Abram Kischine's Story

By 1801, Ludwig von Beethoven was beginning to go deaf. On the 22nd of December, 1808, his Fifth Symphony premiered in Vienna, Austria. The piece in question begins with arguably the most famous four notes in the entire history of music, in which three short notes are followed by one long, lower note, and then these repeat themselves in a lower tone. Scholars have interpreted this key phrase in the symphony as some anthropomorphism of fate itself knocking at the proverbial door. This is a startling image, but although Beethoven’s compositions remain spectacular musical works, oftentimes is the case in which fate is so much more intrusive.

In either case, it is customary to be alert and prepared to accept one’s guests, and although it would have been far more polite for the entourage to knock first and announce their intent, they instead opt to knock the door down altogether and bustle into the abandoned inn as if being chased by predators larger and more hideous than themselves. Through their grand entrance, Abram sleeps, and has to be coaxed awake to a most terrifying predicament.

At first, his position is not altogether uncomfortable, like lying in a sagging, sturdy hammock suspended between two shady trees. Like a hammock, he finds it a difficult effort to get up, and in fact this task proves most impossible. Abram discovers himself to be entangled in a slew of scaly, muscular coils that curl lazily and heavily around him. The serpentine figure is as thick as his torso, probably, and drapes over his arms and legs in such a way as to pin each between their smooth, leathery flesh. For a moment, he cannot discern up from down, but he knows his feet are squashed somewhere above his head, though he lays on his back. He struggles to push the roving coils off of himself, but just as he manages to hoist one loop off of his arms, another one slips around him to take its place. This one squeezes around him, tightening over his upper chest so that he has trouble breathing. The snake-like whorls undulate to life and sit him nearly upright, pulling almost taut around his abdomen and his neck.

“Rise and shine, human!” The voice is female, brusque in tone, and certainly not human itself, as further implied by its words. A strange layered quality is intoned, as though a weep and a wail are speaking in chords from one throat. Having been propped up, Abram stares in horror at the venomous creature which has entangled him. Numerous names have been attributed to this form throughout reports in mythology: Gorgon, lamia, naga.

“Medusa.” Abram barely chokes out the words as the coil of the monster’s tail tightens around his neck.

The creature in particular is a reptilian woman with murky green scales coating her body, pale in front but speckled with dark, malicious patterns like sinister faces down her back. Her hair is comprised of small, hissing serpents, her eyes gleaming spots of yellow with black slits. Her face is like a morph between human and serpent, and when she grins, she flaunts some deadly-looking fangs and a darting, forked tongue. Her breasts are bare, ripe mounds, and from her hips below, her body does not possess legs but instead consists of a long, serpentine tail that slithers just like a snake. It is this tail that she uses to entrap Abram and manipulate his body with her dexterous coils. Notably, her pelvis divots into a feminine slit, giving her an accessible womanhood, and her nudity in general flies in the face of the modest grace humans of the time aspire to. After all, caving in to this temptation would surely mean a swift end to Abram. Grunting, he squirms a few more times, barely capable of shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s always so nice to dine on human. Their screams vibrate my stomach so wonderfully, even if their squirming is a touch uncomfortable,” she says. Her tail ripples about him, and he dreads to imagine that as she squeezes tighter, she’s pressing some identifiable lump against his person. “But then, there’s so much more than fine dining. Tell me, boy, what is your name?”

Ignoring the denigration of such diminutive titles, Abram retorts with a bold lie. “Snake Slayer.”

Medusa hisses in response, and as her maw gapes open, Abram is to gaze into the nefarious abyss, knowing that others have met their end within. “Foolish. Did you not know these woods are teaming with monsters?” She holds her arms outward, and Abram is introduced to two burly werewolves, naked and covered in thick, gray fur. Their large pawed feet creak the wooden floor with every step. Their bushy tails swing high in threatening glee. Despite their furry pelts, their rippling musculature is unmistakable, and even without their teeth and claws, either one alone could be a deadly , even to someone as trained in combat as Abram. Their fanged faces are difficult to read for expression, but they seem compliant enough with Medusa’s prompting.

