Nephilim, artificer's elven apprentice - A "safe" "fortune-telling" artifact

Note: some fairly weird, intense anal stuff toward the end? Generally this one is just clean - even consensual-ish - if highly fetishistic, so venture bravely on, but by all means click away if you're not interested. The last section is recommended if you're into the "personality excretion" trope (though it's not that).

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"Here." My master sends a palm-sized black ball through the air my way.

"What is this?" I ask, perplexed as it lands in my hands. "You know your disciple deserves her very well-earned day of rest, Master?"

"Artifact," my master responds. Oddly laconic, though I understand the sentiment. It's at least the first explanation I've gotten this morning since his familiar hurried me to the atelier... by barging through my bedroom window at the crack of dawn. While my sheets had fallen from the bed.

An elven ear of mine pricks at the irksome recollection; I have no shame in my fine body, or I wouldn't let my master partake in loving me as I love him, but I'm not altogether convinced his familiar isn't an independent will from him. Still, it's behaved in all the years we've been together.

I turn the ball in my hands - it feels cool to the touch, smooth, a material evidently not of this world. A liquid body seems to flow about within in response.

"Foreign, likely from a rift," I remark, habitually cocking my head to open a brief auramic glimpse. Just enough to see if it has any aura at all, then I shut it off again. "Imbued, fairly strongly. What about it?"

"...Disposal."

"Of this ball? Master, we take this day of the week off precisely because it's the day of etheric ebb. If your intent was to test if I'd postpone draining an artifact for when our spiritual defenses aren't exceptionally thin, consider that test conquered." With further turning, I find an oddly reflective spot on the ball's surface - it appears to be clear, a window into its interior. "Is this a scrying tool?"

I peer within, and a blue stone floats to the inner surface, visible through the clearing. Glyphs are scribed on it.

"Now I see why you called me."

My master nods. As much as I am artificer's novice disciple to him, he is just as much consultee in turn to me; my ability to discern the intent that dwells in writing is what brought us together in the first place, when I took on his commission to decipher a runic text - the very first artifact we handled together, though I was unaware of it at the time.

I'm hardly one to pass up a chance like this; what good is an ability if you don't love it? I flick an auramic glimpse open again, this time through the writing. "MOST LIKELY, it says. Is that an answer to me? Is it uncertain of whether it's able to scry? How sad."

My master clears his throat. Oh, now he talks? "OK, thank you, Nephilim. I should explain this one - it's a little convoluted, arbitrary rules, almost like play."

"As rift artifacts tend to be. This is safe, yes?" My master can be somewhat... free-spirited at inappropriate times, contrary to his serious impression. (Though to be fair to him, he suffers my habitually undue arrogance too; it's that standard elven stereotype, and I've been teased enough about to at least be self-aware. A different kind of eye-opening, one of the benefits of taking a lover in human society.)

"I'd call it a safe one; especially in our world. I've carried out identification. It's spiritual-physical, but has no attack potency."

I nod. Neither of us are particularly the battling type, so that's welcome news.

"Two triggers. First, contact--" He points to his ruggedly thick alchemist's gloves. "--second, comprehension of its text."

"Ah. So I've fulfilled both. So this artifact has a live target, then."

"Yes."

"On me. On the day I'd be most to it."

"Yes."

Not that I ever fear him putting me in mortal peril - there's a part of me that'd kill him long before he fully kills me, and he knows that - but here is that free spirit. I sigh, and steel my patience for whatever humiliation he's about to put me through.

"Well, Master, you may as well keep explaining. Heaven knows what perverse, reason-defying ordeal you're going to put me through, because I know you are."

He pauses.

"Oh, for-- yes, I'm hesitant to let you, but I've never felt you needed opposing. I have time enough, you pathetically wilful lover, you." I pause too. "Just - you'll owe me after this, human," I add for good, spiteful measure.

"I know, I will."

"Yes, most certainly you will! Mas-ter!"

He laughs a silent chuckle, much relieved. "OK, OK. Triplicate effect: two that adaptation in polar opposite ways, and one rewriter. The activation condition..."

"The activation condition?"

My master rubs his chin, seeming to consider what to say next. "Nephilim, are you laying eggs?"

