Suffer Not

This story has dysphoric blues, fair warning! But it's generally a warmfuzzy MtF transformation. With some saucy smut in there for spice. Hope y'all dig it!

*****************************

The heavy footfalls of an Inquisitor inspired fear in people all over the nation of Quel. The Ecclesiarchs of the Church of the One God wore comfortable shoes of their moneyed privilege, and the Priors in the villages had workmen's leather sandals. But as their hearts were armoured at all times against heathenry, so too were His agents of inquisition armoured at all times. One did not sleep easily as an Inquisitor, but then again, neither do the enemies of the True Faith.

Branches crunched under Josiah's heel. He paid no mind to subterfuge; such were the tactics of those with something to hide. His faith could be seen for miles by the forces of darkness, anyway. To fell eyes, he must have been glowing like a roaring bonfire. He moved with methodical motion through the dense forest, its branches flicking off his pauldrons and vambraces like trailing fingers.

Sweat soaked the padded layer inside his armour. With the padded underlayer, holy sigiled steel, and the white cloak of his office overtop, he was sweating profusely even in the cool spring air. No matter how fatigued he became, however, he knew that His strength would see him through. Years of training, hour after bloody hour in the sword pits had been his crucible, forging him into a relentless weapon for his God and his faith. Josiah tightened a grip on the sword hilt at his side. It thirsted for heathen blood. And he could tell it was getting close.

Nearing the location that his informant had given him, the trees parted for a shimmering blue pond. Reeds swayed in a light breeze. All manner of creatures lived in and alongside its crystal clear waters. Frogs hopped, fish swam, insects buzzed above the surface of the idyllic scene.

A crude forgery.

Josiah continued to walk. When his feet should have slid into the first few inches of water, he found only grass and a tangled root. He continued, feeling his way forward with one hand. The pond disappeared with the shimmer of mirage, revealing the space's true form: a clearing covered in small rectangular garden plots, with a small wooden hut at the centre.

"You'll have to do better than that," he growled through his helmet's visor, "I've fought the Enigmagicians of Goroth. I've cleaved Sphinxes in half. Cheap illusions will have no effect on me."

No response. Typical. Witches were the same all over the world. Behind their magic and their tricks, there was nought but the cowardice and fear of any unbeliever. He trudged ever forward, eyes sweeping the slit of his visor for threats.

"I'd appreciate it," a voice came from the hut, "If you didn't tread on my carrots. They're ever so sensitive this early in the season."

A grim smile played out on his lips. "Ah! It speaks! I was afraid you had fled." He continued on his path. At first he thought of obliging the witch, but on second though, the likelihood that she'd rigged some kind of trap between the planting beds made all too much sense. His boots sunk into the dark topsoil, eliciting tsks of disapproval.

"So unfortunate. But I suppose I shouldn't expect anything more from a little moth like you."

His head jerked to the left ever so slightly. "Moth?"

"Often drab in colour, ephemeral little creatures drawn dangerously close to any source of light."

The words meant little to him. The ravings of a heretic. But something about them lodged in his craw. The answer for what she meant dawned on him moments later, "You mean the One God?"

In between blinks, a figure appeared in the open doorway of the hut. Rather than the bent crone of legend, she looked to be in her early middle age. A kerchief restrained locks of chestnut hair, though loose strands still framed her soft features. She was also the tallest woman Josiah had ever seen. Perhaps a natural abnormality, or some boon granted by her dark gift. The witch was gorgeous, but as the Book of the Saints declared, 'evil takes many appealing forms.'

"Oh, so there are a few motes of thought in that ironclad mind of yours," she said, her voice evoking the many chastising lessons of his youth, "I was worried they'd drained it out and replaced it with more hate."

"You speak with preternatural confidence, considering you are addressing a very armed and capable member of the Inquisition." He slid his blade from its scabbard. Holy letters flared to life, ignited with his singular faith. "Witch of the Wood, also known as Morgana Keltain, you are hereby summoned to a Trial of Faith and Fire in front of the courthouse of Almsburg. I have come to escort you to meet your judgment."

"Summary execution, you mean," she said with a sneer.

