Beast to Beauty - Beautification, Feminization, Ungrowth

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Re: Beast to Beauty - Beautification, Feminization, Ungrowth

Postby Tigerharpy » Sat Jan 23, 2021 4:10 pm

Author's Note : So this is the big conclusion to part two, complete with a major change at the end.

Part II(d) -

No plan survived contact with the enemy. It was truism which every warrior learned by heart. One must wait for the ideal time to unleash one’s plan.

And so Brunhilde waited. She waited, and she continued to prepare, refining the plan which had been germinated that night between herself and the servant girls.

Not to say that in preparing this plan she had begun to neglect her warrior’s duties in the least.

And a good thing too, she surmised.

Maintaining her lifestyle within the wizard’s keep was proving more difficult by the day.

The winter weather seemed to be having a deleterious effect on her prized equipment. She spent more time each day fighting the speckles of rust developing on her master crafted armor, oiling rusting chain and leather that felt aged and cracked before its time.

Even her weapons showed mysterious signs of deterioration, chips in her broadsword’s blade and fraying of its wrapped hilt, streaks of rust upon the ornate filigree of Tower Breaker. She was restringing Far Reacher almost every other day to the point she was beginning to wonder “why bother?”


That was a stupid way of thinking. A soft way of thinking that would invite ruin. She banished the thought from her mind.

Even so . . . As the days stretched on she found herself more impatient for the chance to arrive. It was even beginning to interfere in her training.

Despite having learned their every move to the point of boredom, that day, the knight’s were having their way with her.

“Are yer a warrior or a peasant!” Fyrd had guffawed from the edge of the ring as Brunhilde clashed with the castle Armor’s in her daily sparring session. “Go on the attack!”

“I am trying.” Brune grunted under her breath as she parried sword strikes and deflected spears across her armor. Her every move felt out of step, an uncertain foot, a sword thrust without conviction.

Damn the Wizard Gaits! She thought as she was pushed back and back until at last her animal anger flared. The She Beast grabbed the shaft of the spear tormenting her, breaking it in her hands and running the metal head through the chest of the remaining swords-knight, ducking a blind swing, she thrust her broadsword into the spear carrier and twisted, snapping straps and causing the suit to seize up and collapse.

She stood there, breathing heavily as she savored a moment feeling like her old self. But it did not last, it never lasted in these strange days.

Brunhilde pulled off her helm and threw back her head, sweat soaked hair flying free in the crisp air. The warrior woman fingered a long pink lock that dared to fall into her eyes. The stuff seemed to be growing faster with each passing day and she hardly had time to keep it close cropped any longer. She’d considered taking a razor to her head but Ester had urged her to let it grow.

Sighing, Brune turned to the mock clapping and hoarse laughter as Fyrd approached.

“Good. Very good!” The wolf-man growled. “But not as good as I’ve come to be expecting.”

Brune grimaced at the appraisal. “I have been . . . distracted.”

“Aye?” Fyrd stroked his long jaw. “Well best don’t be come tomorrow. We’ve thinned the trolls down and narrowed the range. We should surely find the female by midday and I be expectin every warrior to be bringin their best!” A furred hand slammed into Brune’s breastplate. “That be especially including you!” Brune merely grunted and gave a nod before returning to the armory and then retiring to the tower to prepare for dinner.

Wait for the ideal time to strike . . .

Brune’s mood improved some when she arrived back at her apartments to find Ester and Astrea hard at work.

“What do you think, Milady?” Astrea asked as her nimble hands worked with thread and needle to fix in place some final adjustments.

“I do not know.” Brunehilde admitted, fingering the fine silks with some niggling doubt. “Will this really make Gaits see me as a woman?”

“Well . . . It’ll at least cover enough of you for him to have time to notice anything other than the fact that you’re a woman.” Ester replied.

It had taken days, but eventually they had discovered a segment of the castle’s vast wardrobe that would suit their purposes. The gown had been commissioned for and once been worn by the Arch Duchess de Pastre. The Portrait of her hanging in the castle halls had shown a woman working on her sixth decade and her fourth chin. But what the Archduchess had once filled with blubber now provided ample volume for Brunhilde’s infinitely more admirable physique. At least after several days of modifications.

