Rond and Cyrilla

Cyril's days were endless, brutal routine. Given into servitude as a child to settle a family debt, he had few memories from his life outside the walls of the Bloodbrick Tower and away from its cruel master, Bastigar the Black. He spent his waking hours in the darkness of the Tower's dungeons, cleaning out cells once their occupants had been... used up. He would clean the shit and piss from buckets, carry bowls of foul-smelling slop to still-living prisoners and, if he was lucky, be summoned to Bastigar's laboratory to replace candles or remove a corpse. It was only then that he might see some wondrous sight other than misery and dirt, or catch a whiff of something besides the iron of blood or simmering offal.

It was never quite clear what dark magic Bastigar worked in his laboratory - at least not clear to Cyril. He knew prisoners went in, and corpses came out, and sometimes he heard the screaming. Bastigar was not a man who invited questions; Cyril had made the mistake of being curious in his youth and had been punished severely, his back flogged into shreds. 20-some years later, Cyril had grown into the perfect servant: docile, complacent and frequently terrified. The less he knew, the better. But Cyril wasn't stupid, either, and he wasn't deaf. He'd listen to what the prisoners shouted about in the cells or when strapped to a table in the laboratory. On his slop runs, he'd gently probe the kitchen servants for news of the outside when they returned from the market.

So, Cyril knew that important things were happening in the city-state of Zarth, where the Bloodbrick Tower loomed in the northern end of the gated Regent's Quarter. A great tournament had been announced, and an infamous warrior from the barbarian frontier had arrived to compete against Zarth's reigning champion, a powerful Kingsguard and the son of Bastigar. In an early challenge this barbarian, who called himself Krond, had injured Bastigar's son, breaking both his legs. Bastigar was enraged and had vowed revenge publicly, but had shrank back to his Tower when the King chastised him for dishonoring the rules of the tournament.

--

Bastigar simmered for a single night before he summoned Cyril to his laboratory. Cyril stumbled through the portal, closing the great wooden door behind him. Bowing low for his master, he stammered out, "M-m-master? You asked for me?"

"Yes, Cyril, I did." Bastigar's voice was slithery and sibilant. "I have been wounded greatly, Cyril. My son has been wounded. And I will have my vengeance. Tell me, what do you know of the beast called Krond?"

"N-nothing, master. Only... that he is powerful, and... he hurt your son." Cyril winced in expectation of Bastigar's fury.

Bastigar smiled instead. "He did, yes. He did. He took his legs from him. My son will never walk again." The smile twisted into a snarl. "That foul-smelling, horse-fucking monster!"

"I-I'm sorry, master..."

"I will not have your pity!" Bastigar screamed. "I will not have the pity of some shit-covered slave! I will have your service! Your complete obedience."

Cyril was confused. "What can... I do?"

"You are going to kill the barbarian swine."

Cyril's eyes widened. He was dumbstruck; the idea was completely absurd. Cyril was scrawny, underfed for his whole life, his body just bones stretched over with wiry muscle. He stood shorter than nearly every other man he had met, save for a dwarf who delivered flour to the kitchens. He had never held so much as a sharp knife. There was no way he could defeat a trained warrior, let alone one of Krond's repute.

Bastigar chuckled darkly, as if reading Cyril's thoughts. "No, you fool. You're not going to challenge him in combat. I wouldn't throw away an entire slave on such a folly. No. There is another way. Krond has a weakness. In combat, he is unbeatable. He trusts no man but himself. No man, Cyril... no man..."

Realization brightened Cyril's face. "But he likes women, master. They say he pleasured three at the same time on the night of..."

"Who told you that?" Bastigar snapped.

"I... hear things..." Cyril shrank.

Bastigar grunted, "It is true, though. He has an appetite for women, and they are the only creatures he allows into his private chambers at the castle. The cursed King has given him a room good enough for a prince! And he sullies it by dragging his whores there and fucking them senseless! But there lies his weakness and your opportunity, my Cyril."

Bastigar turned and swept his rune-covered robes open, stalking quickly to a stone table covered in smoking potions and bowls of crushed powders.

"Cyril, remove your loincloth," he said over his shoulder.

