Turning Capella and Pandora into pets

After defeating the entire witch cult, Michael hovered in the air in their last hideout. Capella Emerada Lugunica realized something had changed. Her skin—normally fluid as mercury—had hardened like melted wax, trapped in grotesque forms of her own creation.

"What kind of lame game is this?" She snarled, trying to distort her limbs into sharp claws. Nothing happened.

My laughter echoed through the throne room as I sank my fingers into her melted chest, molding her breasts like hot clay. "You love playing goddess, don't you? Let's see how you like being *a toy*."

Her scream was cut short as her mouth fused into a permanent porcelain doll smile.

Pandora watched from her knees, her immaculate hands trembling for the first time in centuries.

"You—"

"Silence."

With a snap of my fingers, her white cloak dissolved into mist, revealing an adolescent body marked with red runes that pulsed under my will.

"Better." My hand gripped her chin as the symbols rearranged themselves in real time, rewriting her story in hieroglyphs of obedience.

Capella gritted her teeth—now fixed in small wolf canines—as she crawled to lick my boot.

"Y-you can't—"

"I can."

Pandora groaned as the runes on her stomach glowed, forcing her to arch her back like a cat in heat.

"You'll learn," I murmured as Capella writhed in increasingly degrading ways—sometimes bitchy, sometimes furniture, always wet.

When Pandora finally crawled onto my hip, her perfect mouth was already forming words that weren't her own:

"*Thank you for correcting us, Master.*"

The sound of their tongues working in sync was the only prayer left on the altar they once called free will.

After all, even they need an owner. The throne room breathed with the humid heat of three bodies now inextricably intertwined. Capella had become a piece of furniture and a pet—her arched back served as a seat while Pandora kissed my neck with the mechanical devotion of an automaton, her purple runes pulsing in time with the involuntary contractions of her womb. I could feel her warm uterus against my leg, throbbing like a secondary heart.

"Y-you..." Capella tried to speak, but her mouth only produced a sensual moaning sound as I slipped two fingers down her throat.

"Funny," I murmured as I journeyed through Pandora's mental archives—memories of centuries erased like grimy slates, replaced by new truths: *I always belonged. I always desired. I am... property.*

When Pandora's orgasm finally hit her, her cry came out perfectly synchronized with Capella's. Her dilated pupils reflected the same image: me smiling as their bodies bent into new forms, always beautiful, always useful, always... *mine*.

The last thing I heard before night consumed the room was the sound of teeth clenching on my shoulder—not in revolt, but in gratitude. Even the proudest witches learn to love their collars.