“I do not understand why you did not think of this in the first place.” Brune wondered aloud as she seated herself in a washing tub repurposed as a hip bath.

Astrea went to work on her scrubbing the grime from her body and shampooing her hair with strange floral scented oils of bewildering purpose. There were bottles to clean her hair and to make it fuller and shiny. As well as bottles to soften and scent her skin. And not just to make her smell nice, some were specifically intended to mask the body’s natural odor.

“If I may answer a question with a question, Milady.” Ester said without looking up from her work. “Would you have sat still long enough for me to take your measurements when we first met? Now worry about your part in all of this.” Ester went on. “We can make you look the part, but you must show him that there’s more to you than a grunting, farting, drinking sword arm”

“Hmmm.” Brune grunted reluctantly and returned her attention to the tiny leather tome in the palm of her hand.

Two weeks ago, Brunhilde could have counted the books she’d read on the hand of a blind man with a fondness for knife games. Now, she lacked the combined fingers and toes.

What had started haltingly, with a finger held to the lines and much sounding out of words had accelerated at a pace that had left Ester awestruck. Brune had not seen anything strange about it, she had never before had any trouble with a task once she determined its value and that had not taken much longer than reaching the writings of General Marcus Augustus Stratigus. There was more than a little flowery language to cut through, but Brune found much of what the general had to say to be sound advice on war. And from there, she had accepted his citations on philosophy and statecraft as simple extensions of her profession.

Every night since she and the servants had hatched this plan she had trained the neglected academic aspect of her mind much as each day she had trained her body. Knowledge had poured from the pages through her eyes until her skull felt pregnant with burgeoning intellectual power she had not realized she wielded.

But now that she had these new organs she could see their value. When this winter was over she intended to use the Wizard’s treasure to purchase a knighthood. She would require a knowledge of courtly matters if only to evade their frivolity. Perhaps even the knowledge of the arcane would not be out of her reach.

If she were to fusion the might of magic with her own supreme physical prowess she could cement herself as the greatest warrior to have ever lived.

“Brains and brawn.” Ester said aloud. “You’d be the complete package.”

“I did not . . . “ Brune scowled.

“No . . . But you thought it.” The Servant Girl purred. “Don’t tell me you didn’t. Just remember, this boy probably will like you more for your big throbbing brain than your big throbbing muscles.”

“I wonder if Gaits would turn you back into a cat if I requested it?” Brunhilde threatened idly as she climbed from the bath and was dried by Astrea.

“Oh, I would never irritate you so much that you’d have me changed back into a cat.” Ester replied. “I know my place and exactly how far I can step out of line.”

“Hmm. See that it stays that way.” Brune said. She gave the servant girls much leeway, but she didn’t care for them getting into her thoughts. Maybe if their brains were shrunken back to the size of walnuts they’d lack the wits to try it.

Soon there was no more time for such thoughts as the girls went about dressing her. The garment came in layers starting with fine underwear. White floral panties and long suspender stockings. The Duchess had been so enormously fat that even Brune’s muscle girdled stomach was practically dainty, requiring the garter belt to be let in greatly. The corset was likewise more decoration futilely attempting to narrow her already tight waist line and lift her bosom from beneath.

Next had come the dress propper, hoops hung from the corset followed by the under dress, blouse, mid vest, over dress, detached collar, ribbons, gloves, jewelry, necklaces, rings, bangles . . . It went on and on, building in layers until at last Brunhilde stood resplendent in a glittering garment of checkered black and gold silk encrusted with yellow diamonds.

“Just one more thing.” Ester handed her mistress a diamond encrusted fan while Astrea used a step ladder to place a matching tiara atop the warrior woman’s expertly dressed hair.

“What does the Lady Brunhilde de la Kodiak have to say for her tailor?” Ester asked sweetly.

The dress accentuated the narrowness of her waist, the wideness of her hips, expertly emphasizing her bust and cleavage so that even her broad muscled shoulders seemed almost charming.

Brune stared into the mirrors as if seeing the woman inside the reflection for the first time. Not seeing the she beast stretching some garment to obscenity or the warrior Brunhilde replete in her armor or even her relentless female form raw and nude. But a mature and queenly visage at the very height of her power . . . a woman . . . carved and polished from the living stone of Brunhilde’s flesh and put into garment and place that fitted her like a glove.

