Levi chuckled, choked, and coughed. “He's the governor's son.” “So what, he's gotta pay!” I insisted. “They made me say it was a burglar. Forget about it. Tell me about the book,” he asked. I had not the heart to tell him my father had burned it, but when I finally came clean, I saw no contempt in his eyes. Only deep sorrow. “Fucking paladins of God,” he said, “I was so close to achieving a summoning.” I stalled, struggling to keep the secret. I had to trust him. It was the least I could do. His face lit up as I told him about my summoning spells. I kept the lurid details of my first blowjob to myself but confessed my darkest dread: “I’m afraid I’ll never see Jezebel again.” We sighed and stayed in silence till the sound of the doctor’s steps stirred him up. “Wait! Did you say she was a Succubus?” “Yeah, why?” Voices echoed from the hallway. Time was running out. Levi sat on the bed like a madman and shook my shoulders with both hands. “And you had sex…” “And?” I pushed him. “Same-day-and-time-next-moon!” he fired away seconds before a fat, friendly doctor and an inconsiderate relative dragged me out of the room.
Life went back to normal, in Don’s terms. I dressed like a boy and suffered Colton’s cruelty in utter loneliness. I was determined to lay low till the next full moon. If I had any chance in hell to summon Jez back, I’d cherish it. I would never forget her skin’s taste, nor the sight of her chiseled physique, pounding my hopeless little face. Obsession consumed me. And this brings us back to the one night I mentioned. That full moon would be the last I’d see as a human. I doubt even Levi would have seen it coming. The day Don burned the book, I had noted down the last summoning recipe while it was still fresh in my head. I copied those notes a million times and hid the papers everywhere. All in vain since the portal opened by itself, and the ceiling lit to the scarlet gleam of hell. Jezebel appeared sexier than I remembered. A genderless, or perhaps gender-ful sex manifesto: the muscular brutality of a stallion, lacquered with boundless feminine virtue. "I've taken care of my boss. This time we won’t be interrupted." Her eyes glittered. I was too excited to ask for details. I surrendered to her flaming passion, desperate to be taken. We rolled down the floor, entangled in a whirlwind of gropes. Cozy beds are for lovers and angels, not for witches and demons. Jez breathed like a beast and muttered in an ancient language that I somehow implicitly understood. At last, she ripped off my purple skirt and black G-string, grabbed me by the thighs and ate up my squeaky-clean butt that I had made sure to prepare for her. I writhed within a flood of feminine yelps as my gap widened to the slippery intrusion, reaching deeper and deeper into me. My tiny manhood wept in painful stiffness, juddering like a puppet to the command of the tongue hidden away in my back passage. Sweating and panting, I peeked her way to marvel at the sight of her majestic wings, her lush silver ponytail and her hefty tits smashed against the floor. In turn she stared back at me with those piercing yellow eyes, smirking as she punished my G-spot till I cummed my brains out.
“Delicious…” Jez complimented, licking her plush, alluring lips as she sat on the bed. I was drawn to her, powerless and broken, like a crushed car in a junkyard to a magnet crane. Her magnificent, ripped legs framed the masterpiece between them: a demonic, twelve-inch trunk crowned by a wrecking ball of a head. “Sit,” she commanded, and I gulped. The toys I had played with were tiny compared to hers. I offered my back and descended, all my being bent on submission, ready to yield. Her wet pinnacle got almost stuck as it breached my submissive door one inch at a time. “Ahhh!” I let out as it conquered me, making me part of her, bonding us in corruption and sin. Poor, inexperienced me could not endure that much pleasure. All my remaining manliness was spurted from my body in seconds as I moaned high and girly, bumping her member deeper inside me. “Don’t stop, Rhi-Rhi. Don’t you dare!” Jez commanded, and I obeyed, demolishing my satisfied booty with her manhood. Jezebel moaned and bucked harder. The bulbs of every lamp in the room burned blindingly bright, then shattered in unison. A new, spectral luminescence surrounded our bodies, and the blankets floated up, hovering over the bed like stingrays underwater. “Mark me,” I said in the ancient tongue she had voiced before and turned my head to find her lips. Jez exploded inside me. I gargled out of joy, feeling her dark cream saturate my insides, bloating my belly round and firm.
Then it happened. My belly tattoo lit a neon purple, projecting the runes on the ceiling, and so did hers. The air crackled with the sheer power emanating from our bond. Portraits trembled on the shelves, and Salem rocketed into the closet. “Yes!” Jezebel said, feeding from the curse, taking my humanity but giving back so much more. I shook, still deliciously impaled on her, watching my skin turn green and my thighs grow meatier. My moans transfigured from young femme boi squeals to the musical cry of a mature woman enduring unspeakable pleasure. Limbs lengthened, feet and hands grew lithe and pointed talons coated with an unbreakable purple sheen grew from nailbeds. My Adam’s apple dissolved alongside any trace of body hair, and my face softened first into a female version of myself, then matured with full, pouty lips, bedroom eyes with alluringly fluttery lashes, and sharp, defined cheekbones. My witch hat fell to the floor, pushed out by a copious copper-colored mane, and my chest busted out to massive proportions. Finally, with one final jet of seed, my dick and balls receded and inverted into a moist wet vagina. When the metamorphosis was over, I looked down and marveled at my smooth, bare pussy, yet for all the radical changes of my shell, nothing compared to the dark force that wreathed inside me. Ryan was dead. Rhiannon, the Grand Witch, had been born. I stood up, black semen dripping from my behind, and reveled in front of the mirror. “Exquisite.”