“Even if we cannot escape the castle and the woods nearby, a human like you could pass easily. And I think you’re going to enjoy what my friends will do to you.” Medusa’s wicked grin widens beyond normal human measure, and her tail loosens from around Abram’s body here and there. She still holds him securely within her confines, but now more of his body is exposed between her wrappings. Her body curls around each of his limbs and holds him taut above the ground, and every so often her muscles flex and twist back and forth, making for an oddly soothing ride that does little in the way of actually easing his stress.

To make matters worse, those two buff wolfmen approach, fully naked. Each has a sizeable set of balls on him; their respective sheathes plump in unison as their glossy pink and red rockets start peeking out into the open air. Darker red veins color the extremities of their emerging masculinity, and they emit little instinctive growls as if to warn Abram of the subservient position they have decided for him. They move in and forcibly undress him, tugging at his shirt and pants. The fabric can be heard tearing a bit, and though they don’t care, they don’t rip it to shreds. They wrangle his clothing off his limbs, with Medusa only loosening one appendage at a time to disrobe him. They work his armor off as well, and though he fidgets and grunts, he is powerless to stop them.

Medusa loops the very end of her tail around Abram’s penis which, admittedly, was stiffening from the soothing attention of her coils and her nakedness. He almost went limp from the fear of what she planned to do to him, but her only action was to draw her tail taut and jerk slowly on his shaft. “Look at his dull human penis,” Medusa says. “Let us do something about that, shall we, boys?”

The werewolves’ eyes sport an insidious gleam as they trod up to either side of Abram’s face. By now, their canid dicks are almost completely erect, like two big, throbbing red pickles, glistening and alive. Abram wrinkles his nose at the pungent smell of their bestial musk, but the height of their wagging tails indicates that he is soon to be subject to their lustful whims. They don’t allow him time to plead, not that he would’ve used it. The closest they permit him to warming up is to pry his jaws open with their large, brutish paws, and one turgid wolf dick into his mouth at a time. He tries to refuse, being repulsed by the salty, foul taste of monster cock, but enough wisdom has been instilled into him from his training to know that he has plenty of other vulnerabilities for the group to exploit should he retaliate with a bite.

At about the same time, he feels Medusa’s tail leaving his erection, and his legs are spread back as wide as they can go. He groans as loud as he can when he feels her oddly-shaped tail nudge itself against his unspoiled back door. Her rattle is shaped like several large scoops of ice cream stacked on top of one another, like a series of connected, rigid orbs. She nudges and pushes and prods, and despite the lack of a lubricating agent, she slides the first sphere inside of him. He moans in pain at the burning feeling of his ass being spread in a wholly new sensation, and Medusa continues pushing her tail against him, thrusting it against his asshole like any dick, working to wedge another portion of her appendage into him.

The wolf-men don’t care. They’re too busy exchanging his mouth, passing his face back and forth to cram their meat inside as if he’s a cream-pied bitch’s breeding hole. After a few sloppy gulps, the other werewolf yanks him by his hair and pops their massive shaft along his paralyzed tongue. His jaws already feel sore from stretching to accommodate such gargantuan members. The mutt men growl and drool, uttering short bestial noises as they his poor mouth, their dark, furry nuts soon slapping against his face. Whenever one vacates his maw, he rests his heavy, dense cock alongside his face, their full, fisted knots grinding against his temple. Against his will, those dangling, enormous orbs feel almost soothing, so soft, fleshy and plush against his cheek and chin. By the time he realizes he’s fully erect and his own penis is pulsating for attention, Medusa has shoved the entirety of her tail’s rattle inside of his rectum.

Then her tail starts vibrating. Medusa shakes her tail exactly like a snake’s rattle, not only producing a high, breathy, shaking noise, but thrumming the end of her appendage in between his buttocks like an electric toy (that has yet to be invented). She allows herself a small cackle, admiring the work of the two wolf-men while she tail-fucks Abram. “Feed him your essence, hounds,” she commands the pair of beasts. “Turn him. He shall become like us, only free to spread your blessing beyond our realm of darkness, outside of this forest.”

