Four horror-style stories from a haunted-style mansion: "The Portrait," "The Trophy," "The Conservatory," and "The Stables." General.
1 – The Portrait
At the front of the hall hung a portrait painted in oils: a woman in a gown and corset, with dark lips and darker hair. Its eyes didn't follow the viewer so much as pierce through them. Though its mouth curled down into the slightest scowl, the light and shadow across its cheeks made it seem, if you caught it in the corner of your eyes, as though it was smiling.
Paintings lined the hall, but it was the portrait that Jason's flashlight lingered on. He stuffed a fist into the pocket of his puffy jacket and hunched his shoulders to fend off a shiver. Did it count as creepy? It was working on him, but he'd have to convince the rest of his friends if he wanted to win their contest. Setting his flashlight down on a nearby table, he dragged his phone out of his jeans pocket.
While he framed the portrait in his phone's camera, his fingers grew cold. He clenched his hand into a fist, then blew on his knuckles, then patted his cheeks, but they remained cold and oddly pale. Hurry up and get the shot, he told himself.
With a ruby-nailed finger, he tapped the screen, then lowered it to peer at the finished picture. The zipper on the front of his jacket twitched before sliding downward, slowly baring the front of his shirt.
No good. The picture had come out blurry. Jason took a few steps forward. His sleeves thinned out while he rubbed his hands together to warm them up—slender fingers, slim wrists, goose- bumps along his soft skin. He swept a lock of darkening hair behind his ear, out of the way of a red teardrop earring.
The portrait's hands, folded in its lap, now looked large and plain in comparison, and its ears were conspicuously unadorned.
Lifting his phone again, he held it as still as possible. His pursed lips were overtaken by red lipstick. The collar of his shirt stretched lower across his chest and his copper-red hair tickled his slender shoulders. He tipped his head back, held his breath, and snapped another picture. This time, the shot was clearer, but the photo itself seemed wrong. Instead of eerie scornful beauty, there was a confused, almost shocked look in the portrait's eyes.
31 October, 2019
A woman gets swallowed up by her new scaly skin and turned into a cobra. (Contains biting.) Explicit.
Emily stepped barefoot across the tiled floor. A sliver of the North African breeze rustled the hem of her nightgown as she paused in the doorway, looking back at her fiancée slumbering amidst the sheets. With a small smile she swung the door closed, leaving only a crack open.
Filling the basin of the sink from the tap, Emily scooped up two handfuls of water and stroked them across her face. It had taken weeks of negotiating for Simon to agree to bring her on one of his 'expeditions', so she wouldn't let him see a hint of regret, even if the sun singed her nose pink and the dry air left her skin feeling like parchment.
Hands on the edge of the sink, Emily lifted her face and let the water drip off her chin. The cool air brushed against the edges of her cheeks. She chased an itch on the back of her palm with her fingers, then sunk her hands into the water and rubbed them together. Leaning over the water, she splashed several more handfuls across her face, too, in an attempt to soothe the itch running down her forehead and across her nose. After a thorough scrubbing, she groped for the washcloth and dried herself off.
The water hadn't helped. She scratched above her temple, along her cheekbone, across her jaw. Her nails left red tracks across her skin. She dug her fingers underneath her gown and scratched at her neck.
With a small breath of frustration, she lifted her nightgown from her shoulders, pulled it off over her head, and laid it out beside her while she retrieved a bottle of oil from her bag. She set aside the glass stopper, then poured a splash of the oil into her hand and spread it across her bare shoulders and onto her neck and cheeks.
As she rubbed the oil into the nape of her neck, Emily felt a tug around her midsection, like the grip of a corset, or more likely the tautness of dry skin. She turned toward the mirror. What looked like a translucent, silky sash had wrapped around her stomach, from her waist up to just below her ribs.
It wasn't silk. It was patterned, textured, scaled; it was snake skin. And it wasn't staying still. It slid outward along her skin, like a sheet pulled by an invisible hand. It was swallowing her up.
24 June, 2019
Some kind of jackal trickster god manages to turn themself into a Gideon-sized stripper. Explicit.
Deep in the temple, in a small sanctuary off of the hypostyle hall, Kotep stood in front of a mirror flanked by flickering braziers. The golden jackal turned to one side, then the other. They hiked up the edge of their dress, exposing a little more hip, then let it drop back down with a sigh.
"This isn't going to work." Not for this trick. The plan was too complicated to get into, but the important part was that Kotep needed to sex things up for it to work. The only problem was: "What the hell are mortals horny for these days?"
One arm folded across their chest and one finger tapping at their chin, Kotep stared at the floor. They contemplated for a good minute or two before they began to get bored and impatient with waiting. It was too hard to put themself in the mindset of some idiot constantly driven around by their procreatory bits. It was much easier to just cast a spell that would take care of it all for them. Riskier, sure, but no one got to be a trickster god by playing it safe.