‘That’s right . . . I am . . . A woman.’ Brunhilde blinked quickly as if startled by this fact that she had of course from the first time she had bled . . . but had not known as she knew now in this place, with evidence she had already accepted without realizing . . . Her flesh trembled on the cusp of a powerful awakening. Her heart beating faster and faster. It was wrong and yet it was right . . . Two paths were intersecting . . .

For a moment the world spun away from her and there was feeling, unsettling, of both resistance and of yielding, as if inside of her a lock was beginning to turn . . .

But not yet . . . not . . . quite . . .yet . . . Her flesh reeling away instinctively as from a danger to its very existence.

“Milady?” Ester asked, concern evidenced in her voice.

“It was . . . nothing.” Brunhilde breathed as the moment passed, looking at herself a brief flush had crossed her cheeks and spread down the plump curves of her breasts. She fanned herself in the lady like motion Ester had shown her, her face settling back into a taciturn calm.

“Let us be off.” Brune stated calmly. The flash of strangeness banished from her mind as she returned to matters at hand.

No plan survived contact with the enemy. But this enemy was very . . . very predictable . . . Brunhilde had discovered. And rather like his magical suits of armor the Wizard Gaits tended to return to his original shape given enough time.

If her propositioning him for sex still impinged upon his mind, Gaits did not show it anymore than he still seemed troubled by their shared brush with death. In fact he chattered on endlessly that night about every subject that passed through his mind, almost as if the curious day that had set Brune on this path had never happened.

She began to wonder if this really was a plan that would survive contact with the enemy . . .

“So you see, this castle provides a truly extraordinary location to study the Northern aurora’s. If not for the needs of my campaign against Fortuna I would be studying them around the clock!”

“Hmmm.” Brune nodded thoughtfully while trying hard to keep her eyes open. She had never known that feigning interest could be so fatiguing. She just needed to wait. Wait until the opportunity presented itself. In the meantime the first course came, a thin fish soup served with a white wine.

At first Brunhilde made to take the bowl in her gloved hands, but evenings of training with Ester stopped her. Sitting straight, she reached for the outermost spoon and gently dipped it away from herself.

Practices, smooth motions, just like her swordwork, the broth wobbled under tension but never spilled from her spoon as she carried it from her bowl to her lips and after several spoons washed it down with a sip of wine.

“I hope the selection tonight meets with your approval.” Gaits said suddenly.

“The wine has . . . a very refined bouquet.” Brune answered carefully. “The label says it was from the Southern Lowlands.”

“Oh yes! A fine vintage . . . “

Brune saw her opening. “I am curious how you come across such luxuries so far from civilization.”

Gaits smiled. “Ah, well . . . There a number of villages in the foothills of these mountains who afford me access to the wider world.”

“Is that not dangerous for them?” Brune mused.


“You are still the sworn enemy of the Kingdom of Fortuna. If the King knew you were alive he would probably start by killing anyone who he suspected of giving you comfort.”

“Ah . . . yes.” The Wizard Gaits nodded sagely. “Well, I supposed you could say . . . in for a shilling in for a crown.”

“Meaning that they already provide you wish much more substantial aid of their own volition.” Brune reasoned. “Enough to be executed for anyways.”

“I do not think you realize how much the people despise their King.” Gaits growled in a voice that was all at once bitter and wretched. “There are many who would do anything to be rid of him.”

“Then why are they not rid of him?” Brune asked.

A chuckle laden with even more bitterness passed the Wizards lips. “It is one thing to trade your life for a cause and quite another to trade it for nothing.”

“Then they believe they have no chance of victory.” Brune frowned. “They would not lack for numbers and they would have you as an ally . . . It is because War is Politics by other means . . . isn’t it?”


“War.” Brunhilde said. “It is . . . politics by other means.”

“Where did you learn that?!”

“It is something I read . . . once.” Not a lie, she had read it just last night. “The people do not lack for numbers, a reasonable to rebel, or even impoverished as they are the material to do so, they do not because they lack a clear goal.”

“A rallying point.” Gaits agreed. “Getting rid of the king is one thing. Not much point if he’s replaced by one of his cronies, Humans are surprisingly practical creatures in that way, as if by instinct, they will be moved to action without all of the pieces being in place.”