"Judgment," he repeated flatly. He was in no mood for her games, "Should you be found innocent of heart and mind, you will be released under your own cognisance. Should you be found guilty, but make sufficient amends, you may be given the opportunity to join the ranks of the penitent. And should you choose not to repent-"

"'I will be cast out and burned like those before me' yes yes I've heard that speech for as long as I've been alive from every sanctimonious Prior I've ever met. You'll find, however, that I'm not so easily subdued."

"If that is your wish," Josiah said with a grin, "Best fetch your weapon now."

She shook her head. "My weapon is already here, knave. It's right below you."

Josiah had just enough time to look down, but with how constricting his helmet was to his vision, he had no chance to see the first green tendrils burst from the ground. He felt the pressure they imparted when they latched to either wrist, however. She hadn't trapped the spaces between the beds; the beds themselves were traps!

He hacked at the one on his left arm, the right giving him just enough purchase to bite into the vine. It writhed and flittered away, allowing him to grasp the one on his sword hand in the grip of his steel gauntlet and yank it loose. More tentacles lanced towards him, but he'd already leapt out of the bed, hacking with his blade. They bled clear fluid and fell limp to the ground. The living ones snapped at him with flytrap mouths. He scoffed, walking around the bed with a single eye on the floral hydra.

"You're not bad with a sword. What's your name?" the witch asked, surely feigning genuine curiosity. But it's not like he had anything to hide.

"Josiah, of His Holy Inquisition. And unless you have any more cantrips-"

She shook her head. "No...no that's not your name. It doesn't sound right."

The Inquisitor had no idea how to respond to that. He continued his march forward. The witch didn't move. She tapped her chin like a mote of trivia was eluding her, not that there was a heavily armed soldier of the true church about to seize her by force.

"What is your name?" she asked again.

"My name is Josiah. Josiah Highcastle, Inquisitor and Disciple of the Order of the Eye and Scroll. And you will be coming with me."

He reached out for her. His fingers slid through her wrist. Another damnable illusion! He poured the fury of divine wrath through his blade and cut the woman's image from head to heel. It popped, exploding into a hundred little fireflies that drifted up and away from the cabin.

"That can't be your name," the voice of the witch continued from within the wooden structure, "I'd feel a power there. A tangible hook with which to cast. But you have a true name that remains hidden from sight. Hmm...most intriguing."

Fed up with her trickery, he stormed inside. He blinked in confusion. It was huge! Long rows of bookcases, a full parlour, even a brass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It looked more like a manor than a tumbledown shack, and was far larger within than it had appeared from without. So much could be seen...and yet, the witch remained concealed.

"You cannot hide forever. This sword cuts through lies as easily as flesh, unbeliever," Josiah called out, scanning the vast surroundings for motion. Nothing. His boots clattered on immaculate wood flooring waxed and oiled to a shine. He couldn't even see a speck of dust to scrutinize. But so much of this had to be unreal.

His breath caught. A figure in full veil stood to the side of the parlour. But as he drew closer, he could see the shape was all wrong. Ovoid and slender. He yanked the veil off to reveal a mirror of polished silver, the kind only the wealthiest merchants and lords were known to possess. There was so little distortion, completely unlike the reflective surfaces he was familiar with. For a moment, he found himself raising his hand and lowering it, watching the reflection mimic his motions.

But when he lowered his hand a third time, the reflection didn't obey. It moved to its helm, lifting the heavy steel and revealing its face.

He stumbled backward, knocking over a vase of ghostly white flowers. It was his face, but not. The features were softened, warmer. Longer hair caught matted to the side of its face. And its eyes...its eyes had such life to them. Such humanity. Horror struck his heart at the realization.

It was a woman's face.

He leaped up and slashed at the mirror. It too vanished, leaving a fog behind that obscured the room. He hacked at that too, desperate to clear what he had seen from his mind in a fit of unfocused violence.

Morgana's voice returned more self-assured than ever. "Ahh, so that's it. You're not a moth...you're a butterfly! How did one such as you come to find yourself in the employ of such a hateful organization?"

