The Wizard Who Enslaved Herself
1
The soldier forcibly pressed the flask to the woman’s mouth. “Drink it, whore,” he ordered, while two others held her arms. The first man had taken hold of the wizard’s long brown hair, too, and was using it to tilt her head back.
“Noooo,” she screamed, struggling. All other sounds were then muffled by the sound of her gurgling.
The leather-clad mercenaries held her nose and prevented her from spitting up the liquid. Once they were sure she had swallowed, they let go and stood back to watch, smiles on their faces.
Carrisa, in another location entirely, watched as well, pointedly not smiling. In the moments that followed, she was in no little part impressed by the speed with which the elixir worked, and no little part dismayed by its effects.
The woman—Carrisa recognized her as Eilesa, one of her many apprentices and guild-sisters of the Nycclethnim—at first looked around her, eyes wide and frightened. A panicked expression had filled her face. Apprentice Eilesa then blinked and straightened from the defensive crouch she had assumed.
Her lips opened in a surprised “oh,” which gave the student wizard the look of someone who had received a sudden and unexpected realization. That, or a sharp pinch to the ass. The point was, she was no longer looking at the rude mercenaries surrounding her, nor at their swords and daggers, nor at the effects of their previous brutality. Her attention had clearly been turned elsewhere.
For a second, the apprentice stared down and fingered the sleeve of her torn green dress, for all the worlds as though she were trying to recall what the fabric was, or what its purpose might entail. Then, with a cry and expression of absolute revulsion, as though she were pulling leeches from her skin instead of expensive guild-silk, Eilesa began tearing her clothes off.
She ripped the dress from her skin and threw it wildly about her, as far as possible. Her shoes went flying. So too did her rings and bracelets, the psychic symbols of her developing magic.
Her undergarments, with particular abandon, she discarded.
Within a minute Eilesa was naked, panting, and surrounded by her former accoutrements. She fell to her knees and leaned far backwards, displaying her breasts to the sky, and not incidentally to the lecherous examination of the soldiers, who pointed and laughed. Carrisa noted, with the professional observation of the experienced wizard-enslaver, how profoundly engorged the apprentice’s nipples were, and the flush of her skin, and the color of her face: the young woman was clearly, obviously sexually aroused, deeply and intimately.
It was after this that the obviously magical changes began to occur. First, and with abrupt suddenness, Eilesa’s reddish-brown hair fell out.
The locks simply parted from her head in one great lump, joining the discarded dress and rings on the ground. Eilesa’s mouth opened even wider than before—for a moment, Carrisa thought she was going to scream. Instead, she moaned, passionately, in the throes of what was unmistakably an intense, ecstatic pleasure. Her hands moved to her breasts and other soft female intimacies. She fingered herself with abandon, oblivious to the onlookers. Like the hair on her head, her eyebrows too quickly abandoned her, and their lack made the apprentice’s face appear unfamiliarly alien and exotic.
The look was not unattractive, though.
As she masturbated, the woman-wizard’s skin began to darken. Her flesh became, at first, merely tan. Then, within seconds, it went completely bronze, the pigment achieving an almost metallic flawlessness, without pores, freckles, or other human markings. Eilesa’s lips turned gold. Simultaneously, her ears grew. Their tips turned sharper, narrower, shapely yet distinctly non-human as well. The apprentice writhed on the pavement between the soldiers, her body becoming softer and plumper, rounder and curvier. Body fat increased at the expense of muscle. Everything feminine about her became more so.
New hair formed atop her head: silvery-blond hair, thinner than before, straighter, too. It started from nothing, forming initially a short buzz across her scalp, which then grew longer with each passing moment until it was cascading down to her ass. Although it was hard to tell as she remained on her knees, and her back, writhing, Carrisa was sure the apprentice was losing height, too, a few inches anyway. Her nipples became bigger. They turned dark as well, complementing the new softly metallic skin tone, like giant metal rivets. Her waist shrank, then, visibly, markedly, providing greater contrast to the bigger breasts, which expanded beneath the former wizard’s clutching hands, to become, if not as typically massive as the standard Nycclethnim property girl’s, then at least a size or two larger than they had been previously. In any case, Eilesa’s new, curvier frame was in itself enough to make her tits appear substantially larger. But, then, it’s not really Eilesa anymore, is it? Carrisa considered.