“If only a member of the old ruling family was alive . . .” Brunhilde mused.

Suddenly the Wizard’s expression twisted through several emotions, surprise, panic, then agitation. “Why do you say that?”

“Because a royal heir would have instant legitimacy.” Brune answered simply. “They could deal in that coin to unite the disparate factions against the King using their claim as a proxy for legitimacy. Any easy claim to make with a hated ruler.”

Gaits leaned back in his chair as the next course was brought. “I had never guessed you for a political commentator.”

Brunhilde shrugged as she began on the next course with the next spoon. “You gave me the freedom to move about this castle. You have a library.”

“Even so . . . Tell me what else you have been reading.”

“I find myself attracted to General Stratigus.”

“Of course.” Gaits rolled his eyes.

“He is an insightful commentator on matters of war.” Brunehilde replied shortly, and realized that his dismissal was almost . . . irritating . . . to her.

“Oh don’t get me wrong, Stratigus is fine if you are concerned mainly with the points bits and how they relate to politics. But if you want to get to the real MEAT of the matters” Gaits emphasized with a clenching of his hands “Then you simply must read Cordione’s the Duke!”

“I have in fact read the Duke.” Brune said while wiping a bit of sauce away with a napkin. Two nights ago, it had not been long at all. “And you realize Cordione was clearly trying to sabotage his reader.”

“The Galvani’s were the leading rulers of the free cities!” Gaits protested.

“They fired him from his post. And they broke his legs.” She answered simply. “And much of his military advice is unsound. Given that, I assume the same for at least some of his political advice. Stratigus does speak highly of his earlier writings though. But the Duke is hardly his best work . . .”

A month ago, even two weeks before, Brunhilde could not have imagined being pulled into a talk . . . no . . . this was . . . conversation. She corrected herself. She had talked often enough, if sparingly, but always about practical matters. The closest she had come before to this was the solemnity of a warrior’s funeral.

Brune was pulled into a new language, alien and yet familiar, cool yet filled with a fiery passion. A battle was taking place across the table she realized, invisible yet almost tangible, complex and subtle, ebbing and flowing with the courses of their meal until at last Brune realized that they had eaten dessert almost without noticing. Her face was hot and her throat was tight and sore from talking. Her lungs, that had fueled wild charges and bellowed orders across battlefields, were gasping for breath.

Somehow, she felt like they had said nothing while speaking almost everything. It was frustrating, and maddening, and glorious.

And now she was left silent, robbed of the power of speech as the last of their meal was cleared away and the excuse to keep talking was suddenly gone. She felt, confused, then as if something had been lost. She looked across the table to Gaits. The wizards eyes their normal watery darkness, sparkled like a deep calm lake beneath a starry sky.

This was the moment. The moment she had waited for the. The moment to decisively strike . . .

“Well, Lady Brunehilde, you have surprised me this night.” Gaits said. ”I hope we can have more of these talks but for now I must retire to my study. My work demands my full attention you see . . .”

“Indeed.” Was all Brune managed to say as she felt success brushing the tips of her fingers only to be taken away at the last vital instant.

“Good night, Lady Brunhilde.”

“Good night . . . Wizard Gaits.”

No plan survived contact with the enemy. But sometimes, the enemy was yourself.

Of all the books Brune had absorbed only most of them had been on the subjects of war, philosophy, and statecraft. The very first, which had inspired the plan, had been none of those things.

Brune sat upon a sofa, legs apart, hunched over a book cupped in the palm of her left hand.

“Yes my love. A thousand times yes!” Mister Darby proclaimed to the Orc Queen Gerta.

“Oh Mister Darby!” Gerta cried out as she took him in her arms . . .

Brune realized after several pages that a haze had overtaken her thoughts and that her right hand had found its way blindly to the crotch of her panties. The taut white cotton already turning dark and translucent with her arousal.

Brune threw the book down in frustration, the gold leaf title glittering ‘The Taming of the Orc Queen.’ She leaned back, spreading herself out on the sofa, the wood creaking beneath her weight. Behind closed eyes the mistakes of the evening played out once more.

She’d nearly had him . . . but something about it had stayed her hand at the vital moment.

She could not have expected it to go this way.

