scarletchange
patreon
You're all pigs! (Short Story)
🕑 Added 2023-11-04 20:20:20 +0000 UTCI have attached the story as a PDF Download. It can also be found in my Discord for Subscribers. Thank you so much for your support!
The night had fallen like a thick, wet blanket over the besieged castle, the moon obscured behind heavy, rain-laden clouds. The relentless downpour turned the ground to mud, and the once-glorious regalia of soldiers was now besmirched, their armors and banners bearing the spatter of a prolonged siege. Among them, standing resolute and undeterred, was General Althea, her armor glinting with droplets of rain that caught the scant light from the torches around the encampment.
Althea's eyes were fixed on the towering structure ahead, the Castle of Thornheart, a fortress renowned across the lands for its impenetrable defenses and the dark mysteries that lay within its walls. It was ruled by Queen Morrigan, a sovereign whispered in hushed tones to be as wicked as she was powerful, a witch whose dark sorcery was as much a part of her legend as her ruthless governance.
The siege had lasted for weeks. Supplies and morale were dwindling on both sides, yet the castle had not yielded. The troops under Althea's command grew restless, caught between their loyalty to their cause and the creeping dread instilled by Morrigan's notorious reputation.
As lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the battlements, a figure appeared atop the highest tower. Her presence seemed to command the very elements, her voice carrying through the storm as though it were part of it. Queen Morrigan, draped in robes that flowed like ink, her hair whipping in the wind, called out, her words reaching the encampment below.
"General Althea! I would parley with you," her voice was like a knife's edge, wrapped in velvet. It held a dangerous promise, the sort that had led many a strong man to their doom.
The soldiers around Althea stirred uneasily, but she raised her hand, silencing them. This was the moment she had been waiting for — a break in the stalemate. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forth from the ranks, her boots squelching in the mud, the rain coursing off her armor like rivers of silver.
"I am here, Queen Morrigan!" Althea shouted, her voice strong against the cacophony of the storm, carrying her defiance up the walls of the castle. "Speak your terms!"
The queen's laugh was cold, devoid of mirth, a sound that seemed to mingle with the thunder above. "Bold as ever, General. But this game tires me. You lay siege to what you do not understand, driven by blind allegiance. You claim to be a warrior, but you know nothing of true power!"
The air crackled around Morrigan, her form blurry with the rain and distance, yet the malice in her tone was palpable, bridging the space between them. Althea's grip tightened on her sword, a sense of foreboding creeping along her spine.
"I stand for justice, for the people you oppress with your tyranny, Morrigan! I am every bit the warrior you fear," Althea retorted, the rain streaming down her face, mingling with the determination set in her stern features.
Morrigan's silhouette seemed to swell with the rising wind, her figure a dark smudge against the tempestuous backdrop. Her next words were not just heard but felt, a sinister vibration in the air that seemed to seep into the marrow.
"You're not a warrior..." she hissed, the sky above flashing and crackling with gathering energy. The words that followed were spoken not in anger but in utter contempt, a curse uttered with all the dark force of her being. "You're a pig!"
As Morrigan's declaration slashed through the tumult, the space around Althea began to warp and shiver, the very air bending with the magic now unleashed. The soldiers watched in horror, helpless as their formidable leader became the focal point of a sinister, spiraling power that promised a fate worse than death. The reality around her twisted, ready to reshape into a nightmare.
As the curse struck, an invisible force coiled around General Althea, penetrating her armor as though it were mere cloth. Her heart pounded in her chest as a strange, tingling sensation took root in her belly, spreading rapidly through her veins like wildfire. It was a feeling of dread, of an impending loss of self, but amidst it, a disturbing warmth of pleasure began to blossom.
The world around her blurred, her senses heightened as if under the influence of a potent elixir. Althea's gasp turned into a guttural groan, the sound alien to her ears. Her body felt like it was being both unraveled and woven back together, a puppet to the dark whims of the witch-queen.
"Mercy!" Althea managed, her voice laced with a mix of shock, fear, and a shameful hint of ecstasy. Her plea echoed against the stone battlements, a stark contrast to the raucous laughter that spilled from Morrigan's lips.
"Mercy? Oh, but my dear General, I'm granting you exactly what you've unknowingly sought. Freedom from the heavy burden of humanity, from the tedious complexity of command!" Morrigan called out, her words whipped away by the wind, yet each syllable struck Althea like a physical blow.