Unconsciously, I respond by shaking the ball, and read the text that emerges a moment later. This time is different from before. "VERY DOUBTFUL, so no. Master, the activation condition?" Ebbed as the ether is today, the recess of my mind flashes a final hint of self-preservation. "Wait, is it questions? Are you--Master, do you know how ridiculous of a question--"

"Hold on. One more quick test. Nephilim, are you laying eggs?"

Blinking away whatever my train of thought was, again my hands shake the ball, and again I read. "YOU MAY RELY ON IT, yes. Hnnngh..."

"OK, that makes it much easier," my master muses as I grunt in response to movement's onset and squat to the floor. Not that it strains me; my expression stays perfectly placid and the ball remains unshaken from my hands. As a matter of fact, I simply squat down with my knees together and feet apart, where my dress fails to drape far enough down my shins to keep my master's sight from my drawerless nethers. (Accidentally drawerless - it's not an elven habit, and the hasty awakening this morning left little time to remember the human ones.)

My master and I simply stare at each other while I lay the eggs, my gaze unassuming at my question's asker. I begin to push out a hitherto-unsensed pressure from my rectum, where a clean, glistening white tip begins to peek. That follows with a steady widening as the small ovoid body descends out from me, whose solid shell has no yield as the ring of muscle stretches around it, though my body and face have no response and remain neutral and still; the only part of my body with any movement is my rectum, twitching automatically per the reality of the situation.

Three whole fingers across at its widest, out pops one egg from my distended anus, its emergence from my waste chute observed fully by my master's watching eyes; the rest I continue to lay in full sight of him. Now the first one has made it, the rest I lay at a steady, quick pace, widen and narrow, widen and narrow, expelling another egg, then another.

I'm barely done with the act of laying eggs - eight all told, fresh and warm from their home in my colon, seemingly some kind of fowlbird's - when my master coughs to call my attention. My gaze remains impassively cast on his face, up from my lurid squat against the floor. "I'm listening. What is it?"

"Nephilim, is your mind annihilated?"

My hands shake the ball. I read the answer to this innocent question. "BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW." I seem to have nothing to add after that, trailing off and waiting for my master to perhaps respond.

"Ah, the rewriter. OK... yes, Nephilim, save for what is necessary to continue this artifact's manipulation, your mind is annihilated."

Annihilation - the physical wiping of the self from the brain. I feel as though the pathways in my head suddenly hollow out from within, a sensation that fills my entire body with an implosion of my awareness. Then--gone. Empty. Just elf body.

Arms drop. Jaw slacks. Stare vacantly. Drooling.

Picked up. Standing.

Penis inside. Pussy filled.

Thrusting. Elf sways. Drooling. Eyes back.

Throat gurgles. Faster thrusting.

Pussy clenches.

Penis throbs. Semen inside. Elf womb filled. Fertilized. Pussy squirts.

Cumming. Pleasure. Body bred. Let go. Elf collapses. Cumming. Twitching. Drooling.

"Is your mind restored?"

Arm moves. Eyes move. Mouth moves. "ATHK AGHAIN LAHER."

Fertilized.

Twitching. Pregnant.

"Nephilim, your mind is restored."

Pleasure. Cummi--

With the flood of awareness from inhabiting the elf - me, I am the elf, Nephilim, this is my body - it takes a few seconds to even catch up to my present situation, which I find to be myself crumpled and laid on the floor, my slit throbbing and oozing with some outside substance, and the telltale uterine tickle of a female elf's pregnancy, the innate ecstasy response to being bred radiating warmth in shivers and snakes out from the flesh of my intruded entrance.

The artifact accidentally rolls from my grasp. I am, by all appearances, the image of an elven victim laid low after being violated in a squalid alley, except I am no victim, and this is not an alley.

Ha! Now that's the sign of reason returning! A sudden compulsion to take a deep breath hits me, extricating my tongue from a droll tasting of our atelier floor. And - "Pteugh! Master, you odious pervert! Do you KNOW the labor of an elven pregnancy? I--well, OK, you do, given the few accidental inseminations in my time with you, but... but that's all the more reason you should regret what you've done! I don't have the ether to purge my womb, I don't... I was hardly of any mind to be burdened with carrying your child right now, you lech, you breeding-obsessed assailant!"

In all my indignity, I fail to react properly to my master placing the ball back in one of my open hands. "That's fine, that's fine. We're artificers; we toy with items that could devastate natural law and us. This is why disposal is part of our work. We just need to flush your womb, and that'll solve it."