Kotep raised a hand and the ground began to rumble. Gusts of wind fluttered against their dress and ruffled through their hair like unseen wings. A few green-blue feathers fell to the floor and traced the outline of a circle around their feet. They cocked their hips, planted their hands on their waist, and watched the mirror, waiting for the sign of some change.
It was their breasts first. Of course it was. Ever since the Thirty-First Dynasty it'd been breasts. Swelling outward with their soft weight, they pulled the linen tighter around them. Kotep arched their chest toward the mirror and ran their hands down their dress to smooth it out. Their breasts stretched with a slow, steady motion, like the filling of a balloon. If they rested their hands on either side, they could feel the faint quivering of mass pumping into them—as well as a small jolt from their nipples, from the feeling of linen brushing against tender skin. Kotep yanked their hands away, rolled their eyes, and huffed, "Mortals."
23 December, 2018
An Irish toon bunny TF, inspired by an old Blackshirtboy sketch. Mature.
Sean had a cup of beer in his hands when he really shouldn't have. The party had occupied all level surfaces in the house, though, and he couldn't just pass it off to someone else, so he was stuck holding it. He was nudging his way through the crowd, trying to find the sink, when he spotted Julie standing in the doorway to the kitchen and talking with one of her friends.
Sean jerked sideways and squeezed out of view, so Julie wouldn't spot him by chance. Obviously he wanted to talk to her, but what could he say? Did he look sweaty? Why was this place so warm all of a sudden? His heart thumped as he looked down into the cup in his hand.
All he needed was to loosen up. It wouldn't take much, and he wouldn't have to lose control. Just enough to get over his own self-consciousness.
By the time he lifted the cup from his lips, it was empty. Sean gulped, then began to forge a path out to the porch, where he could get some air.
The cool night breeze sent a shiver down his back, but it was worth the relief. He leaned against the railing, taking slow breaths and patting his cheeks with the back of his hands. Definitely warm. He tried to think about how to introduce himself to Julie. Hey, are you in Chem 22? Or would 'hi' be better? Maybe that sounded too enthusiastic. What about 'yo'? He probably wasn't cool enough to pull that off, though...
Sean swiped a hand through his hair, then paused and held a handful of it in front of his eyes. His normal rusty-orange locks looked redder and more vibrant. He let out a small sigh and threw his empty cup into a nearby garbage bag. At least it wasn't much. In the dim light, it was hard to even notice.
Little sparks of energy ran up and down his body: traveling through his legs, along his back, and out to the tips of his fingertips, then turning around and coursing right back down. He gripped the railing, rose onto the balls of his feet, and stretched his back until he felt a few joints pop. He was just anxious, that was all. Perfectly normal, especially with Julie here. He'd have to talk to her soon.
24 September, 2018
A certain someone gets sent to the Vacation Zone and gets turned into an otter bimbo along the way. Mature.
It was spam—it had ended up in his inbox, but it was obviously spam. In colorful bold letters it said, 'Congratulations, you have won a free Beach Vacation! Redemption begins in...' with a timer next to it, ticking down from ten. Curious, he waited for it to count down to zero. Nothing happened, it just stopped. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, a gif of confetti to pop up?
With a click, he sent the spam email to the trash, then turned and pried himself up from his chair. He rubbed his hand along his face. It felt like he'd been sitting in front of his computer all morning. A quick brush of his tongue wet his dry, tender lips...and then they bulged outward.
His lips pressed against either side of his tongue. It felt as if a sudden rush of fluid had been pumped straight to his mouth, swirling out and filling up the available space, leaving his lips taut and nicely plump. He sucked a gasp through his light pout and clapped his hands over his mouth. The urge to fiddle with them was too strong though; they were just so strange that he couldn't resist prodding at them, tugging them, squeezing them gently between his thumb and forefinger to feel their firmness.
In the middle of squeezing them, they swelled out again. With his fingers on his lips, he could feel the pressure welling up from inside, pushing outward against his fingertips, then firming up like a plush pillow. Gingerly, he felt at the edges of his lips. They were large, not unreasonable, but certainly a bit surprising to find on a guy like him.
4 September, 2018
A quick story about lip transformation. As in, getting turned into a giant pair of lips. Sorry about that! Explicit.
It's just a tube of lipstick: deep red, almost purple, with a satin glow and a glossy shine. You don't remember buying it, and you probably would—the tube is flashy and golden. Maybe one of your friends left it there, and in any case, what could the harm be? It's just a tube of lipstick.
You lean toward the mirror and roll it across your lips, starting in the middle of your upper lip and moving in a smooth motion all around and back to where you started. You press your lips together, give them a light pop, and then grab a tissue to tidy up the edges. Wait a second. Were you going out? Do you even wear lipstick? You know you wouldn't just put on some lipstick you found in your bathroom. There must have been some reason, even if you can't remember right now.
At least it makes your lips look great. The warm sheen catches your eye and draws you in toward the center of your lips. You pout them, mime a kiss into the mirror. You're looking right at them when they begin to swell.