Bound In Beast Flesh -- Unfair Fight
#3 of Bound In Beast Flesh: Transformation RPG Scraps
Something I notice in the CYOC/Corruption of Champions style fetish games, is that scat is imperatively avoided. That kind of felt disingenuous for me to do, being someone who likes filthy animal marking, and mental regression, but I wanted to implement it in a way that felt fitting for the setting, and still kind of sexy for people who aren't into that thing. I'm not so great with quirky sex humor, and it felt off-color to joke about poop while also trying to get people off on the concept, so I wrote it as a means for the monster-ette to disarm her better-equipped opponent. What ensues is likely to be a rough and tumble, magical animal molestation. And I'm thrilled to write it.
Your devotion finally finds its footing in your heart, as you become aware of how far your thoughts have drifted. You catch yourself as the first thoughts of arousal for the she-beast begin to form.
"This is wrong. What are you doing to me?!"
Shaking your mind free of her solicitations, that have been ferreting through your head like woodland animals, you come to realize you have not been standing in a trader's tent, but are instead inside a small cave, some dank opening in a hillside, full of tree roots. Covered in moss and mushrooms, it was at one time, likely, the home of a bear. Now it has become your hazing ground. But not for long!
Quickly, you come to your senses, throwing the gypsy off your sword hand. She withdraws with a faint growl, flinching from the force with which you swing your metal-covered arm away, nearly cut by your blade.
"Oh? You still don't want to change your ways? You intend to kill me too?" she jeers. "Very well. I'd not wanted to use force. Perhaps a little humility toward the earth is in order, though, to beat the blindness of Heaven's empty promises from your head."
She gestures, and the various roots of your surroundings quake through the ground, barring you escape from the cavern. No matter. You must finish this fight, to find closure, and to avert the twisting changes that are claiming you!
The Gypsy goes first. She begins concentrating on you, as her pupils narrow to slits. You shake off whatever mental domination she is trying to instill, however!
You survey your surroundings. There are various pools that may well trip you up in your heavy armor, as well as any number of roots that she could manipulate to directly thwart your strikes. Being tripped up in this dark, dank cave, against a much more agile opponent, would spell your doom. You mind your footing.
The Gypsy scoffs. "You really mean to fight me in that heavy metal suit, as if your only threat here were my claws and fangs? I can cook you alive, you know. But let's make this more fun. I need the sensible part of you separated out of that tin can."
The Gypsy leaps in swiftly on all fours! Her dress is subsumed, and in moments, a small pink bandana remains on the neck of a fast-moving, four-legged animal. You anticipate her lunging for a bite at your sword arm, but she is able to weave and pounce, pressing a paw against your breastplate! The gesture barely unsettles your stance, thanks to her light-weight body.
You try to counter by elbowing her in the side, but she is much too fast!
You try to raise your blade, and charge her, but something warm sticks to your chest, and distracts you. You lower your eyes, and find, in disgust, that your armor is corroding--what's even more appalling, is that the metal is not merely 'dissolving', it's transforming into animal feces! Even as you try to scrape the stuff out of the small gap that forms in your chest-piece, more is forming around the edges, and falling out into perfect round clumps, as if squeezed out by a small dog--or a fox.
The Gypsy reforms, swirls of black and pink reassigning her clothes and body, so that she is again wearing pink sashes and an off-white dress, while her eight black tails twiddle about behind her. She has an expression of cruel amusement on her face now, as she settles herself onto a rock and watches you.
You grasp for your blade, but feel an unpleasant squish. In disgust, you draw back your right gauntlet, but it crumbles into tiny clumps of animal scat! Worse still, your fingers are smeared in the stuff, and begin thickening, your fingertips deforming into tough pink pads! With a sickly squirming, your nails grow out into black claws. The transformation continues, until your hand is barely useful for holding a sword. You watch in dismay as your thumb dwindles in size, before shrinking up your wrist. Finally, your hand becomes a small feculent, fox paw. You writhe your new front toes in disgust. There will be no more striking with your main hand.
