Miss Wormwood engages you in erotic tongue battle. A jealous serpent attacks.

Miss Wormwood stops you just inside the bath chamber, pressing her thin lips to yours. Her breath, faintly sweet and dust-scented, fills your nostrils. Her snakes writhe toward your head, sliding over your cheeks, questing through your hair, flickering their tongues into your ears.

"Ah!" you say as you feel a bite on your earlobe. Another on your neck. "Oh!"

Miss Wormwood's fingers weave through your hair and stiffen, holding you. Her lips stifle your cries. A warmth flows from the bites. Your heart beats stronger and faster, pulsing loudly in your ears.

"I taste your desire, my pretty one," Miss Wormwood whispers. "Does your moon-faced cunt not satisfy you?"

"Fay, oh, Fay," you sob. Lying in the bed under Miss Wormwood's care.

"She'll be all right, never fear," Miss Wormwood says. "I know you love her. And that is why you're here, with me."

Miss Wormwood bends to your lips again, tasting them, questing inside with her tongue. Your nipples stiffen. Your moisture descends.

"I taste the new girl on your lips," Miss Wormwood says. "Her cunt. Her shit. Ah, and who taught you that, the Osculum Infame?"

"Y-you did, Miss Wormwood," you say. You feel heat in your face and ears.

"Very good," she says. "Did you teach it to Fay?"

"Y-yes," you say. You feel the warm blush spreading down your neck and chest. The snakebites throb on your ear and neck. Your pulse drums in your ears.

"Truth, now, did she like it?" Miss Wormwood says.

You swallow. "She loves it," you say.

"Excellent," she says. "It's time for you to renew your lessons." A faint hissing comes from the snakes on her head.

"Miss Wormwood?" You remember your tongue between her buttocks, a taste of bitterness.

"No fear, Morgan," she says. "We will bathe first. Stand upon the slab."

You step up upon the stone slab beside the bath. Miss Wormwood fetches a bucket, soap and flannels and washes you from head to toe, gently. You flinch as she touches you in tender places. Upon the bites, throbbing and hot. On your neck, hypersensitive as her venom sings in your blood. On your nipples, hot and diamond-hard. Your lips feel dry and swollen. You lick them again and again as she washes you. You shiver as she washes between your legs, between your labia, between your buttocks.

Miss Wormwood sighs in satisfaction. "Trembling. Is it fear or desire?" she says.

"Y-yes!" you reply.

"Oh, very good, very good," she says. She kneels behind you. Her lips caress the base of your spine above the crease of your cheeks, then withdraw. Then comes the strike, the bite.

"AH!" you cry out. The feeling of liquid fire runs up your back from the twin pierces. A pulse of fluid jets from your pee-hole.

"Await me in the bath," Miss Wormwood says.

"C-can't..." you say. Your knees are knocking together. Your legs are barely steady enough to hold you up. It's too much to even step off the slab.

Miss Wormwood assists you into the bath, where the warm water speeds the action of her venom. Atop the drumming of your pulse, you now hear a high keening from the rush of your blood. You lick your lips again and again. Your heart thumps in your chest. The snakebites flash hot and cold. Your cunt and ass tremble, wanting penetration, wanting fullness. They tighten down and squeeze upon emptiness.

Miss Wormwood draws another bucket of water and cleanses herself. You watch in fascination as the snakes growing from her head dance under the water, taking in warm drops upon their forked tongues. She runs the soapy flannel along her long, slim, almost ropy limbs, marble-pale with blue veins. The only hair on her body is her eyelashes and the merest trace of brows. There are many white scars on her wrists, old snakebites. There are even bite marks on her inner thighs. Her own snakes? Some, perhaps. Some of the twin scars are bigger, more broadly spaced. Big snakes. Not hers.

Miss Wormwood rinses and joins you in the bath, laying her wand ready at hand.

"Morgan, dear, ahh, hsss," she says. "Nothing like a bath." Her eyes meet yours. Your gaze locks to hers, seized by those deep, dark eyes. "Kiss me."

She holds her face level with yours and extends her tongue. The end is slim and nimble, but not forked. You extend yours. Your noses touch, your eyes are locked, and your tongues caress each other wetly, tip to tip. Hers is longer.

Miss Wormwood laughs. "Ah, this won't do," she says. "We want deeper kisses, today. Stay right there."

You sit still as a statue in the bath, your tongue extended, as Miss Wormwood turns and takes up her wand.

"LINGUA EXTENSA," Miss Wormwood intones. She sticks out her tongue and waves her wand.

You feel an electric wriggle as your tongue ripples with the magical transformation. Your tongue thins and extends a hand-span from your mouth. Miss Wormwood's tongue does the same.

