Suffer Not

"I'm so close!" Charlotte warned.

Morgana took that the right time to propel herself hard down onto what remained of the knight's dick. The onslaught of sensation made her erupt, ropes of magic-infused seed pumping into the witch's mouth. Charlotte's back arched, her gentle hold on Morgana's head turning necessary to keep from falling over. It was the best sensation she'd ever felt.

Her dick felt like it was melting into a sea of pure euphoria, shrinking with every hot jet of seed until it was a diminutive little nub. Her balls retreated inside, and the flesh remaining reformed into a perfectly ordinary pair of vaginal lips. By the end, the remains of her very last cumshot ever drooled out of her new slit, looking like she'd just given herself a thorough creampie. The witch was not satisfied until she'd gulped down every droplet, and Charlotte was met with aftershocks of pleasure with every flick of her talented tongue.

After catching her breath, the knight looked down at her new body with post-coital clarity. Her old world was no more. She ran her hands around her new curves. Not in arousal, but in simple discovery.

"What happens now?" she asked in a small voice.

Morgana stood, wiping the dregs of seed from her lips before giving Charlotte a tight, squeezy hug.

"Whatever the hell you want," she said into her ear, "You're free now."

***

"They say the turned him," Convert Martin whispered, barely audible over the plodding steps of his comrades. The one next to him in the column, Convert August, shook his helmeted head.

"You can't turn a Disciple of the Faith. I heard the witches killed him and then raised him up as a fleshpuppet. They wield him like a weapon against anyone who crosses them."

The idea of fighting a living dead monstrosity sent shivers up the young man's spine. He wasn't alone. Every one of the fourteen armed Converts of the Faith had some apprehension about their mission. A heathen witch had been the target of a Holy Writ and had been summoned, but the Inquisitor sent to enforce the order had not returned. Everyone knew the Faith's most devout warriors couldn't be bested in battle...at least by mortal means. The idea that they were going up against a foe implacable enough to defeat a knight of the One God would put fear into any man in Quel.

Leading their group was Prior Voxen, a gaunt man in immaculate vestments who represented the Faith's will in this area. Though he'd be no good in a fight, he walked with a steady cadence, head held high in stiff determination. Even as the men around him tired, Voxen looked like he could walk another twenty miles without so much as a moment's rest. His faith served as a bulwark against the fear, and Martin was calmed by his example.

The Prior called a halt to the march. Martin hoped it was a break from the road after all. But the raspy voice of his superior cut that hope down.

"In the road...the armour...it could be him! Prepare yourselves!"

Martin looked at August, who looked back with a shrug. They formed a loose line behind the Prior and readied their weapons. Maces and short spears for the most part, though some had been given blades. Martin gripped his tight, hoping to the One Above that it would see him through.

A knight stood before the column, their armour identical to the kind bequeathed to Disciples. The Convert gasped when he realized the holy sigils and words of his faith that had once graced its surface had been removed. In their place, elegant floral patterns covered every inch in black filigree. The helmet, a key part of the defence of a knight at arms had been discarded. Whoever wore the armour now had beautiful, flowing brown hair.

"This area's private property," the figure called out. It was a woman's voice! Could it be the witch herself?

"All lands belong to the Church, and to His divinely appointed rulers," Prior Voxen said, the same steely determination in his body language as his tone, "Give up the witch, knight. Spare yourself and return to the true faith: a power that no man can stand against!"

Martin gawped as the strange woman withdrew her sword. Letters gauged into the steel burned a cold heartless blue, and he felt his heart sink. As she gripped the blade with both hands, wings darker than the dead of night flared to life, choking out the sun behind her. August gasped, dropping his spear. Voxen trembled. Every inch of Martin's body begged him to run. And with a voice loud enough to shake bone, the warrior replied.

"I am no man."