Instead, you pick up your weapon in your off hand, eager to end the fight!
The Gypsy smirks. "One down, one to go. When your other hand goes, you'll just be an awkwardly hand-less brawler, in a suit of cumbersome steel--one that is fast turning into a fox's last few meals."
The Gypsy focuses her attention on the floor, and binds your legs with a tangle of roots. You step over several, having prepared for this in former rounds! One root manages to still snag your left leg, however, and is soon assisting its brethren in claiming your right.
You slice up the roots with your sword blade! It's tricky with your off hand, but you manage enough strength to free your legs completely. The Gypsy winces somewhat, traumatized by the severed connection. She clearly shares some pain with any living environment she is attempting to control.
"We'll see." She mutters. Now she is concentrating again, manipulating earthy things, somewhere... Nothing seems to happen?
You move to strike, but feel something hot touch your stomach, and a bad smell, of animal dung from a carnivorous predator, assaults your nose. You don't have to look down to feel your breastplate get warm, hot, heavy, and fall off entirely as a pile of canine poop. Worse yet, the change spreads, your chest growing a mix of black and white hairs, and you feel the fecal warmth move into the waist-portion of your leggings, and more disconcertingly, over your crotch.
Slogging through the stinking mess, you step into a pile of poop. Yuck. The changes begin to strike at the shoe portion of your armor, and soon, likely, your own feet, as well. Nonetheless, you charge forward, swinging your sword at the Gypsy!
She is struck--albeit barely! You cleave through her garments, and draw a nasty gash on her left arm, with the tip of your blade!
The Gypsy looks more incensed than afraid. "That hurt." she says sternly, looking at you furiously through her smooth black bangs. "Go slice up something ugly--like your burnt-skinned minister friends. Or, if you're still feeling inclined to maim me, I can violate you as well."
The Gypsy sprouts fur along her hands and arms! Claws grow from her fingernails, and her clothes begin dropping from her body like leaves. Soon, she is naked. Still more black claws begin to emerge from her toenails, snapping bloodily out from the pink nail beds underneath! Before long, the Gypsy is coated in downy black hairs on her legs and back, looking as much animal as woman, standing on bright pink animal soles and stretched, webbed toes that are a mutation between feet and fox paws. She retains her human face, but thick whiskers begin to press from either side of her nose. The entire transformation leaves her stinking of dog flesh, and each of her tails arcs and prickles with erect fur. The process leaves her better prepared to intercept your strikes, but reminds you of your cause--you must destroy this abomination!
You strike! Stepping in, you backhand her with the pommel of your blade! She is quick to catch your blow, however, and pulls into a grapple with you!
"I am not your enemy!" She growls, wrestling for your left arm--your current blade hand. The entire affair is filled with the mixed smell of dog, sweat, oiled steel, and animal scat, as she clambers for your arm with an enchanted touch. At some point, her left foot kicks through the filth of your corrupted leggings, exposing the bare skin of your groin to cool, damp air, and hot fecal steam.
You struggle with the Gypsy! For a moment, you think you can hold her by her elbow, keep the changing touch away from your remaining healthy armlet--but she snaps backwards, in a way you couldn't anticipate, and places a nigh-scalding-hot touch to your glove! You feel the changes accelerate almost immediately, as your iron fingers drop off in clumps of droppings beneath you--and soon, you are holding nothing but fox's scat in your hand. Your fingers sting as they tighten and web, and you have to roll your head to the side to avoid being stabbed by your sword blade, as it crumbles out of a hilt made of sharp-smelling excrement. Some of the filth rolls against your bare side, and you can feel the dark fur thickening up and down your waistline.
"THIS is your enemy!" she snarls, as she clenches the severed blade, and transforms it into a long, gnarled branch, which she promptly burns to cinders with green flames, conjured from her hand.
Defenseless, you feel the joints in your other hand snap into the shape of a second, perfect paw, as the creature begins to have her way with you.