Althea's armor felt suddenly constrictive as her body began to betray her. Her breasts, under the sturdy fabric of her undergarment, began to swell inexplicably, straining against the cold metal of her breastplate. She could hear the creaking of her armor, protesting the rapid expansion, the clasps and bindings becoming agonizingly tight.
Her groans mingled with squeals, an unsettling sound that she barely recognized as her own. The fabric of her undershirt was stretching, the threads reaching their limits as the burgeoning flesh sought more room, the cleavage above her armor deepening, spilling over like the beginnings of a treacherous flood.
As the sensation intensified, something even more alarming occurred. Below her already expanding chest, her midriff began to quiver, skin stretching as additional masses formed. They were breasts, she realized with horror, smaller ones budding beneath the original pair, trying to push past each other for space. The sight was surreal, a grotesque mockery of her human form.
"No... not like this," she whimpered, each word punctuated by another squeal, more pig-like as the seconds passed. Her hands, clad in gauntlets, reached to touch her face, feeling the beginning of changes there, the subtle broadening of her nose.
The sound of rending metal and fabric filled her ears as her upper body swelled like overripe fruit. Her breastplate split at the sides, unable to contain her burgeoning form. The cool night air brushed against her exposed skin, a momentary relief overshadowed by the relentless transformation.
Her pleas for help devolved into a mix of human anguish and animalistic noises, a cacophony that underscored the chaos of the battlefield. Around her, her soldiers were distanced, caught in their own transformative hell, unable to heed her calls.
Morrigan's laughter rang out, cruel and triumphant. "What's the matter, General?" she jeered. "Not enjoying your new station?"
The changes, the pleasure, the growing sense of her dehumanization — they were overwhelming. Althea's mind raced, caught between resistance and an inexplicable urge to surrender to the sensations overtaking her. Her humanity was slipping through her fingers, leaving behind a form that was meant to be on all fours, snuffling through the mud.
As her voice faded into squeals, and her hands clenched into trotters within her gauntlets, the last thing General Althea saw before her vision adjusted to new, porcine realities was the silhouette of the witch-queen, looking down upon her transformation with satisfaction, a dark orchestrator in the symphony of metamorphosis and chaos.
The moon, a cold, indifferent observer, cast its pale light over the besieged castle, highlighting the unfolding nightmare below. General Althea, once a proud warrior, continued her unwilling descent into a new, baser form under Morrigan's wicked enchantment. Her body, betraying her with every pulse of shameful pleasure, expanded and morphed, pushing the boundaries of what was once human.
Her breasts, already swollen and barely contained, seemed to grow heavier, fuller. They heaved with each of her labored, squealing breaths, the skin stretched glossy and tight. The sensation was a maddening mix of sensitivity and tension, an unyielding insistence of flesh that burgeoned from her chest and further down her belly, multiplying into additional sets that jostled for space. Her armor, a ruined testament to her former glory, lay discarded around her transforming frame, pieces of metal and ripped cloth.
Her ears elongated, taking on a flopping, pointed shape, twitching with every nuance of sound — the cacophony of the battlefield, the cries of her soldiers, and Morrigan's relentless, cruel laughter.
"Behold, your mighty army!" Morrigan bellowed from the ramparts, her voice a sonic dagger in the tumult. She outstretched her arms, and an ominous surge of energy pulsed from her body, riding the rain and wind like sinister tendrils. The spell's influence, like a wave of pestilence, spread outward from Althea, reaching the ranks of her soldiers.
Althea's heart pounded in her throat, a mix of escalating pleasure and horror as she helplessly witnessed the spell engulf her troops. The women under her command, brave and formidable, were struck amidst their defensive formations. A knight in shining armor began to stagger, her confident stance crumbling as her body expanded in ways armor was never designed to accommodate. The groans of metal straining were soon drowned out by her astonished squeals as her visage twisted, snout pushing forth.
Another soldier, in supple leather armor, clutched at herself, eyes wide with disbelief and a hint of betraying ecstasy. The transformation did not discern or discriminate; it reforged them all, reshaping their humanity without mercy. Chainmail that once sat flush against trained bodies bulged and tore at the seams, unable to contain the rapid, perverse growth. Echoes of ripping fabric and the clatter of discarded weapons filled the air, creating a discordant symphony of metamorphosis.
"Wh-what have you done?!" Althea managed amidst her grunts and squeals, her voice a rasping shadow of its former command.