"And not to mention the indignity of being made to lay eggs like some--" I blink. "No, not flush, the procedure we want is to purge--"

"Nephilim, is your womb flushing?"

Something is quickly forgotten once again. My hand shakes the ball, and my eyes dart over to read.

The process happens fully in the time it takes for the words to drop out of my mouth. An elven response occasionally triggered by fierce enough impact trauma to the abdomen, though to what end was unclear, my ovaries now quickly flush their reserve of eggs through their fallopian tubes, each unrealized bead of my own elven succession, every last gift of my fertility and ability to continue my race. Rolling with the subtle tremor of flesh that runs steadily from top to bottom through my female sex, the ova scatter into my uterus, which pulses to ejects all from its walls and out. As I lay messily, a miniscule squirt from my freshly-seeded hole represents the wasting of my entire ability to fulfil what home society deems a female elf's most sacred duty. My master witnesses a small puddle practically invisible to the naked eye stain the floor, a testament to my voided fertility. Blind to the tragedy of the reflex that takes just a second to practically urinate an elven woman's meaning out of her, my unperturbed acknowledgement of compliance finishes far too late. "YES, DEFINITELY, my womb is flushing."

"Nephilim..." My master trails off, taking a moment to think. My eyes rest on him. Then eventually, he continues. "Is your head dullahanic?"

My hand shakes the ball, and I read. "YOU MAY RELY ON IT, yes." Slowly, then freely as the newly featureless base of my neck strays from its place atop my torso, my now-detached head rolls to the side and a little away, bumping into some of the much larger fowlbird eggs I'd laid earlier from my ass.

My master picks up my head, independent of the body as a dullahan would boast, and carries it over to a far corner of the atelier, where the housekeeping supplies reside. There he brings a broom lightly off the wall, then with little hesitation, pushes my chin up and away from my neck stump, pries my mouth open, and lowers me straight onto the broom handle. A light but thickset wood, the stick thrusts deep into the straightened-out passageway of my oral spaces, and I'm left to rest a head impaled upside-down on a broomstick, slightly as I draw breath around my new mounting pole that gravity threatens to have me swallow deeper.

View of the world flipped, blood rushing in and out of my head, I watch my master pick the broom up and walk us back to the spot where my body is collapsed, which he collects in his arms and places on my usual working chair. There my headless body sits obediently, waiting with live artifact in hand.

He leans the broom with my mounted head against the table, and leaves me be for a moment as he produces his member, all but erect again, and takes up my free hand to place against it. The stimulation of my soft skin envelops the potent, twitching cock that violated me just a moment earlier, grasp instantly coated in a mix of my secretions and his. I watch impassively, my master using my pliant, delicate grasp as a makeshift relief with little curiosity at my own opinion - not that I had any on being orally against a broomstick while observing him jerk him off over my body.

Visible relief and pleasured hums swim into gagged view and earshot respectively as he climaxes in short order, fresh sperm from his balls now used to paint the clean circle of skin atop my torso, dirtying the place where my head would attach with the scent and virility of his own breeding material.

Dropping my hand, he reaches over to extract my head from the broomstick, pulling my disembodied back up the wooden implement. Naturally, the impromptu fellatio has left a trail of slick throat juices upon it, which I'm promptly whisked away from, nary a moment to catch my breath as I'm turned right way up.

He circles around to behind the chair, kneels down, and starts to prod me against my ass which pokes unflatteringly through the backrest.

The fact he's attempting to stuff my head into my own asshole strikes me in no particular way - I simply let him do so. Besides, my elven flesh is sufficiently supple and resilient to add little pressure to the task - as my asshole widens dutifully against the top of my own head's intrusion, I recall the anecdotes of orcs taking elven lovers, uniquely suited to accommodate their girth, though those who whisper such hearsay in public do it in far cruder terms, usually when they notice my pointed ears; "fucktube", "sextoy", "cumsock".

Anus dutifully taking me into my own body from below, I'm now crown-deep inside my taxed rectum as I continue to ruminate over our town outings. My master's content for me to react to such uncouth disrespect however I choose, which I'm thankful for, though I can't say I've made sure afterwards that no lives were lost. I'm hardly the elven waif most brutes fantasize about; while my rear entrance would certainly take the average orc, given it's now fully contained the brain controlling it inside its warm folds, I'll hardly let just anyone at it. As if my orifices were some kind of circus show, inspiring cheap thrills by opening up for anyone and anything like my master is demonstrating with my affirmatively dislocated head!