“Ryan!” I screamed my lungs out. “I’ve had it with you!”. I took the belt off my pants and ran upstairs. The house seemed about to collapse to the mayhem coming from his room. It was going to end that night, but not like I expected. When I kicked the door open, I was immobilized by terror. In place of my son, a lustful demon, half man, half woman, stood by the bed. Beside the beast, a mature witch with pearled green skin measured me, mockingly. She sported the titanic breasts, heavenly curves and dazzling foxy features of a bimbo-esque MILF pornstar, plus a sinful outfit full of jewelry and pagan symbols. Trembling, I searched for my crucifix necklace, but I had left it on my bedroom counter. “Hi, dad,” the witch greeted smugly, and my throat only let out a whimper. I approached like in a trance, and the belt fell dead off my hands. The red demon whispered in her ear, and right after, the womanly apparition pointed her long-nailed hands my way, making me convulse. Ràminom vroklash dùminom s’ath! She hissed like a snake over and over again as my body erupted in purple flame, burning away my clothes to nothing. Fear drained from me, pulling along memories, guilt, and pride: The awareness of my changing flesh burning above all senses. My legs bent and broke, turning to vile-shaped claws. My back broadened, exploding into a muscle wall and growing bat-like wings. My mouth grew forth, shaping into a beastly canine-filled snout and bathing my brain with a new range of scents. Soon enough, I found my head a lot higher above the floor, panting in a guttural voice, hungering for nothing but sex and destruction, but bent to a single purpose: Obeying Mistress Rhiannon. Jezebel Clapped. “Remarkable work, babe! That’s one big, sexy Gargoyle!” The demon said, patting my head. That was enough to make my unhuman cock rise to a rigidity I had not known for two decades. “What will you name him?” “Zorvom,” my mistress declared. “But I might call him daddy while he fucks me.” She then caressed my drooling chin and added, “Would you like that, Slave?” I wished I could say yes, but I only growled. Jezebel lay on the floor, and Mistress Rhiannon rode her face to face. Judging by the blood that trickled out of her pussy before quickly evaporating, it must have been the Mistress’ first time, though you you’d never have guessed by the enthusiasm put into riding that huge hog. I mulled, humbled by the power that stemmed from their unholy love. Rhiannon circled her hips on her lover and offered her massive breasts for Jez to squish. “Now!” She hurled at me, and I knew what I had to do. My feral hands circled Rhiannon’s waspy waist, and my enormous manhood plunged straight into her behind. Only a fallen goddess of sex, a countess of darkness, could take me in the rear with such ease. But I was nothing but a tool for masturbation, a living toy that served no purpose other than making her cum harder on her true love’s cock. I had spent most of my life as a man trying to serve God wherever he had been hiding. Now I was the happy piece of an unholy puzzle, a conspiracy of lust and evil called upon to fulfill a mission way beyond my grasp of understanding. We pounded Rhiannon to oblivion from both sides, showering the fiery seal on the floor with our fluids and sweat. The clock of fate struck the hour, and we peaked together. Rhiannon cried out, with my broad horse-cock vomiting in her rear and Jezebel’s mammoth stuffing her womb full of seed. “Knock me up!” she begged, and her wish was granted.
It’s been eight months since the summoning. My legions have taken control of all the land this side of the sea and will soon extend my dominion to Europe and Asia. It’s on me to give the order, but I’m not in a rush. Being a Grand Witch is a lot of fun as long as you have enemies. I’ll miss the thrill when they all bow to me. I like to savor their defeat. Like I savored Colton’s. I thought of making him my sex slave, but it was too merciful a destiny. He did not deserve such a position. Instead, I allowed him to keep his pathetic life and serve as a cleaning slave for the commander of my army: Grommonoth. Formerly known as Levi, the now muscular hulk of a monster keeps him busy cleaning up the fluids from his sexual interactions with the women in town. Especially those of Colton’s sisters and ex-girlfriend. I’ve heard those two have become quite addicted to their Demon daddy and are on their way to becoming minor demons themselves. Charming, isn’t it? My beloved Jezebel has never left my side. We are profoundly enamored in unholy matrimony, like two cheery lovebirds of doom, spreading our serenade of filth and turmoil over grass, pavement, and sea. Jez has insisted we should push world domination harder. She says global control would be the nail in the coffin for all other aspiring Succubi, securing her position as undisputable Empress. I won’t buy it. Jez would rather scour the land of all life than risk losing whom she loves the most. When anxiety dulls her, I cast a soothing spell, comb her hair, and run my lips around the edges of her face. “Do not worry, my dear,” I whisper. “None can harm him.” I take her hands to my pulsing belly and sentence: “For he is the embodiment of harm.”
Thank’s for reading!
This story and the art within are the results of over three months of commissioned work. Special thanks to “The Quelch,” who not only trusted me with her fantasies but has also been very encouraging and positive, cooperating with fresh ideas throughout the process.