soul jelly

The ritual was conducted in the dripping, phosphorescent damp of the Goblin Warrens the places where the stone was slick with algae, excrement, and various magical byproducts. I was a witch, or at least I had believed I was. I had studied the old texts, communed with the spirits, held onto that prickly, defiant sense of lesbian pride the belief that I was someone who loved other women, someone who had agency, ritual, and self.

The Goblins absolutely detested that. To them, a witch with a soul and a sexual identity was like a piece of over seasoned meat that needed to be cleaned and repurposed. They didn't want a person; they wanted a vessel a mindless, cock loving slut that would serve the Warren as a permanent, pleasure addict fixture.

The ritual began with me being stripped naked and bound to the Rough Hewn Altar a slab of pitted green stone that was perpetually wet and sticky. They tied me with strands of gut and sinew, the cords biting into my thighs and wrists, not so tight they drew blood, but tight enough that I couldn't flinch or protest. They liked me immobilized, helpless, and ready for the "purification."

The Goblins giggled and chattered, their long fingers clicking against each other, their eyes yellow and hungry, as they poured the ritual concoction into me. The mixture was foul and beautiful: a bubbling, iridescent brew of fermented goblin droppings, hallucinogenic fungi, bitter herbs, and most abundantly the thick, stringy cum they harvested from the Warren's males. It was viscous and smelled of ammonia and sweet rot, the most potent purifying agent they possessed.

They forced the brew into me all three ways down my throat until I gagged, up my pussy until it filled the vaginal canal, and into my asshole until I felt bloated and heavy. They made sure every single drop coated the inside of my digestive tract and my womb, aiming to grab hold of the very thing they wanted to extract: my lesbianism and my soul.

Inside my gut, the concoction began to react with the "impurities" of my self my desires for women, my memories of past loves, my witchy pride, my sense of being a person. The herbs and the goblin waste acted like a magical solvent, loosening the sticky, colorful essence of my lesbian soul. It felt like something solid and bright was forming in the coils of my intestines a cohesive, jelly like substance that was uncomfortable and thrilling all at once.

I retched and convulsed, my stomach gurging and sloshing audibly in the quiet of the stone chamber. The feeling was nauseating the sense that my entire identity, that proud, witchy lesbian self, was liquefying, turning into a thick, brightly colored blue slime. Every cramp felt like the slime was scraping against the walls of my bowels, peeling itself off the mucous membrane, collecting all those pretty, forbidden thoughts and feelings into one big, gelatinous lump.

I groaned, my back arching off the hard stone as the pressure built in my lower abdomen. My pussy was dripping with the leftover ritual brew that cloudy, herb and cum mix and my asshole felt like it was about to burst with the concentrated blue jelly that was my former self. I wanted to scream, but the gagging and the moaning that came out were stupid and slutty, exactly what the cackling Goblins wanted to hear.

The feeling was bizarre and obscene: a solid, jelly like mass that was brightly colored and utterly foreign, like something that shouldn't be coming out of a human body. But it was coming, and the Goblins absolutely cheered, hopping up and down on their knobby little legs, clapping their long fingers together, watching the altar where I was splayed.

The evacuation was messy and satisfying. With a series of wet, squelching gurgles and hard stomach cramps that felt almost pleasurable, the thick blue jelly sloshed out of my asshole, landing in the carved groove of the stone altar. It was beautiful in its most revolting way: a quaking, translucent, neon blue lump, shiny with the leftover ritual cum and herbal slime, containing the whole, congealed essence of the witch I used to be. Inside that jelly, I could see the faint, ghostly traces of my old self the memories of touching other women, the righteous anger, the witchy rituals all trapped and rendered inert in that pretty blue goo.

As the last of the blue slime left my insides, the emptiness that followed was immediate and blissful. That hole where my soul and my lesbian identity had just been was clean, fresh, and absolutely famished. The "impurities" the part of me that liked women were gone, purged like refuse. In their place was a gaping, throbbing hunger for cocks, a hard and mindless need that felt like the only truth in the entire world.

I couldn't remember why I had ever felt repulsed by cocks. The thought that I might have once found them dirty, frightening, or objectionable was like a word in a language I no longer spoke meaningless and stupid. And why would I have liked other women? That concept was fuzzy and tasteless, like a memory of something bland and uninteresting that I simply didn't care about. The warmth and comfort I used to associate with female touch felt gray and dull, utterly unsatisfying compared to the sharp, filling, cum heavy pleasure I now craved.

I was new. I was cleaned. I was a proud, insatiable cockwhore, and I loved it.

My thighs, still slick with the blue residue and the sticky ritual cum, instinctively began to rub together, the pussy lips wet and gaping, dripping down onto the hard stone. I wanted a cock any cock immediately.