You shake your head. “I have seen them before,” you don’t really want to continue this conversation.
“Aren’t we a mister know it all? But there is more to this world than you’ve ever imagined. Are you familiar with the dark arts?” she asks, tracing a shivering sigil in the air. Jessock shudders in loathing and makes a mark against the beast. Clearly she is a witch.
“Of course! I am not some common dullard impressed by some ugly old hag’s feeble tricks.”
“Really?” She asks, her eyes narrowing. “Sharik!” she cries. It is a word of power. You feel your body go leaden, as though it is no longer your own. She beckons you to enter and despite not wanting to, you find that you have no choice, your feet taking one step after the other like some puppet. “Jessock, I require your tent for a moment. Please leave us,” Jessock pales at the woman’s icy words and quickly departs, pulling the tent flap closed after him. There was a hiss as of molten iron doused in water. “You dare mock me?!” the witch snarls, brittle and seething.
The woman shimmers and the illusion of her appearance fades to reveal a pale beauty cloaked in preternatural shadows. You gasp. You have heard of the White Sorceress before in your adventure, but had never thought to see her, having dismissed her as nothing but tall talk. She holds forth her shadowy hand and hisses aberrantly fey ligatures. Perhaps it is a trick of the light, but for a moment her dainty fingers do not seem quite human at all, for like some weird galanty show her outstretched knuckles and long nailed dactyl digits almost contort and deform to merge into the semblance of a knobbly claw.
Wondrous eyes gleam with an eerie luminescence and lush lips continued to move spasmodically in primal spine tingling evocation. At the beck of her unholy words of power the outline of her shadowy arm became oddly sinuous and plasticine, appearing to possess more than the normally allotted number of joints as it writhes snakelike from her shoulder. With fervently arcane and cajoling evinces the thing that wriggles upon her shoulder rears back till it grows fat and plump.
With a fey daemonic cast to her beautiful features the white witch mouths one spine tingling obiism which lets loose the thing upon her shoulder. The pseudopod surges forwards, thin and limber like a striking snake in an undulation of muscle and liquid flesh.
You cry out in fright as the hebephrenic appendage clutches at you. Your cries are accompanied by a wet sucking sound altogether unnatural and perverse. With wide disbelieving eyes you gape at the source of that sucking; skin crawling at the touch of it. It is like some demonic lovers tongue. Then it started to push forward, slow and gentle.
“This is my favourite way of making a hand maiden John Lemure,” she says.
You whimper as you feel your flesh throb. It starts as an aching in your chest which increases with every heartbeat. Glancing down and notice a swelling about your nipples as the muscles seem to lose definition and become puffy. You touch them and shudder at how sensitive they have become. Suddenly, you are rendered breathless by a crushing pain in your ribs. You bend over, holding your sides, which seem to be constricting, making each breath difficult.
Copyright 2000 - 2025 21 x 20 Media All rights reserved. This site is property of 21 x 20 Media
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.53 seconds at 4:00pm on Jan 21, 2025 via server WEBX2.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author
