I wake glazed by a thick patina of dried semen. I stink of it, stink of old dick and old jizz.
In the mirror I look younger, more feminine. Gone is my beard, my moustache. My chest, unmistakably, is womanly. Each breast is full, springy if saggy, expected for their size, being something like a G-cup, with large brownish-red areolae. No hair, no manliness in sight, but my cock is untouched and the rest of my body seems familiar, if newly hairless.
I sigh, and wash in the basin. There's an urge to cry, an urge to shout, but what can I do? I don't understand any of this. What is this world? Where is it? Where is this tower?
Light trickles through my high window, a hope if nothing else. My clothes won't fit these stupid cow-tits so I take the robe from behind the door and go below the kitchen, into the entrance chamber. Rounded with a central fireplace unlit, it has but a round rug of green fabric and a huge double-doored entranceway. I go beyond, out of fleeting hope, if nothing else.
Cold hits, frigid and evil, the meanest of arctic mountainous winds. Archaelaus's tower sits on the crest of a mountain ridge, overlooking endless snows, endless greys of stone. What amounts to a surrounding patio, including a herb garden somehow shielded from the elements by an unseen ward, is all that separates the tower proper from the world itself.
No way out. No escape from the tower, from this world, from him.
Archaelaus is waiting for me in the kitchen, two meals readied. 'Boy,' he says.
I glare at him. 'You raped me. You gave me tits, and raped me.'
'Hardly. I took my payment. Sorta your landlord now, ya reckon?'
'I want to go home. Today.'
He shrugs. 'No can do, sonny. Spell needs time.'
'Bullshit. You just want me around to fuck my tits. Which, by the way, need to go.'
'Sure. I'll do it.' He twists on his stool, disappearing the robe. Down flops his fat flaccid cock, beneath it two grotesquely massive balls, hanging ominously over the lip of the stool. 'Right after you suck out my morning load.'
'What? No fucking way!'
He shrugs. 'Boobs stay, then.' Archaelaus regains his robes, spins back under the little round table. 'See boyo, I need an outlet. Masturbation, well, it just don't cut it. Waste of time, spilling my own seed, when you can do it for me, right?
'And I figure, this boy, he don't want to suck down the thick stickiest of old-man tadpoles so I'll give him titties, for the duration. Milkers, to milk me. Fair's fair, right? Then, loads-spent, I can focus on sending him back. You comprehend me, sonny?'
'I...I still don't think this is right.'
'Right? Sure, yeah, no. But it is what it is.' Archaelaus gestures to the food opposite him. 'Eat, son. You're gonna be here a while yet, lemme tell ya. One mighty tricky thing, weaving someone back to their world. But if anyone can do it, it'll be me.'
I don't know what to say.
*
After breakfast, he takes me to my room and pushes me onto my knees.
Out comes his gargantuan cock, hardening in anticipation. Lumpy, gnarled, slightly crooked, it has every bit the age of him writ upon its character, from the wispy grey forest at its base to the billiard-ball hangers below it, pulling taut against their liver-spotted furry scrotum.
Away goes my robe, and he seizes up my fat tits. I look away, let him piston-fuck them, enjoying himself. Inevitably I come, then he does, splattering me, plastering me, absolutely coating my tits in this incredibly thick, ropey, off-white old-man ball cream.
So begins my first full day.
I read from his library. Of the world to begin with, to make sense of things. It's in English, somehow, though I imagine it's not. A language overlap, or something magical. Corodayne, the globe. Cillana, its moon. Soveros, its sun. Three major continents, several major powers on each. Histories, histories, histories.
Archaelaus interrupts me in the afternoon, has his way in my room -- in case semen gets anywhere else -- and returns to his studies. I wash, and return to mine. We eat at dinner, he uses my tits again, and then one last time before bed. No interruption, on the second night.
So goes the first week, a continuation of the same. Titwanks and history, titwanks and food, titwanks and sleep. Honestly, I love titwanks. I just never imagined I'd ever be the one giving them.
With a basic grasp of the world's history, I find myself drawn to tales of Archaelaus himself, of which there are many, told from so many different perspectives. A common thread is to be somewhat enamoured of the man, charmed by him, yet nonetheless repulsed by the perversity that lies just beneath the heroic, helpful surface.
Week two continues as week one did.
Something, in the third week, begins to change. While after four ejaculations a day or so I'm mostly drained, I find myself daydreaming of pleasuring him. Shameful, weird, utterly alien as it is, it does feel good to have my novel breasts fucked. On occasion I retreat to my room, masturbate, playing with my breasts, stroking myself.
Yet, uncomfortably, unwantedly, it never quite matches the shared experience.
*
'Boy,' Archaelaus calls down, towards the end of the third week. 'Come to me, sonny. I need you.'
I leave my books and go to him, to find him in the laboratory behind his desk. The old man waves me over, gesturing when I get close to the open tome before him, a work-in-progress master spell. Neatly-etched quill strokes, the item in question floating beside him atop the desk.
'What can I do?'
'Well, boyo. I need bodily fluid, to cogitate, y'see. To specialise the next stage of the spell, the targeting process.'
'Bodily fluid.'
He smirks, grins. 'Rare offer, I must say, but you interested in a blowjob?'
'W-w-hat?'
Archaelaus sniggers. 'I'll blow you, if you want. This once, is all. Not my thing, but this is pragmatic. The fluid must be consumed, you see.'
The mental image of the bald, wispy, ancient man...God, no. 'Uh, is there another way?'
He reaches out, and gropes my chest through my robes, finding a nipple with machine accuracy. I bite my lip. 'Could always nurse out some milk.'
'I...I can make milk?'