After all, the figure she observed bore little resemblance to that once promising apprentice. Even her face was taking on a entirely different cast: rounder, softer, the eyes more delicate-seeming, more in keeping with the species she was joining. At length, the transformative glow faded.
Where once a human woman-wizard (apprentice) stood, a lovely nude elfmaid now lay on her back, her legs spread wantonly open, soft hands between her thighs playing with herself, giggling.
The soldiers moved in. They solicitously helped the new slave to her feet.
Whereas before their actions and demeanor had been harsh and cruel, to the point of misogyny, they employed now deliberately softer words and gestures. Elves were stereotypically sensitive creatures. Their previously unruly behavior would swiftly have driven this helpless, clearly emotional creature to tears. The elfmaid took the offered hand of a soldier and cooed softly, mindlessly, touching his palm with both hands, rubbing it. She gazed up into his male face with clearly adoring eyes.
Filled with literal worship, were those eyes, and at the same time distinctly devoid of all signs of previous intelligence. The elf’s gaze was happy, full of lust, preoccupied with taking in all the men around her, and utterly lacking in any trace of the former Eilesa.
Eilesa was gone. In her place was a sexy, curvy, voluptuous female elf, lacking in shame and modesty.
Where the soldiers touched her, the elfmaid sighed and pressed herself into their hands, inviting further contact and violation. The mercenaries brought the slave over to a group of similarly lustful elfsluts, like herself all former female inhabitants of the guild-castle. Most had been Nycclethnim wizards or apprentices. They licked their lips and touched their breasts in clear invitation, like the animals they had become. They didn’t speak; they didn’t beg; they just cooed and moaned instead, making sounds of sexual neediness and little else. One of the soldiers hooked a gold collar around the former Eilesa’s neck and added her to the chain. Then he gave word to bring forth another woman for the elf elixir.
Carrisa needed to see no more.
She passed her hand through the scrying pool’s water, erasing the magical image she had summoned of the events occurring outside. Around her the stone walls of the underground chamber provided a sense of security, false though it was.
She checked the timepiece beside the pool. The transformation of Eilesa the Apprentice from a proud Nycclethnim wizard-sister to lusty elfmaid and abject, mindless sex slave had taken barely two minutes.
The same fate, or worse, awaited her if she didn’t escape the academy, and soon.
Carrisa walked the short set of stairs into the next chamber, also underground. Occult paraphernalia hung on the block walls—sigil-strewn circles, triangles, pentagrams, and other useful geometric designs; charts and effigies of human anatomy, both the mundane and the sexually exaggerated, annotated with precisely worked-out mathematics and symbologies; shelves filled with books written in arcane and hard-to-decipher languages, bound in the hides of rare and fabulous animals, many long extinct. The central wooden table held sealed vials of ominous red and amber liquids as well as oddly-shaped crystals and metal sculptures. The doors to the room were encrusted with precious gemstones, rubies and diamonds, set in the frames and cut precisely to reflect certain harmonic psychic energies. These rooms were Carrisa’s private workshops, their existence known only to her, secret even from her guild-sisters; and it was for this reason alone she suspected they and she had so far remained undetected.
Nonetheless, she was ruefully confident that she would soon be found out. She had to hurry.
Carrisa quickly scanned her bookshelves for the correct text. She already had the procedures for the spells in mind, but it never hurt to check, and in any case the symbology of the words themselves, their psychic resonance, was a vital necessity. Two spells cast simultaneously: it would be a delicate procedure. Making it worse was that she would be performing both on herself.
She found the book. She pulled it and brought it back to the table.
She read as fast as she could, feeling the pressure of time. She was morbidly aware that the Daoxechents could storm in at any moment. Delicate work, so delicate: too little psychic force employed, and there would be no effect. Too much, and she would cripple herself permanently. She glanced at another timepiece clicking mechanically away. She was sweating.
