Approached by a witch

“Hark. Tis Mr Lemure.” A darkly attractive woman crows as she seemingly appears from nowhere. You blink. Where did this bejewelled strange lady come from. Is she a crone or a minx? “You’ve not seen **** girls like this before most honoured one…” she croons as she slips into your blind spot to only reappear from your left. You are reminded of a Cheshire Cat. Her grin is maddening. Her midnight eyes devouring.

You shake your head. “I have seen them before,” you don’t really want to continue this conversation.

“Aren’t we a mister know it all? But there is more to this world than you’ve ever imagined. Are you familiar with the dark arts?” she asks, tracing a shivering sigil in the air. One of the **** girls shudders in loathing and makes a mark against the beast. Clearly this woman in flowing robes of blackest silk is a witch.

“Of course! I am not some common dullard impressed by some ugly old hag’s feeble tricks.” You scoff.

“Really?” She asks, her crazed eyes narrowing. “Sharik!” she cries. It is a word of power. You feel your body go leaden, as though it is no longer your own. She beckons you to enter her yurt shop and despite not wanting to, you find that you have ****, your feet taking one step after the other like some puppet. “Join me in my tent for a moment,” You pale at the woman’s icy words as you enter, the witch pulling the tent flap closed after you. There was a hiss as of molten iron doused in water. “You dare mock me?!” the witch snarls, brittle and seething.

The woman shimmers and the illusion of her appearance fades to reveal a pale beauty cloaked in preternatural shadows. You gasp. You have heard of the White Sorceress before in your adventure, but had never thought to see her, having dismissed her as nothing but tall talk. She holds forth her shadowy hand and hisses aberrantly fey ligatures. Perhaps it is a trick of the light, but for a moment her dainty fingers do not seem quite human at all, for like some weird galanty show her outstretched knuckles and long nailed dactyl digits almost contort and deform to merge into the semblance of a knobbly claw.

Wondrous eyes gleam with an eerie luminescence and lush lips continued to move spasmodically in primal spine tingling evocation. At the beck of her unholy words of power the outline of her shadowy arm became oddly sinuous and plasticine, appearing to possess more than the normally allotted number of joints as it writhes snakelike from her shoulder. With fervently arcane and cajoling evinces the thing that wriggles upon her shoulder rears back till it grows fat and plump.

With a fey daemonic cast to her beautiful features the white witch mouths one spine tingling obiism which lets loose the thing upon her shoulder. The pseudopod surges forwards, thin and limber like a striking snake in an undulation of muscle and liquid flesh.

You cry out in fright as the hebephrenic appendage clutches at you. Your cries are accompanied by a wet sucking sound altogether unnatural and perverse. With wide disbelieving eyes you gape at the source of that sucking; skin crawling at the touch of it. It is like some demonic lovers tongue. Then it started to push forward, slow and gentle.

“This is my favourite way of making a hand maiden John Lemure,” she says.

You whimper as you feel your flesh throb. It starts as an aching in your chest which increases with every heartbeat. Glancing down and notice a swelling about your nipples as the muscles seem to lose definition and become puffy. You touch them and shudder at how sensitive they have become. Suddenly, you are rendered breathless by a crushing pain in your ribs. You bend over, holding your sides, which seem to be constricting, making each breath difficult.

“What is happening to me?” you cry