You try to talk, but all that comes out is unintelligible gabble. Miss Wormwood smiles and shakes her head. Her tongue waves back and forth in negation. She points between her thin breasts, holds up her index finger, and points to you. Me - first - you. Follow my lead. You nod.

Miss Wormwood extends her tongue and caresses yours, wrapping round, squeezing. You moan. Everything is so sensitive, so strange. You feel a squirt! come from under the base of your tongue. Clear drops of fresh saliva spatter Miss Wormwood's cheeks and chest. She laughs and makes a sigh of satisfaction. She squeezes and pulls your tongue again. Another squirt, another splash. She loosens her tongue's grip and nods to you. Tentatively, you squeeze Miss Wormwood's tongue with your own, newly long and supple.

"Uhn, uhn," she grunts, encouraging you.

When you squeeze tighter on her tongue and pull, you feel a spray of warm drops on your own face and neck.

Miss Wormwood laughs with delight. "Uhn, uhn!" she congratulates you.

Letting loose her tongue's grip on yours, she leads you through an exploration of each other's face, licking every inch of surface, tasting, really tasting, knowing tastes you had never noticed before. Her skin, the sweet-dusty taste you know well, but traces of resin, aromatic flakes from medicinal preparations. You taste her desire in the salt and musk in the sweat upon her brow. She guides your tongue with hers, up into her waving forest of green snakes that grows in place of hair, and entices you to play with them. Their own tongues, tiny and forked, caress the tip and length of your magically transformed organ. Her tongue upon your ears, within your ears, sends you into a fit of shivers somewhere on the edge between pleasure and ****.

"Unh, unh!" she insists, guiding your tongue so you reciprocate. Salty again on the outside, round the curves. She sighs as your tongue caresses the outside. And inside, the tiny tickle of velvet hairs, hidden secretly. Specks of pollen. Flakes of parchment. And the bitter stickiness of wax. She sighs in satisfaction. You withdraw. She urges you on, and you complete the caresses on the first ear's mate. Her sinewy body moves freely against yours in the bath, stretching and twisting with the pleasure of your tongue as you follow her lead. Now and again you hear a little laugh in her throat.

Abruptly she stands up. "Uhn!" she commands, pulling up upon your arm. You rise. Your legs are steadier now, but the blood still sings and drums in your ears. You want to lick your dry lips, you try, but it's awkward, your prodigious tongue flailing around as you try and turn it back upon yourself.

Miss Wormwood lays out a triple layer of towels upon the bathside slab and motions for you to lie down upon them. She steadies you against your trembling legs, helping you down to the pallet. She lies down beside you and puts her snake-haired head to your chest, suckling at one breast, then the other. Her lips and tongue upon your hard, hard nipples, so good. Pulses of warmth radiate through your body from her mouth. You sigh in pleasure. You want to say something, to ask something, to tell her something, but it's still just gabble as your long, long tongue gets in the way. As she rises, one of her snakes strikes, piercing your breast. You squeak. It's a dry bite, stinging but not burning.

She fixes your gaze again and repeats her gestures. Follow my lead.

Miss Wormwood rises from beside you and reverses herself. She settles down upon you, her knees straddling your chest. You raise your arms over your head as she settles down, leaving your hands free to work on her hinder parts. She leans forward and parts your knees. You sigh as you feel her touch between your legs, upon your inner thighs. You tilt your sex up, hungry, wanting to be caressed, kissed, filled. Following her lead, you touch your fingertips lightly to her sinewy thighs. Along their length, they're taut as cables, but softer, a little softer, as you move your fingers between. Miss Wormwood's touch on your own skin is maddening, teasing. Each stroke of her fingertips sets off a little ripple, a little shiver making you want more, more, more. You whimper with desire. She eases off, holding still.

Your eyes come back into focus, regarding Miss Wormwood's naked hindquarters. The muscles of her buttocks and thighs are sharply traced under her pale, pale skin. There is very little fat to her, little roundness. Her curves are long and sinuous, though her narrow waist and broad hips mark her womanhood. As do the thin lips guarding her womb, her outer labia smooth and hairless, her inner labia slim and pale lavender in color. Not Fay's thick, juicy rose lips or Lolo's deep red ones. Miss Wormwood's lips glisten, slick with her own moisture. You scent her desire as well. Your nostrils flare and you whimper again. And above the thin lips of her sex, the dark, pleated starburst of her anus, the object of the Kiss of Shame that she taught you, and taught you well, and that you taught to Fay and used on Golondrina, that Miss Wormwood tasted on your lips. Where most of Miss Wormwood's skin is marble-pale, even the lips of her mouth and sex being pastel in tint, Miss Wormwood's asshole is dark grey, a double-dozen radiating folds filling out an oval starburst. You know its bitter delights well, having served as its devotee when you were Miss Wormwood's assistant during your first year. Before you knew Fay.