Finally, when she was ready, Carrisa shed her nightclothes. Taking the book with her, she knelt in the center of a complicated geometric design on the floor. Placing the book in front of her, opened to the middle, she began chanting.
Even in this she was taking a risk. The energies she was summoning might well be detected, especially if there were Pecthent wizards on the premises. But she had no choice. She must not be forced to drink that elixir!
Her transformation, sans elixir, began. As the first spell took hold, Carrisa experienced an electric sensation throughout her flesh. This initial effect also included a wet warmth emerging from her pussy.
She did her best to suppress the feeling. She could not allow that strong elvish desire to be fucked to eclipse her reasoning. There were challenges to each of the spells, and this was the first. I have to retain my mind, Carrisa thought. Otherwise, there would be no point to any of this, and she could just as well drink the Pecthentnim elixir now, for all the good this would do her.
As her flesh warped, Carrisa mentally put up safeguards around her ego, her essential sense of self.
As her breasts grew and her bottom expanded, as her skin changed color, as the heat from her sex blazed hotter and hotter the closer she came to the idealized elf female, the harder this became. The beleaguered woman-wizard could “feel” these self-imposed barriers around her mind melting under the pleasurable onslaught. She resisted mindlessness.
Unlike Eilesa, Carrisa’s hair did not fall out.
Instead, her long dark locks sparkled. A stream of lighter color slid up from the roots. As the color lengthened, first natural brown, then blond, then a uniquely elvish silvery-white, the curls straightened, as if each strand was individually being pulled through a heated wax. Below her head, the hair just disappeared from her body. Her nipples hardened under the magical influence. Her skin darkened, and as it did the areolae expanded from her accustomed nipple size to become amber circles the size of large teacups, with engorgements of finger-length protrusion. Humiliating, this was, yet also incredibly, unbelievably erotic, for as her nipples grew so did their sensitivity and their need to be played with and fondled. Along with the new complexion, and breast size, Carrisa’s skin started to gleam like metal.
Elves were amply proportioned, beautifully radiant creatures. They oozed sexuality. They engaged in intercourse at the drop of a hat, and they were none too discriminating about their choice of sex partners. They were often employed as fucktoys, by wizards, nobles, and commoners alike.
Elves were not, however, native to Ramanananan.
Wizards were responsible for their presence in the world, as they were for the existence of hulking, stone-like trolls, used in combat and in protective capacities more often than sex. The wizard community was aware of the existence of other planets beyond their own, so far away in interstellar space that the light from the stars they circled would never reach Ramanananan in their lifetimes (even an elf’s lifetime). Magic, however, could cross that distance, at least partially.
Actual “teleportation” so far was theory. Most wizards were of the opinion that physically jumping from place to place without crossing the intervening distance was impossible, on their own world, let alone to others. But it was perfectly possible to “see” other planets, through long-distance scrying. The elves came from a place called Myrrhproof. The name was not one the elves themselves employed—so far as could be observed, the elves had virtually no language skills whatsoever, or much of anything else in the way of culture and community. Myrrhproof was a peaceful, green planet with no war, want, or hardship. The indigenous population mostly spent their centuries-long lifespans frolicking, picking fruit, and fucking. They were beautiful, soft creatures, and sex came easily and naturally to them, and, aside from all other considerations, these qualities made them ideally suited to the purposes for which the wizards of Ramanananan wanted to use them. The problem, of course, was that they were so far away.
Seeing that actual, Myrrhproof-born elves couldn’t be brought to this world, the wizard community did the next best thing: they made their own elves, using magic to shape human beings in their image.
All elves and trolls on Ramanananan were either former humans transformed into one or the other species; or they were descendants of breeding pairs released into the wild, those original elfstuds or elfcows (or trollstuds and trollcows) likewise created by wizards, long ago. Carrisa had never turned a woman into an elf before, let alone attempted the transformation on herself. However, the matrix of the change—the end result—had been developed over time by past members of the Nycclethnim. It was largely preset. All the wizard had to do was complete the spell, and the subject’s flesh should arrange itself accordingly.