"You wished to usurp my throne, dear Althea," Morrigan called out, her voice carrying an edge of manic glee. "Now, you and your army shall serve a different purpose. Embrace your true selves. Embrace your fall!"
As Althea felt her stance shift, her legs shortening, forcing her down to all fours, her mind was a whirlwind of chaos. The sensation of her snout, wet and twitching, the way her eyes seemed to reposition, the unnatural weight on her chest and abdomen that brushed the ground — it was all too surreal.
Around her, the once-mighty army was a mass of writhing forms, their transformation into livestock nearly complete. Their cries, a mix of human anguish and animalistic noises, marked the end of an era and the beginning of something dark, humiliating, and absolute.
Yet, amidst the despair, the pleasure the spell forced upon them twisted their last moments of humanity into a guilty, confusing ecstasy. They fell into their new roles, not with the honor and bravery that had characterized their lives but with an animalistic surrender that sealed their fates as Morrigan's perverse legion.
Through the rain's incessant pour and the world morphing around her, Althea's last thought as a human trickled away with the realization that they had not been defeated by sword and shield... but by a power that corrupted the very essence of their being. The general, the woman, the human faded away, leaving behind nothing but another creature of simple, base existence.
In the pandemonium, one figure broke away from the throng of transforming soldiers. Seraphina, a scout renowned for her swiftness, dashed through the chaotic crowd in a desperate bid for escape. Her heart hammered against her rib cage, a frantic rhythm in sync with her racing mind. 'I must get away, I must find help,' she thought wildly, the screams and squeals of her comrades propelling her forward.
However, Morrigan's spell was unrelenting. The sinister magic, a living thing born of darkest whimsy, sensed the fleeing soldier, seeing in her a challenge to be savored. It surged forth like a windborne predator, invisible and inevitable.
Seraphina felt a tingling in her toes, a numbing that crept upward even as she ran. It was as if icy fingers danced along her spine, a contrast to the sudden warmth blooming in her chest and rear. A gasp escaped her as she stumbled, catching herself just as her bosom began to swell with alarming speed.
"No, no, no," she panted, her voice tinged with a primal panic. Her armor, designed for protection and agility, creaked ominously as her breasts burgeoned with an unnatural vitality. They pressed against the metal confines, testing each rivet and joint fashioned by human hands.
Meanwhile, her backside expanded in a cruel mockery of her front, filling out and stretching the leather of her pants as they fought to contain her altering form. Each step became a waddle, impeded by the growing heft of her posterior. Her armor, once her second skin, seemed now a cage from which she frantically wished to escape.
As the transformation encroached upon her humanity, ripping away pieces of 'Seraphina,' leaving in its wake the burgeoning form of a creature of base instincts, she couldn't help but feel an undercurrent of something forbidden and sweet. Her skin was hypersensitive, every raindrop a symphony upon her expanding flesh. The sensation was maddening, a betrayal of her dire circumstances, and the pleasure mounted with every second she fell further from her humanity.
With a ripping sound, her burgeoning breasts burst forth from the restraints of her armor, the metal yielding and peeling away as if it were naught but paper. They were massive and heavy, bouncing with each panicked step, the cool night air caressing her flushed skin. Below, more teats formed in a row down her stomach, a perverse addition that had her crying out in a mix of shock and shameful delight.
Falling forward, Seraphina landed in a muddy puddle, the squelch of wet earth drowned by her startled squeal. She attempted to push herself up, but her arms seemed wrong, shorter, her hands curling into something unrecognizable. Mud splattered and clung to her, the earthy smell mingling with the scent of wet animal that she slowly realized was coming from her.
Her pleas for help became interspersed with porcine squeals, the words degrading into inarticulate sounds. "P-please, help m-meee—squee! Squee!" The sound was alien, coming from her throat, yet undeniably hers.
Around her, reflections in puddles revealed her comrades succumbing to similar fates, their human forms morphing and distorting into quadrupedal animals. Their armor lay discarded, unable to accompany them into their new existence.
In that mire of mud, magic, and moonlight, Seraphina's thoughts grew as murky as the earth she lay in. The fear, the desperation, the visceral need to survive began to ebb, replaced by simpler, more immediate concerns. The rain was cold, the mud was uncomfortable, and her body... her body was different.
As the chaos of the battlefield began to fade into a distant echo, the former soldier, now more beast than woman, slowly clambered to her four, stout legs. Shaking the wetness from her ears with a snort, she took a hesitant step, then another, each one more assured and instinctive.