Calm down, Nephilim, calm down. I make a conscious effort to quell my irritation as my taut sphincter slides past my eyes and my vision enters into my own anal canal. My nose quickly follows suit in feeling the transition between outside and inside my waste chamber, then my lips, and finally my chin, after which the rest of me slides dutifully in with an easy pop, and I blink in pure darkness as the walls of my gut pulse slimily around me, my head now lodged firmly inside my asshole, occupying the position of a giant clump of waste.

At least, it would be a giant clump of waste in other systems, perhaps. Elven biology happens digests all intake into pure liquid and solid mana, which the body dutifully absorbs.

"Final question, Nephilim... Are you digesting?"

On the outside, my hand shakes, the tension of the muscles transferring all the way down into a palapble shift where my head is nestled in the exit of my guts. I flick my eyes up and give one last unquestioning auramic glimpse, the essence of the words visible from the ball I hold to my distended abdomen, regardless of my flesh being in the way. "CONCENTRATE AND ASK AGAIN," I respond, the words muffled, and I await.

"...Funny phrasing," I eventually hear. "Nephilim, you are digesting."

Dormant juices begin to secrete around me, seemingly glad to have work this far down, and on such a large object as my head too. Not a physical process but much closer to alchemical, I feel my mind begin to lighten in existential density, slowly but steadily being converted into physical ether as it's attacked by those gut enzymes in me that dutifully accept how I'm breaking down my own head into nourishment. Even so, the physical peril posed to my brain's intactness reflexively triggers one of my more resorts (though hardly what I'd consider life-and- level), and without question I cast out my soul into which I stow some requisite perception.

Floating away from my physical presence as it dissolves into crude magical fuel, my sight now hovers outside my body, remaining senses only faintly linked. I observe my master reaching around from behind to pat my belly as it gradually sinks back inwards into its natural shape, and I observe light, glowing blue begin to emerge from the rectum of my magically decapitated body. Ah. Of course the body wouldn't have time to intake it that far down into the guts.

So staidly, I watch my anus begin to near-literally shit out raw vivid ether as another race might far more disgraceful, uncleanlier things. Out from inside comes the sludge that once was my head and all its features, reduced to a vaguely sensed pleasant push of bowel movements reaching my soul as solid globs and liquid dribbles of my form-turned-anal-refuse slop out from my pristine asshole and splatter to the floor, leaving a great, messy, yet oddly beautiful effervescent cerulean pile of unfortunate waste.

The expelling of gloppy, pure mana that represents the final culmination of what once took proud place atop a now truly headless Nephilim.

Well, almost final were it not for my master now partaking of the ether from my ass, scooping luminescent handfuls of the excreted, unadulterated remains of my head from the floor and conveying them into his mouth. Physical ether is tasteless, but does he not mind if his food has been on the floor...?

---

"You see, I had to do that!"

The artifact is now safely stowed away for disposal on another day, and I am resolutely back in my body again, sat in the chair, myself and my surroundings returned to the same condition as before I'd touched that wretched ball, though nevertheless I find myself completely overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the deeds this man's perversions have managed to action upon me.

"Of all the ways to--I'm AWARE that Restoral isn't a light spell by any means, especially with how little you practice your magecraft, but that was my HEAD! Off the FLOOR!"

"Oh? Did you want me to call someone else in to do it?"

"Master, if you only KNEW how fortunate I feel that I'm no longer holding that loathsome, surreptitious, reality-warping thing! You've had your fun, now we destroy it first thing tomorrow!" I have had enough of questions for one day - no, for a month!

"But don't I owe you?"

The glibness of his response nearly has me retort doubly fierce, before I catch myself, recognizing what he's referring to.

"Hm."

"Mmmhm?"

"OK, Master, that is... quite possibly the one question I'll brook you asking me." I cross my arms and stand up, turning to face him with a pout. "Don't push your luck. We meet back here tonight, and I get the gloves this time."

"As you wish, Nephilim," my lover responds, the faintest smile on his face - one of the greatest acts of emotion he could ever portray, as far as I know. Only for me.

Honestly, what a mess of a master.