This was the chief danger in what she was doing: elves were all but brain-dead sluts and studs, and as the transformation into such an elfslut gripped Carrisa, holding onto her mind and memory was like fighting the tide. It would be so easy to surrender, to just let the flow overtake her and . . . NO! Carrisa told herself sternly. Hold on. Hold on.
A difficult thing, this was. And what added further depth to that difficulty was the second and even more personally invasive spell Carrisa had to cast, simultaneously.
She continued to chant, her voice changing during the course of the recitation, growing higher with each beat. Her posture lengthened, her arches rose, her waist reduced. Within moments, too, her breasts expanded, her ass contoured, and her face developed unmistakable elvish characteristics.
Before her eyes, beneath her, her old self faded away. Carrisa’s features sharpened, were made intriguing, made elf-like beautiful, made plain that they adorned only a soft, pliable piece of property; a magical lovetoy; a perpetually eager, sluttish sex slave.
Carrisa moaned uncontrollably. She licked her lips, and in her mind’s eye she saw them change, saw them become puffy and textured for fellatio and cunnilingus. Her ears grew. In equal parts dismay and delight, they swelled outward and expanded, becoming the ears of animal.
Cat’s ears? Donkey’s ears? Carrisa did not know; she was no naturalist. But whatever this beast was like, part of her liked the change, liked how her new elf ears flared up over her silvery-white scalp, made her more primitive, more carnal, more obviously an item of trade.
Her skin color changed, turned glossy and smooth and stunningly pretty.
Carrisa, the real Carrisa, gasped. The limitations she had put on the mental change sent her a taste of what life as an elf would be like. But it was only a taste, could not be more, not within her spell’s limitations. Yet even so Carrisa closed her eyes, cried out, and shuddered.
Her orgasm, the culminating stage of the transformation, while not completely that of an elfslut, was still several times more powerful than what she was used to.
Carrisa fell prone. Her lips brushed the floor. “I want to be fucked,” she whispered, uncontrollably. “I need to be fucked. Please, Master, fuck me. Fuck me a slave.” The words, elicited through sheer submissive passion, could not be stopped.
After a time she looked up at herself. Carrisa saw herself as she could be, as a part of her now wanted to be, transformed into a sex slave. Changing position, she spread her legs.
She had assumed a submissive pose without even thinking about it.
There was a mirror in her workroom. Carrisa studied the newly minted elfslut she had made of herself.
Her altered skin was darkly bronze and polished. Slender arms descended to smooth outstretched thighs. Imagining an owner prompting her, disciplining her, Carrisa pushed out her massive mammaries, which projected proudly, blatantly proclaiming her lowly status as an elfmaid. A female with a chest like that could only have been seen as a slave on her world.
Physically, from what she had observed, she was no different now than from the rest of her guild-sisters, victims of the elixir. Carrisa cupped her chest and shuddered as she ran her thumbs over the nipples.
They were hard and aching, pleading with her to be fondled. It was hard to pull her hands away; but her transformation was not yet complete. The worst part was yet to come.
The Daoxechents would have a detection wand, or similar means, attuned to magical energies, in case someone tried to do exactly what she intended to do, use some form of disguise and sneak away. So, in order to get away, there had to be no extra magical energy for them to detect. Non-magic-users often cherished the misleading impression that a wizard’s power was based on objects like rings and bracelets, sigils and letters, books and scrolls, because those were the only things they saw. Carrisa knew wizards who actively cultivated this belief, for the advantage it gave them over the unlettered. In truth, a wizard’s apparatus was threefold—the physical object, through which the energies of a spell could be channeled and given shape; the planet Ramanananan itself, beneath their feet, the endless source of magic, pulsing with power, if only one knew how to tap into it; and between the two, binding them together, a wizard’s own psychic sensorium, the inborn telekinetic talent which she spent her life cultivating, that distinctive supernatural faculty which distinguished her from the herds of commoners.
A ring or a book a wizard could replace. Letters and sigils she could rewrite. The gift in her mind which she could link to a ring or book, letter or sigil, and fill with magical power, that she could not.