Cyril's mouth opened, then closed. He did what he was told; he untied his loincloth and let it slip to the floor. Cyril's naked body was not much to look at: thin, bony, his back covered in scars from childhood lashings. His head had recently been shaved to remove an infestation of lice. Cyril used his hands to cover his exposed genitals, which had always been small like the rest of his body.

"Pathetic," Bastigar muttered as carried a stone bowl to Cyril and placed it on the floor in front of him. "Kneel down, boy."

Cyril kneeled in front of the bowl, which contained a thin soup of dark, oily-looking liquid. He didn't understand.

Bastigar placed a hand on Cyril's head and moved it so Cyril's eyes were looking up at him. "I need your seed, my slave. In the bowl. Quick as you can."

Cyril gasped, "My...?"

"Your seed, your cum! In the bowl. Get it out of you. Surely you know how, you little wretch, so do it! Put your disgusting hand on that foul worm and do it!"

Cyril cowered from Bastigar's voice, but did as he was told, his right hand pinching his penis with two fingers and a thumb and jerking quickly. He was so scared, though, and so shocked, that he couldn't get it hard at all. He worked the foreskin back and forth but felt nothing. After a minute of miserable jerking Bastigar exhaled, "Truly pathetic."

He walked back to his table and retrieved a small glass bottle of red liquid. He thrust it into Cyril's left hand.

"Drink."

Cyril did as he was told. He poured the liquid into his mouth. It was sweet and thick, with a metallic tinge. And it was warm. Hot, even. It began to burn like fire in his throat and it warmed his stomach. The heat radiated through his limbs to his toes and fingertips, and filled his balls with liquid flame. Almost instantly, Cyril's heart began pounding, and with each heavy thump his cock rose upwards. His balls hefted and his shaft filled to bursting, veins bulging. The head of his cock emerged from his foreskin, purple and menacing, slick with precum. Cyril had never seen his cock like this before. Typically, he might pleasure himself before he slept, but it was quick and perfunctory. He sometimes barely had an erection at all before it was over. Now, his cock was pulsing in time with his heart, the tip wet and glistening in the candlelight. It filled him with awe.

"Go on, slave. Fuck yourself. Don't make me wait."

--

That was all Cyril needed. With the heat of the potion filling his body and clouding his mind, he wrapped his hand around his throbbing cock and ran it up and down once, coating his hand in the sticky precum that was oozing almost constantly from the head. The pleasure was immense, almost blinding. It was never like this on his nightly rubbings. Not even close. He jerked and moaning incoherently, as his hand worked his cock faster and faster. Deep in his mind, Cyril wanted to slow down, to enjoy this sensation for as long as he could, but it was no use. He was at the mercy of animal instincts that screamed in his head, "Fuck! Fuck faster! Faster! Cum! Fuck! Faster! Cum! Cum! Cum!"

In was not long before Cyril peaked and saw white stars in his eyes and his body was wracked with orgasmic convulsions more powerful than any he'd ever felt before. He cried out and nearly toppled over but was held up by Bastigar, who moved the bowl to catch the ropes of semen pulsing out of Cyril's spasming cock.

"Yes, slave. That's plenty. You've done well. Now drink." Bastigar raised the bowl towards Cyril's mouth.

Through a haze of post-orgasmic pleasure and shame, Cyril could only utter a groan of surprise. He didn't understand, couldn't think. The bowl, its edge spattered with a glob of his own semen, was pressed to his open lips.

Bastigar tipped the bowl gently. Cyril could see its contents clearly: the oily broth, and more cum than he would've produced in a week, ordinarily, coiled and floating in the broth like a pale snake. The smell of it all hit his nose and cleared his nostrils. Woody, smoky smells, muddled flowers, and the heady musk of his seed. All of it poured into his mouth before he could resist, as Bastigar held his head back. It slid down his throat as he swallowed quickly to avoid spilling. Bastigar would punish him if he spilled. He knew that. Some of it was smooth, some lumpy, some warm, some still hot from his body. Sweet and salty. It tasted better than he expected, and Cyril quickly found a rhythm and dutifully swallowed the rest. He would've licked the bowl clean if Bastigar hadn't pulled it away.