"You know nothing about me," he spat. The witch had to be somewhere in this labyrinth of lies. He tried to centre himself, looking deep within to latch onto his reserves of devotion. There was no power that could rival the One God. With that strength, no falsehood could stand against him. He closed his eyes, and when they opened again, they burned with the same light of his sword. He slashed, rending the air like a paper screen. Reality bled through the wound in space, and the illusion of a vast mansion melted into a sparsely appointed cottage. Little more than a bed, a table, and a shelf covered in jars and leather-bound volumes looking like they were about to fall apart.

Standing on the far wall, mere steps away, the witch leaned up against a wood stove. A current of fear replaced the previous playfulness in her voice.

"Nobody's resists my spells like that. Not ever," she said.

"The faith is strong with me," he said, sheathing his weapon. He'd been boiling with outrage at her lies, but without her tricks she was just a woman. Heretical maybe, but shorn of her power there was nothing to defeat. Nothing to cleave apart with his blade.

The words she'd used still echoed in his mind. What he'd seen in the mirror...He couldn't hurt her, now that she was defenceless. But caught between vengeance and mercy left him frustrated and indecisive.

The witch herself was undeterred. "No. You are strong, there's a difference. The church finds people like us, chains our power behind its sanctimony and self-denial and pretends it has the sole dominion over the righteous. You're like me. Underneath that armour, you're just like me!"

He grasped for her wrist. This time, he made contact. Her wrist felt fragile, like a dried reed. Against his training, the vaguest sympathy for her flared in his mind.

"You're coming with me. I promise you, your trail will be fair."

"You can't promise that," Morgana replied. She didn't pull against him, but she didn't move either.

"I can carry you, if needs be. Please, come quietly." A part of him knew he was treading close to heresy just by giving her the benefit of the doubt. His trainers would have scolded him for his weakness so far. He'd caught himself in his doubts that he'd almost missed what she said next.

"I can give it to you."

"I don't take bribes," he stated, almost insulted.

"Your body. Your real body. It's within my power to transform you into the person you truly are inside."

He laughed, though it ended up sounding more hurt than mirthful. "This is who I am, witch. I don't know how you got into my nightmares to find that image, but-"

"So you have seen her? The woman in the mirror?" Morgana interrupted.

"Of...of course I have. When I dream, sometimes my mind is disordered. It plays tricks, like your illusions do. I see myself as," he swallowed, unable to say the words 'as a woman' out loud, "As someone else. But it's just dark powers trying to corrupt the faith of one of His servants."

"Corrupt you how?"

"By tempting me with something that can't possibly be true."

A pregnant pause while it dawned on both of them what he'd just said.

"Men aren't tempted by the prospect of becoming women," she said.

Josiah felt the power leave him. His faith, unshakable and inviolate, deserted him in his time of need. Why was this happening to him? Hadn't he been a loyal follower? He'd done everything his God had asked, obeyed the decrees and edicts with every fiber of his being. And when the dreams came, as they always did, he prayed even harder.

The dreams. That damn woman, he'd always seen her. He'd never mentioned her allowed, but deep research and long nights in the Index Malificum had hinted she might have been a succubus sent to drain him of his soul. But Josiah never felt threatened by her. On the contrary, whenever she entered his dreams he felt calmer. Less tense. The only reason he called them nightmares was because of what they represented. It was a gap in his faith, a broken ring in his mail that left him defenceless.

"Okay," he said, staring at his feet, "Let's say that...that I want that. What exactly would you give me?"

"A new body," she replied, "One that you could call your own, rather than the flesh you were assigned."

"I don't want one of your illusions."

"It's not a trick. It's a spell, yes, but it's quite real, and permanent if you want it to be." She rattled off a quick explanation for what she intended to do, which Josiah did not follow at all. He nodded all the same. If there was a way for him to feel whole, he'd at least give it a shot. After all...he'd come this far into heresy.

"Undo your breeches," she said matter-of-factly. At Josiah's confused face, she added, "Where do you think the cabalistic locus of masculinity is in your body? Of course, if you want to keep it, I could try something else."

He thought for a moment. The swirl of ideas long in the background suddenly given license to flow through his mind made it difficult to ground himself.

"How would I become a woman if I kept my cock?" he asked.

The witch brushed a hand along his shoulder. "Don't be silly; you're already a woman. Do you have a name in mind?"