She could not have expected to feel this way.

What was . . . wrong . . . with her?

Brune’s lips peeled back in animal snarl that passed with the coming of her maid servants.

“So . . . it didn’t work out quite as well as hoped.” Ester surmised from the ballgown waded up in a pile in the corner.

“I had him.” Brune growled. “I had him in my hands . . . and then I didn’t seize him by the throat.”

“I noticed.” The servant touched her mistress gently on the shoulder, a kindly look on her face. “Still, he seemed taken with you tonight. A little further and you’ll surely coax him from his shell.”

“Hmmm.” Brune turned her head aside defiantly. She did not care for this, any of this. But she felt driven to continue. Some foreign compulsion had taken root.

She wanted the Wizard Gaits.

She wanted to form the twined the beast with him. To draw him deep . . . deep . . . into her own body until they became as one . . . and then encircle and crush his spearhead against her own unyielding walls.

And she wanted it all the more for having not attained it.

Why she did not simply take him by force she did not know. The same compulsion that had stilled her that night made her shy away from the thought. She wanted this, but she wanted more than this, some more subtle desire had awakened within her and she did not entirely understand what it was . . .

“We are as always here to serve you in any way, Milady.” Ester assured her. “Is that not right Astrea? Astrea?”

Ester and Brune turned their eyes to the second maid servant who had become fixed on her mistresses panties and the small . . . bump . . . that now tented their crotch.

It took a moment for what had been said to register with Brune but when it did, the feeling that washed over her was one of amusement. A welcome diversion from the thoughts troubling her mind. “I see . . . Then you two really do not know much more about such matters than this.” She gestured to the book on the table.

The maids looked nervous. “I don’t . . .” Astrea began.

But Brune was already in the process of demonstrating, climbing to her feet, she rolled down her underwear to reveal the livid nub of her clit emerging from its hood and rising from the thick untamed jungle of her pubic bush.

“You see . . . Women have one too.” To emphasize, she closed her eyes and concentrated, feeling a small surge of pressure as she coaxed herself to swell larger still until the citadel of her womanhood had grown as large as Ester’s thumb. She gave a satisfied sigh feeling a not insubstantial amount of pride in showing herself off.

Ester and Astrea’s eyes grew round at the site. It was an expression Brune had seen on the faces of whores and wenches across the land over the seasons of campaign if only by necessity. Not many female warriors, not many male prostitutes.

The thought lingered with her as she idly stroked her lower stomach, the pale skin beneath her navel was growing dark with a flush.

She couldn't wait any longer. Not for Gaits, not for anything. She NEEDED it.

Astrea stood paralyzed as she was fixed in place by Brune’s poisonous green eyes. The She Beast loomed over the serving girl, sizing her up wordlessly. Then, in an easy motion, she tore open the front of the girl’s blouse.

“M-Milady!” Astrea’s protest was cut off by a startled mewl as Brune seized a small pert breast, perfectly formed, and gently squeezed the tender girl-flesh.

“You’re well shaped.” Brune observed as her thumb ran over the hard bud of nipple protruding from the fur so short and fine that it felt like silk. Other than the tawny markings of her feline heritage, her body seemed almost perfectly alike to a young human woman. “I shall teach you.” Brune decided.

“Teach, Milady?” Astrea panted, a flush coming to her face. There was no denying that she liked it.

“All about a woman’s body.” Brune explained. It would not be the first time. She’d become accustomed to conveying her desires and explaining exactly what she liked to inexperienced wenches and whores. It was amazing the things other women didn’t know about their own bodies.

“Your first lesson.” She gently took Astrea by the back of the head and pressed the girl to kneel. With her other hand, Brune reached down and framed her clit between her index and middle finger, tweeking it gently, she sank the digits between the folds of her engorging labia so the girl was given an full view of her powerful pussy. “This,” she emphasized, “Gives pleasure.”

Astrea leaned closer without coaxing, curiosity evident in the girls feline eyes. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled the scent of her mistress, a heady aroma, both musky and sweet. Then, without prompting, her tongue licked out. A small noise escaped Brune’s lips, part gasp and part sigh as the rough texture sent sparks of pleasure worming through her loins and across the inner walls of her vagina.