"The spell will take effect shortly."

"W-what spell, master?"

"It's an inversion spell. I plant the seed inside you, and your body grows anew. It loops your sex back in on itself, if you want to think of it that way."

"I don't understand, master." Cyril's heart was pounding again, this time with fear.

"You will. I need a woman to get close to Krond. Someone I can trust. Someone who follows orders. Someone... like you, Cyril."

"I'm not a..."

"Not yet. Not yet, Cyril. But soon."

As Bastigar spoke, Cyril began to feel his guts twisting, deep inside him. Something was moving in his stomach, and Cyril wondered if his semen was growing into some kind of foul beast. He doubled over onto his hands and knees, breathing heavily and moaning.

Bastigar stood over him, explaining in a mirthful tone, "Krond wears a talisman of protection, slave. I cannot get close to him, and my magic cannot touch him. But you can get close. He will trust you. He will be drawn to you, I suspect." Bastigar chuckled to himself.

Cyril felt his scalp come alive with a million pin pricks. His hair began growing, and he could feel every measure of it pouring from his head like countless black thread. His throat twisted and his voice caught. His entire skeleton felt like it was shifting its position. He felt a great ache in his pelvis as his hips began to widen. His shoulders closed in and his hands thinned and lengthened, the nails extending in short spurts.

"The magic is only temporary, but there is a danger to it. Mark my words well, slave: if your body accepts any seed that is not your own, the transformation becomes permanent. Do you hear me?"

Cyril's chest began aching, and pulling downwards. He felt weight shifting into his breasts as they sank slowly into his vision. He looked down as they hung there, plump and soft and glistening with the sweat of the transformation. His nipples prickled with sensation and widened before his eyes. He looked up helplessly at Bastigar and groaned, "What about...? Not my... not that too..."

"I'm afraid so," Bastigar said with cruel glee on his face.

Cyril's penis drained of blood, and his balls shriveled, pulling back into his body, leaving a small sack of empty skin. The sad, limp remainders drew up as well and vanished from Cyril's sight. He could feel them receding deep into his groin, but his view was blocked by his newly-grown breasts hanging from his body. He reached a hand down to feel, but he found no cock, just soft folds of new skin and damp hair. His cock was gone, and where his hand touched, he felt unfamiliar surfaces that he didn't understand. Cyril had never seen a woman naked before. Never touched the body of a woman. Until now.

"Remember, the spell becomes permanent if your body is filled with the semen of another man. This is your incentive, my slave. I will put you in the hands of a sex-mad barbarian, and you know exactly what he'll do to you, if you do not act. If you do not kill. Let him take you to his room, and then you must kill him quickly, before he cums. Before you're trapped in this body forever."

Cyril stared in terrified comprehension.

"Now rise, my temptress. Show me what I've created."

Cyril slowly stood, unsteady on legs that now ended in smaller, more delicate feet. His calves were slender, skin a rich chestnut brown. His thighs and ass had widened and filled out, with shapely hips and a small patch of soft pubic hair between them. A soft, smooth belly and narrow waist, shining with sweat, and above that, two perfect breasts, full with a gentle slope and roundness, nipples large and hardened in the chill of the laboratory, the weight and movement unfamiliar. Cyril raised a thin hand to his face and felt the change there. His lips had plumped, nose and brow softened, cheekbones raised. His head was now covered in long, silky black hair that fell to his waist. The only identifying trait of his former body were the ribbons of scars on his now delicately arching back.

Bastigar grunted in appreciation. "By the Gods, I'd even fuck you. Surely, that barbarian will."

Cyril's face reddened and he lowered his eyes. He saw his breasts then, and covered them, realizing Bastigar's eyes were all over them.

"Cyrilla. That will be your name for now. Kill Krond and you can have Cyril back. Fail, and you can be raped by that barbarian for the rest of your life for all I care."

Bastigar nodded to himself, and thought for a long moment, studying Cyrilla's body.

"You'll need to be prepared for tonight's feast. There's no time to waste. Follow me." Bastigar found a cloak near the door and covered Cyrilla with it, and led her down the winding stairs.