The oral ravaging continues. The wolf-men grunt and pant more urgently. The vibrating tail feels as though it’s twisting like a corkscrew inside Abram’s ass. When he decides he can’t take any more, they keep going, far from being finished. This repetitious sport proceeds until finally, finally, one of the werewolves chokes Abram deep on his tense shaft. That oddly-shaped cock-head beads at its spout with a huge glob of awful-tasting spunk, and then showers multiple jets of white lupine semen into his throat. Abram gags, his eyes widening and his vision blurring. He tries to pound his fists against the wolf-man’s stomach, remembering that his arms were rendered immobile. His cheeks bulge out to contain all that spunk, but the werewolf corks his mouth with the use of his expansive knot, and though traces of the white, thick fluid rivulet out past the corners of his lips, Abram eventually has but to swallow noisily. Three or four audible gulps later, and he has a hearty helping of chowder-y monster spooge swimming in his gut.

The second wolf-man achieves climax shortly after, starting to spurt before he’s even lodged inside of Abram’s mouth. The result is one gooey, thick strand trailing up along his nose and forehead and reaching his hairline. All the rest of his hot batter fills Abram’s mouth, the ropes of seed parting in twain, but all of it pooling near to the brim of Abram’s maw. This werewolf grabs the human’s face in both paws, forcing his jaws open wide so that the ridiculously plentiful load can be seen plain as day. Abram’s eyes have glazed over long ago in submission, and all he can do is gargle to keep the nasty smooze out of his throat. He can’t use his lips to spit any of it out with his jaws being held open, so eventually he concedes that the only way to be rid of it and breathe again is to swallow it all down as well. He now feels like his belly is full of werewolf cum.

“Please. No more,” Abram whines, his voice hoarse. Medusa’s tail is no longer vibrating in full , but it does buzz in short spurts now and again. Slowly she withdraws the rattle, popping out one sphere at a time, until his behind is de-virgin-alized and vacated.

“Now, seal the curse,” she says, now curt and dropping the pretense of toying with him. What were they going to do next? He fears they will mark him in some way, but though this is true, he doesn’t expect them to do so by biting him. One werewolf sinks its jaws painfully into his right shoulder, and Abram lets out a wrenched, awful scream, afraid to be torn apart. The other bites hard on his left ass cheek, chewing on the supple flesh, but the most either of them do is to mar his flesh with teeth marks. The wounds bleed a bit, but the is brief, no matter the level of danger. The ordeal proves too much for Abram, and once again, he passes out.

When he later awakens, he has been left alive and alone. He’s still naked, but not naked as the day he was born. The monsters have robbed Abram of his humanity and bestowed upon him the curse of the werewolf. He rolls over, ignoring the ruminating pains in his shoulder and ass long enough to examine himself. His hands are now like paws with gray-green fur and dark padded palms. His entire body is covered in this fur, colored like his hair. The shape of his legs is all wrong, as though the heels of his feet have risen off the ground and now are almost indistinguishable from his ankles. His lower legs, in essence, bow back on an inverse, much like a wolf’s hind legs. His entire body is tickled by his own new pelt, and his spine aches from the addition of a long, bushy tail. His ears ache too, for they’ve elongated into pointed peaks. Only now does he notice the nose in front of him, jutting out several inches because of his brand new muzzle. And last, but certainly not least, is a special present, or rather a brand new package: Abram’s dick is larger than it was before, his balls coated in velveteen fur and his entire dick tucked into a warm, fuzzy sheath. His erection swells just from the thought of its changes, and he’s horrified at first, then bewildered to see the same shape as the wolf-men’s own tools of violation.

Abram is a werewolf now. The epitome of the very creatures he’s been trained to vanquish. What he is goes against every fiber of his teachings. But he knows that inside the castle, he will find Medusa, and if he cannot find a remedy, he can at least find his .