“That’s right.” Brunehilda purred, a broad smile spreading across her ruby lips as Astrea slipped easily into submission. “Just like that. Good girl.” She stroked the maid’s hair as she went at it with growing enthusiasm.

Eyeing Ester, the second maid looked from her companion to her mistress as if caught between the instincts of fight or flight. Her nose twitched, she fidgeted with her bow. At last, she approached while beginning to remove her blouse.

Perhaps out of necessity born of her own awesome strength, sex with women had always awakened something almost nurturing within Brune. This time was no different as she took the two girls together, exploring their petite bodies, like a pair of fine dolls, perfect down to the smallest detail. She treated them like dolls as well, tenderly, as if made of porcelain. The task was made easy by their utter submission to Brunehilde's dominance.

"That's right." She cooed to them. "You are my creatures now and I shall protect you."

In short order they had moved to the bed, stripping themselves fully nude. Soft silks and fine cottons caressing Brune’s sensitized skin as she rested on wide set knees.

Astrea hung upside down, her breasts pressed into the unyielding wall of Brune’s lower stomach and her legs hooked under the warrior woman's arms. Brune pleasured the girl by feel, slipping her fingers into her tender pink blindly as her own face was buried in Ester’s virgin pussy, the second girl seated upon the deck of her breasts, thighs squeezing tight against the tendons and corded muscles of her neck.

Brunehilda’s tongue slipped inside of her, wet and thick, tasting tender flesh before withdrawing again and again, probing tickling the tip of the girl’s barely expressed clit until her juices flowed freely, a sweet milky syrup dribbling down Brune’s chin as if she had bitten into a peach. She molded her lips to Ester’s own, drinking her as she was guided by the flashes of heat against her neck and the squirming of the girl’s smooth slender thighs.

She hadn’t realized how much she needed this. There was a subtle unreality to the castle that had left Brune feeling one and then two steps too slow no matter what she did. But here and now, this at least made sense. She was in control, dominant and all powerful.

As she should be.

A purging of emotion was taking place. Frustration, confusion, helplessness . . . Brune made a melange of those feelings, tossing them into the cauldron brewing deep within her belly. The shapeless taking shape, potential condensing, swirling, growing smaller and denser inside of her until it began its final collapse . . .

“Astrea.” Brune pulled out of Ester with an indignant mewl of protest. “Astrea you need to get out of me.” She tried to warn.

“Mmm?” The girl seemed unable to hear her. Locked between Brune’s legs and locked within some personal bliss.

The brewing turned turbulent, a tempest which Brune tried to hold back. “Astrea . . . I’m . . . going to . . . “ But there was no holding back for long. Nor did she wish to. Brune felt the dam within herself burst.

For a moment it was as if her whole being was struck through by lighting. Brunhilda was locked in a rictus, toes curling, back arching, jaw clenched, her eyes rolling back in their sockets. Then the trembling began, a violent, volcanic shaking between her thighs joined by a release of growing pressure and a flash of heat that all tipped her over the edge into sublime bliss.

Distantly, she felt her vagina flooding, Astrea taking the brunt of her erupting ejaculate full in the face as she gushed. Tottering backwards, Brune crashed onto the bed. startled cat girls mewling as they tumbled off of her and were caught totally by surprise by the deep rumbling laughter that sent their mistresses breasts jiggling like great heaps of custard.

“Yes.” The Warrior woman moaned, her hands moving sensually up and down her magnificent torso, fingers following the clefts of her muscles, and probing the pillowed mass of her breasts before settling back atop the furnace heat still radiating from the pit of her stomach, sending out waves of toe curling pleasure. “Oh yesssssss.”

In that moment, all was right within herself. That night, Brunehilde had fallen into a deep slumber, untroubled by dreams.

No plan survived contact with the enemy. But some plans died more violently than others.

The day had started with ill omens before they had even set out. Brune had woken haggard and exhausted, as if the past nights exaltation had been not but a dream. Her body had felt heavy, sluggish, her muscles and joints stiff with the memory of injuries she had thought to be healed.

She felt as if she had been battling for days on end without rest. She looked it as well, despite her best efforts, her arms and armor were pitted and streaked with rust as if from a long campaign without time for care.

But more than that was the disquiet, the sum of the unease that had been percolating for weeks and now had reached the very root of her.