The spell had woven its narrative into the very sinews and soul of the woman named Seraphina, leaving behind but a simple pig with no recollection of castles, queens, or wars. All that remained was the muddy ground beneath her trotters, the scent of fresh rain, and a tranquil night awaiting her grunts of newfound discovery.
As the battlefield writhed in chaotic transformation, the high tower stood like a dark sentinel in the storm, the drama at its peak unfolding between two figures — the queen and Princess Elara. Rain sluiced down the princess’s distraught face, her gown clinging to her form, sodden and heavy, while her mother, the queen, seemed to revel in the tempest, both the one she had created and the one nature hurled at them.
"Mother, please! This isn't you! You must stop this madness!" Elara’s voice trembled, nearly drowned out by the cacophony of the storm and the chaos below. Her eyes were wide with a mix of fear and pleading, her hands outstretched toward the woman who had raised her, who had once been her world.
The queen’s eyes were not those of the mother Elara knew. They were alight with wild, dark magic, and a power-drunk gleam that chilled Elara to the bone. "You dare defy your queen? Your mother?" the queen spat, her voice a whip-crack in the roaring wind. "You know nothing of the demands of power, the weight I carry!"
"These people trusted you, we all did! You can't just strip away their humanity because of your whims!" Elara countered desperately, taking a step closer, her hand still reaching for her mother, for any vestige of the woman who had lovingly brushed her hair at night.
"You are a disappointment!" the queen roared. The back of her hand glowed with a sinister light, the gathered energy pulsing and crackling in the rain. Without warning, she flicked her wrist toward Elara, releasing a concentrated beam of magic. "You wish to empathize with livestock, then so be it!"
A sharp, tingling sensation shot through Elara, focusing inexplicably on her chest. Her breath hitched, eyes snapping wide as she felt the unnerving sensation of her breasts beginning to expand, slowly at first, then gaining momentum. Her corset, tightly laced and reinforced, creaked ominously as her bosom swelled against it.
"Mother, what have you done?" Elara gasped, her voice laced with panic, hands fluttering to her chest where she felt the impossible happening. The tops of her breasts, visible above the corset line, seemed to balloon before her eyes, the skin stretching and shining in the wet night air.
The queen threw her head back, a peal of manic laughter escaping her lips as she savored the spectacle. "Not so high and mighty now, are we, child?"
Elara's protests turned frantic, her back arching as she felt her breasts continue to grow heavier, the pleasure-pain of the sensation making her knees weak. "Please... I beg of you... stop this..." Her plea was cut off by a soft, involuntary moan as her body betrayed her, the sensitive flesh of her expanding bosom sending jolts of confused pleasure through her system.
The corset was reaching its limits, the material straining to contain her burgeoning flesh. The pressure against her ribcage was becoming painful, each breath shallower than the last as she fought the dual sensations of suffocation and arousal. "I can't... it's too much!" she cried out, her voice rising in pitch.
"Now, my dear," the queen's voice was low, dripping with venomous honey, "you shall truly see what it means to be beneath me, to be nothing more than a beast of burden!"
With another wave of her hand, she unleashed a second spell. The change was immediate and horrifying. Elara's feet twisted, her bones reshaping with sickening crunches. A scream was torn from her throat, raw and ragged, but it morphed grotesquely into a series of low, bovine moos as her jaw began to elongate.
"No... m-moo... pleease... moo..." The words were a jumbled mess, human language slipping away from her even as she fought to hold onto it, her cries becoming deep, mournful animal sounds that chilled the blood of those who heard them from below. She fell forward onto her hands, now morphing into hooves, the sensation of her fingernails melding and hardening was nothing short of nightmarish.
Her breasts were now an unbearable weight, swaying heavily beneath her. But more terrifying was the sensation of her skin stretching along her spine, her pelvis cracking and reshaping as a tail sprouted above her behind. Her eyes, wide with the horror of her transformation, were met with the cold, gleeful stare of her mother.
"Moo... mooo..." was all she could manage, the sound pathetic and heart-wrenching. Her once-beautiful hair now fell in clumps, replaced by a coarse hide that spread across her changing form.
The corset finally gave way with a loud rip, unable to contain the sheer volume of her chest. Elara — or the creature that had been Elara — could only shudder in relief as her overburdened breasts spilled forth, the nipples elongating, the sensitive tips brushing against the cobblestones.