Miss Wormwood's fingers part the lips of your sex. You feel the tongues of her snakes caressing your inner thighs. You raise your fingers to her labia, parting them, her slick musk smearing your fingers. You whimper again as the scent of her desire rises, like resinous, musky weeds at the end of summer. Her tongue tickles along your sex, finally, now, finally. Your hips tilt, trying to guide her to where you need her touch. But she eases back, her long, long tongue lying along the length of your labia. You try to follow her lead, licking your long, miraculously sensitive new tongue along her sex lips. A throaty sigh escapes her. You feel her tremble slightly. Encouraged, you redouble your licking, lashing your tongue up and down and taking in her slippery, tart, musky juices. When your tongue curls round the pale purple pearl swelling at the key of her arch, Miss Wormwood moans. Sharp bites pierce your thighs. Venomed. Fire spreads up and down your legs. A blunt, scaly head prods at your anus, another at your womb. They enter, penetrating, filling, writhing inside you. You cry out in desire and satisfaction. You follow as best you can, using your fingers, two in her womb, one, slippery from her juice, up to the center of that dark oval starburst, and in.

You cry out in climax as Miss Wormwood's snakes wriggle inside your body, mingling horror and pleasure. As you reach that high, exalted clarity of climax, you see clearly a scene from the past, captured from Miss Wormwood's mind. A young man from House Beavertail, snakebites upon his neck and chest, writhing with pain and pleasure as you ride, no, as Miss Wormwood rides his member. His seed spurts within Miss Wormwood's womb, hot and plentiful, but no sound comes from his mouth. His face and throat are swollen from the venom. A white-hot orgasm captures Miss Wormwood, and she is transported into a paradise of pleasure. By the time she comes to herself, it is too late. The young man's eyes stare sightlessly. His member is stiff and upstanding, but all is lifeless. What was his name? You catch a hint, K, something K.

When you regain your composure, Miss Wormwood's snakes have withdrawn. Her fingers caress your thighs gently. Her tongue joins them, licking, teasing. Your heart pounds and your skin is drenched with sweat, but you follow again, fingers and tongue. When her tongue teases your rear door, you raise your tongue to hers. When she presses, opens, penetrates and enters you, you take a deep, sobbing breath, then do the same.

Deep inside Miss Wormwood's anus is heat, and sharp bitterness upon your magically lengthened tongue. Deep inside your own, Miss Wormwood's tongue echoes the Kiss of Shame. Yet she is never ashamed. As she starts moving, working in and out, tickling the tight ring of your entrance, you whimper with renewed desire and follow along. A snakebite pierces the flesh of your buttock. Another one. The bites bring heat, and now pleasure more than pain. She tickles your clit with her fingertips. Your hips buck, a ripple of sensation washing through your body. You raise your hand to match her, touching, tickling. You hear a throaty sigh and feel her body ripple sinuously, tugging at your long tongue as you continue to penetrate her anally. Her tongue works in and out of your own ass, faster and faster, stiffening as your ring tightens down at the rising stimulation. You do your best to follow. She eases off so as not to set you off, not yet, not yet, then...

You groan loudly and full-throatedly as Miss Wormwood's wickedly nimble tongue sets you off, fucking your tight anal ring to a second, higher climax. Her own voice rises with yours. Her ass tightens down on your tongue and her juices spurt from her cunt, splashing your chin and chest with her release. You clutch each other close, moaning as your tongues plumb deep inside each other's bodies, tasting the hot bitterness of the Kiss of Shame and riding waves of climactic pleasure.

You slump into a stupor of satisfied pleasure, your magically long tongue lolling out upon the towel. You faintly sense Miss Wormwood rising.

At length you feel another questing tongue tickling your ankle. You mutter unintelligibly, your tongue still long from Miss Wormwood's spell. There's a sliding of cool, scaly skin on yours. You blink to wakefulness in alarm, bolting up to see the head and forked tongue of a huge snake regarding you with hunger. You shriek in alarm. Where is Miss Wormwood?

When you HAVE SEX with Miss Wormwood, on a 7-9, gain +1 XP. Your sex awakens the jealous attention of a dangerous creature. Also apply your House Sex Move, MIND MELD, to learn one of Miss Wormwood's secrets. Roll to GET OUT OF DANGER.

You have 1 XP. Your tongue gives you a -2 to cast spells until corrected.