In making her disguise, Carrisa had known, of course, that she would have to surrender the more palpable accoutrements of her craft—obviously, no elfslut could be seen wearing a magical ring or bracelet—but, far more distressingly, she would have to sever (temporarily!) the psychic bonds in her mind that allowed her to channel magic in the first place.
She would have disconnect from the power of Ramanananan, as completely as she could. It could be done—it was done, permanently, as punishment for wizards—but doing so temporarily would be a challenge, even more so than what she had already accomplished. It was much easier to destroy . . . not so easy merely to stun.
She chanted. Her disguise would have to involve more than merely changing her body. For a time, she would have to surrender her powers, to be as helpless—as a slave, more so, even—as any other mortal.
Minutes passed as power rippled through Carrisa’s mind and body.
At length, she fell to her knees again in the magic design, exhausted. The spells were done.
A tremor passed through her and then was . . . still. Everything around her was strangely and unfamiliarly still.
My power, she thought, and instinctively tried to connect, psychically, to the arcane symbols in the borders of the design. Carrisa felt nothing. Almost nothing . . . the barest quiver of a connection, maybe, a brief sense of heat and power. Nothing more, though. Nothing like the full-on connection she had enjoyed her entire life as a guild-sister of the Nycclethnim Order. Her lip shook. More than merely tired from her spell’s effort, Carrisa now felt muted . . . cut off . . . trapped within her own mind. It was a frightening sensation (lack of sensation), in and of itself.
It was what she had wanted. She had succeeded. But to actually be so powerless . . . to feel so helpless. Her world had gotten smaller. The waves and currents of power she normally felt all around her, they were gone. Practically gone . . . if she concentrated—eyes squeezing shut, brow scrunching—Carrisa could feel something . . . but for the most part she felt now like a sighted person cast into semi-darkness, or an old crone whose hearing was starting to fade. Her senses had gone dim.
She tried to comfort herself, to tell herself, ‘They’ll come back,’ but the sounds she made were unintelligible, full of soft elvish coos and whispers. Panic set in: I can’t speak, Carrisa thought. I can’t say anything! The sounds she made were like those of an infant.
She stood and went to the scrying pool. Testing herself, Carrisa waved her hand over the waters . . . but nothing happened. She could summon no image. She closed her eyes, trembling, feeling mortal.
Meanwhile, Carrisa’s hands crept to her sex, and she fingered herself. She only noticed when she tried to leave the pool and looked down, surprised. She cooed softly; the noises she made certainly sounded mindless enough. Carrisa walked—more like pranced—into the workroom. The way her thighs rustled together, the way her hips swung from side-to-side so outrageously, proved incredibly distracting, and she almost fell down. She braced herself against the table, but, misjudging her new proportions, she struck her boobs against its surface. A moment later Carrisa found herself sliding along the table’s edge, panting and moaning, unable to stop herself.
God, how can I do this? she thought. How can elves even move? She had become blazing hot just walking from one room to the other.
Every movement, every gesture she made excited her. Her clitoris was so engorged it actually seemed to be brushing against her thighs. Her nipples and breasts seemed to be alive on their own, moving on their own. Her lips were so thick and puffy the very act of breathing sent chills racing down her spine, to electrify her pussy.
Carrisa fell to the stone floor. Her breasts touched the stone, and she climaxed, hard, harder than she had ever had an orgasm in her life. From cold, unyielding stone.
She screamed inarticulately, not caring who might hear her, who might be searching for her. She needed a man. She needed penetration. She needed fucking. Fucking was the main thing on her mind.
Fuck, she thought. I must get fucked. I need a man. Man. Nipples. Cocks. Pussies.
Images flashed through her mind, men and women engaged in intercourse . . . fucking . . . sucking . . .
God, she wanted to suck a man. She wanted to be fucked. Fuck, she thought. Carrisa writhed on the floor. She was aware, in some now distant part of her mind, that she had to escape the academy.
It was in this state of elvish hypersexuality that she was going to have to make her escape. She had to start. She had to get up. She had to walk. She knew this. She absolutely knew this. It was important.
Carrisa started masturbating instead, and the clock kept ticking.