The Magician's Bitch, Ch. 2

 

Chapter 2: Fit for Purpose

 

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, unmistakeably, 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?’

‘Can certainly try.’

Archaelaus drags me closer, dispersing my robe. Before I can resist the old man has his thin lips around my right nipple, stood to attention. He slobbers, licks masterfully, massages my left breast, gently cups my right. ‘Ugh. Shit.’ He certainly knows his way around a boob, that’s for damned sure. Jesus. It…they’re so sensitive.

I barely notice him cup my arse, pull me forwards. ‘On my lap,’ he says, momentarily away from my nipple. ‘Sit, sonny. Sit on daddy’s lap.’

The pleasure and lust have me obey. Head-spinning, I find myself naked on his robed lap, the warmth of his body close, the fragrant stank of his old-man potency thick in my nose. Archaelaus buries his face between my huge breasts, motorboating them and, lost in the pleasure of such, I forget the purpose of this whole encounter. I’ve got this bald old liver-spotted wispy head sandwiched between my unnatural huge tits. I’ve got this ancient mage’s hands clasped around my bum, squeezing and plying my cheeks.

Why am I here? And worse, why…why do I like this?

‘Archaelaus…I thought…you just needed milk.’

‘Working on it,’ he says. ‘Call me daddy, sonny.’

‘No way, man. That’s too…weird.’

I sharply inhale, gasp when he thrusts upwards. The robe separates things but the presence is unmistakeable, a dangerous old staff, thickly knobbed at its tip. Archaelaus jams the thing behind my balls, grinds it upwards, sandwiching it into the base of my arse. He slaps a cheek, spanks me, and my cock twitches.

‘Something of a slut yourself, boyo.’ He smacks, licks, sucks, slurps. ‘Tasty titties, but no milk. I’ll keep trying.’

‘Archaelaus…’

His robe fades, then something fat and wet pokes between my cheeks. I glance down, behind my arched back, at fatter arse-cheeks than I’ve ever had. Big, womanly cheeks. Thick hips, to match. To grab on to.

‘Got other ways to milk a boy, sonny.’

Suddenly his hands are on my hips, his desk’s possessions airborne, floating orderly around the oaken workspace. Archaelaus plants me on it upon my back, his fat thick wizard’s staff pressed against the underside of my cock. I gasp, eyes wide, mouth ajar. I’m seven inches, but the old mage is more than twice that, and thicker besides. He shudders against me, fat weighty nuts slapping the cheeks of my fattened arse.

‘Fit for purpose,’ he says, smirking. The old man grabs his cock, pulling back the foreskin. Wrinkly rolls form behind the crests of the mammoth glistening helmet, a ruby apple of a thing. Something about it makes me shudder, shiver. It’s so terrible, so aged, so mighty. Fat, thick, dangerous. ‘Oh, sonny. I’ll make it fit.’

My resistance catches in my throat as he adjusts, thrusts. That fat glans pokes, splits my cheeks like Moses and the Red Sea. I grunt, he grunts, and we’re joined, his penis sliding effortlessly inside of me. It pulses severe, furious, manly, demanding. The heat of it makes me writhe, makes me moan.

‘Ugh. Jesus. Fuck.’

‘Humph. Tight little bitch.’

He slams, thrusts, retreats, slams, thrusts. Big balls slap against my arse while pubes and the overhang of his potbelly brush my cock and balls. His ancient rigid heat courses up and through me, radiating goodness, pleasure. The old mage holds my legs aside at my knees, the desk moving a little with every powerful piston movement.

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe this pot-bellied liver-spotted old man is ploughing me in this alternate world, in this place I cannot escape. God, his cock…it’s something else. It should be awful, should be wrong, but…

‘Mhm. Ugh. Jeez.’

‘Don’t hold back, sonny. Enjoy yourself. You’re a lucky, lucky boy.’

‘Ughn…why…why are you…’

Archaelaus chuckles. ‘Oof. Humph. Because I want to, boyo. Because I want that slutty young boy-pussy to taste what I’m brewing, sonny.’ He grunts, slams. I shudder, wince, chew my lower lip. ‘By Azarlia, you should be thanking me.’

‘Ugh…Archaelaus…’

He leaves my knees, seizes my now-rounded hips. Slam, slam, slam. The slap of his balls is immense, the force of his cock incredible. All I can do is writhe, roll my head about, gasp, sigh. The old mage is so potent, so forceful. He’s taking me, using me, breaking in my arsehole.

‘Call me daddy,’ he says. ‘Call me daddy, sonny.’

‘No…no way…’

‘Do it, boy. Call me daddy.’

‘You’re so weird…so perverted…’

‘I’m old enough,’ he says. Archaelaus leans over me, looks down upon me. ‘This load–humph–it’s packing the legacy, the lineage, of the greatest magician in the world, boyo. Beg for it. Beg for that two-hundred-and-ninety-three-year-old seed. Beg for it, call me daddy, and beg.’

‘No…Jesus…ughn.’

I gasp at the thrust he does. My eyes go wide, his balls rising and falling, his load shooting out inside of me. Spurt, slosh, squirt. A wave of heat, a tidal wave of thick warmth, dirty warmth, sordid pleasure. It sends my balls into freefall, blows the top of my cock clean open. Out shoots my seed in time with his, each finding a container. The old man’s finds my arsehole, while mine finds a suddenly apparent jar, catching the entirety of my shot.

Fuck. At least…at least good comes of this.

‘By Azarlia, you’re milking me. Oof. Your body, it wants my essence.’

God, no. Please, no. But damn, it’s so good. I’m contracting, shuddering, inevitably milking him. His penis spews and spits, a process that seems to continue for minutes, something so strangely wonderful and yet so obviously grotesque. This is wrong, but right. Good, but evil. Fantastical, but terrible.

He leans over me, shuddering as the last of his ancient load spills out of his fat weighty balls. The old man grunts, and sighs in pleased relief. At last he sniggers, smiles down at me, and straightens up, collecting the small bottle of jizz from the air.

‘Good job, son. All done.’

‘R-ight.’

He slaps my arse, and I’m sure brushes my sphincter with a finger. ‘Just a seal, is all. So you don’t spill before you reach the toilet.’ Archaelaus winks, grins. ‘Off you go, boy. I’ve work to be doing, if you’re to get home this decade.’

With some effort I slip off the desk to stand before him. The old man is taller, despite his skinniness. My robe covers me anew and I hobble away, arsehole tingling, still shuddering.

That…that was amazing.

What the hell’s wrong with me?