Lusty Literacy

  Chapter 3: Slowly Succumbing   Anal sex becomes a regular fixture. Because it’s not messy – especially with his little magic seals, which conveniently open over a toilet – Archaelaus finds cause to engage in places like the library, the sitting room, the kitchen. I’ll be reading and he’ll come down, lift my robe, and slot himself in. I’ll be passing through and he’ll seize me, throw me to the floor, and mount me like a dog. I’ll be doing anything, and he’ll be doing me. I know I should hate it. I know that it’s wrong. But holy shit, I’ve never cum so hard in my life as I do when being penetrated by the pervy old mage. ‘That’s it, sonny,’ he’ll say, pinning me wherever I happen to be at the time. Against my bed, against a wall, upon a table. Face-down, arse-up, on the library floor. ‘Take it, boyo. Take every inch of daddy.’ ‘Ugh. Fuck.’ ‘Humph. Good boy.’ ‘Archaelaus. Jeez.’ ‘Ughn. Tight little slut, sonny. Such a tight fat butt on you.’ He’ll spank me ...

  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...

  Chapter 1: A Magical Mishap   ‘Damnit. Damnit!’ It’s the first thing I hear, the first sound. One moment I’m crossing the street, the next I’m elsewhere. No flash, no flame, a mere transition. Cold stone beneath me, a stink of sulphur, something fleeting like ozone, an electrical buzz setting a rhythm into the calcium of my bones. Warm golden lights, torch sconces on walls, flame burning above the metal, no obvious source. ‘Azarlia, you prostitute,’ a man says, voice gnarled and rough, dusty, ancient. ‘Goddess of magic my bunghole, filthy fucking shit-show of a deity.’ I push against the stone with my hands, sitting myself upright. The chamber is round, floor a series of flagstones. One side has a staircase, rising both upwards and downwards, concealed by a length of wall. Surrounding me is a heptacle, a seven-pointed shape. A man, bald but for wisps of grey hair around his liver-spotted scalp, ruffles through the pages of a great tome upon a desk between two float...