"Charlotte," Charlotte said, the words barely left her lips before a wave of strange euphoria came over her. She was Charlotte. That felt nice to hear. But it made the body she was trapped in, the same one the Faith had honed into an implement of divine justice, into an incongruity. She shucked off the armour, letting her pants fall to her ankles.

"Ah, yes. That's your true name. Explains how resistant you were to my spells when I tried to use the other one," Morgana said to herself, "Don't worry, this isn't some bait and switch trick. I fully intend to help you, and knowing your real name is key to this spell. I also need your trust. This may seem strange at first, but I need you to stick with me, okay?"

Moments before, Charlotte was ready to drag this woman to potential death. Now she'd have to trust that everything the teachers and Ecclesiarchs had ever told her was a lie. A brief moment of apprehension marred the warmth he was feeling despite wearing nothing from the waist down. What if this really WAS a trick?

But if anything, Charlotte's old life felt like the hollow facade. Feigning interest in the vainglorious stories of fellows, sharing hushed anecdotes of trysts with wenches in town. All the ones Charlotte told were lies to fit in. So many lies. Maybe, for once in her life, she could live with the truth.

She was well-endowed, much to her latent chagrin. At least seven inches of dick hung low between her legs. Charlotte thought she saw a glint of arousal in the witch's eyes...but it may have just been a trick of the light.

Morgana placed a hand on the shaft before her. She worked the foreskin back and forth, lightly stimulating the head within. Charlotte made soft groaning noises, embarrassed to be played with by a stranger in such a way, but determined to see just what this woman could do.

In a low voice, the witch began a chant. The words meant nothing to the Inquisitor, as the speech of other faiths was strictly forbidden. But there was undeniable power in her words. She could feel the energy pulse through Morgana's soft touch.

"What I'm going to do," she explained, temporarily switching back to the common tongue, "Is transform your body by sucking out all that makes it male. Since nature abhors a vacuum, I should be able to push your desired body into you with but a whim. But I need your help. I can't tell you what you want; you must tell me what you want."

Charlotte's voice caught. How would she express decades of repressed feelings that she'd only moments ago come to understand? While she pondered that inscrutable thought, Morgana put the growing girldick back in her mouth. The knight wondered if the fact that she was covered in sweat would be a deterrent, but the salty tang and musk of a long day's journey was driving the witch on. Lewd slurping and sucking noises accompanied her head's bobbing.

"I...I want to look like a woman on the outside. Like the woman from my dream," she began, "I've never put it into words, but I've always felt like my body was a suit of armour that I put on in the morning. An ill-fitting one at that. It wasn't me, it was just the surface. The suit with which to hold my spirit. I want...damn it all...I want to look like I feel."

"And this?" Morgana asked, tongue flicking up on the cock's head and making Charlotte quiver.

"I want it gone. I want what I never got a chance to have."

The witch grinned. "Your wish is my command."

Charlotte felt a warm sensation grow in her nethers. It was totally unlike her previous experiences with sex, the uneasy thrusting into a willing partner and the sudden, unsatisfying end. This was a glow that only built with every touch.

Morgana's hands slid onto the knight's waist to keep her balance, increasing her pace. Spit trails slid down her chin, and Charlotte felt the first drip of pre leave her tip.

"Ah~" she moaned. It was just a drop, but she already felt the effect of the spell. When Morgana pulled back from her dick, there was slightly less length to it. Her skin felt clearer, the short hairs around her body thinned. It made Charlotte thrust her dick forward to get more of that feeling, which Morgana was happy to oblige.

The flow of precum didn't stop. More stimulation caused her to leak more, which disappeared into Morgana's eager mouth. The changes to her body took time to notice. Her ass and hips expanded out, her chest puffed up into two small mounds of fatty tissue that Charlotte couldn't help but squeeze. The sensitive flesh forced another jet of pre to splash against Morgana's tongue, which only increased the size of the breasts in the knight's hands.

The former Disciple of the True Faith could feel the climax approaching. Though the steady releases felt good, she could tell the coming orgasm would be one for the ages. Her voice, steadily rising in pitch, sang out her joy with abandon. She ran her fingers through Morgana's hair, holding onto her head for dear life as her old life turned to hot, sticky spunk aching to explode out of her.