The Witch

Orus landed flat upon the rug, arm outstretched, misjudging the limits of his reach in this new body as his hand fell short of the hilt. The folly cost him the gambit, the Witch snatching his sword's hilt right before his eyes.

She rose to her knees, obsidian hair strewn across her alabaster face and heaving bosom, panting lips slowly turning with the shadow of a smirk as she gripped the hilt triumphantly. Her moonlit gaze fell upon Orus without a hint of mercy to her expression. He felt as if his strength withered away under that stare.

“Well, now...” she breathed, raising the bladeless instrument to regard with cold curiosity. “Such a disgraceful excuse for a sword... isn't it?”

With a quickly mustered breath, Orus planted his hand on the rug to **** himself up, but as the Witch's glare returned to him he fell short again, the soft fabric compressing his even softer new breasts against his chest upon landing. His ensuing grunt rang decidedly effeminate in his ears, and he found himself... or herself, rather, with **** but to come to terms with her new body.

“You've made me... a woman?” Orus panted, still not recognizing the voice that came out.

The Witch caught her breath with a sigh, rising fully to her feet above the fallen knight. “Yes, I have. It seemed only... fair.” Just her bare feet were visible from Orus' vantage on the floor, stepping closer. “Not an easy trick, but it seems to have worked wonders... And for a naughty boy like you, who peeks on women through their window, a fitting punishment.”

Orus managed to lift her head enough to see the Witch's hand curled on her pale hip, the sight of the naked quim between her long legs giving the knight a guilty shiver.

“Not a boy any more, I suppose,” the woman spoke as she stepped around Orus where she lay. “But naughty nonetheless. I daresay your designs for me as you watched me undress must have been scandalous—depraved, even. I can only imagine—and so had you, I'm sure.” She lowered herself to squat at Orus' side, where her contemptuous face could be seen in penumbral clarity. Turning that glare to the impuissant hilt in her hand, the Witch's smirk returned once more.

“You can hardly act out your dirty fantasies any longer. This little tool is quite an apt metaphor for that. Perhaps disgraceful, but not without its uses...”