She did not have a name for this feeling, only knew that she despised it, and wished to banish it from herself forever.

Call it instinct, or intuition, it proved an omen of what was in store.

Now, staggering through blood drenched snow, Brune sucked in icy breath as she surveyed the devastation. Dimly, through the ringing in her ears, she heard Fyrd bellowing orders as he rallied the packs before his voice was lost in the cracking of icy and the grinding of stone.

Just as Fyrd had promised, they had found the Female Troll before midday. Or rather, she had found them. They hadn’t even see the female before she dislodged herself from her hiding place on the valley wall, ambushing the force that had come to slay her.

Brune watched as the heap of ice and stone rolled forward, less a creature, and more of an ambulatory avalanche.Here an arm as thick as an oak tree, there, jaws that could swallow a man. Tiny eyes, like diamonds, caught the sunlight and glittered a dazzling blue.

It swallowed up a squad of beastmen, trampling them flat before they could even scream, and then set its sights on Brunehilde with a roar like a storm echoing off the walls of a mountain pass.

Brune gathered herself, legs coiling as she wound up for a leap, taking aim at the mother troll’s brow. If she could just split the skull . . .

The She-Beast loosed herself, catapulting through the air. With an expert swing, she brought tower break across the side of the She-Troll’s skull with a -CLANG- that rang across the valley floor. All at once, the living avalanche was staggered, diverted.

Yes! Brune thought as she landed and stumbled, ignoring her own shaking legs, treacherous feeling attempting to seize her up, the wrongness that was growing more insistent by the moment.

She leaped again. -CLANG-

And again. -CLANG- -CLANG- -CLANG-.

Her assault bringing the female to her knees and opening her to the final fatal strike.

Girding herself, Brune broke into a run, gathering speed until her pounding feet were exploding guyers of snow and shattering the frozen earth. She leaped, bringing her warhammed back of her head in a two armed swing that concentrated every urg of her strength . . .


Time came to a near standstill as Brunhilde tried to understand what had just happened. She swung Tower Breaker true and yet her eyes were met with a glittering cloud of metal shards flying away from the broken handle of the supreme war hammer, fragments of the steel weapons ornate filigree tumbling past her stained with streaks of rust.

A shudder passed through Brune, an aching echoed up her arms to her shoulders and then seized at her heart. She hit the ground, staggering and unbalanced, the impact met with a metallic clanking as leather thongs snapped and rusted metal rupture from her calves and thighs. Piece of her armored shell breaking apart.

Move! She had to move! Brune thought, every instinct screaming to evade, but surprise and the alien sensation afflicting her left her sluggish, easy pray for the great clawed hand that seized her around the middle and lifted her up.

She was brought face to face with the female’s glittering diamond gaze, hatred glowed in those blue eyes. Pinned within a stony hand, the She-Beast gave a defiant roar.

The Troll roared back, the sound like a shockwaves, swallowed up Brunhilde’s voice and threw it back at her with a putrid chemical stink of rotting meat and silicone based biology. The assault smothered Brune’s defiance, setting her eyes and nose burning, and the feeling she did not have a name for welling in her breast until it overwhelmed every sense.

When it ended, Brune’s vision was a blur. She felt tracks of what must surely be blood burning down her cheeks and from her nose, dripping from her mouth. Her whole body was trembling. She felt a red hot wetness spreading from her crotch.

Through watered vision she saw the Troll open’s it bucket jaw wide, raising her to consumer. Brune felt helpless, powerless . . . weak . . .

I am not strong.

I am NOT strong.

I am NOT!

The thought pounded at the periphery of her mind, beating down the walls of her consciousness, invading to the center of her being. It would no longer be ignored.

A wimper escaped Brunehilda's lips.

Then, suddenly, she felt herself falling, plummeting from the trolls open hand as the sound of horns filled the air. It was Fyrd, his troops rallied in their totality. Armed with balista and grapples their first wave of fire nearly overwhelmed the She-Troll.

But Brune was not there to join them come the second wave.

Hitting the ground flat on her back, Brunhilde felt her once immaculate plates shattering into rusted ruin, the glittering chain mail rupturing into so many broken rings. She was on her feet quickly, blind instinct driving her, an instinct . . . to flee . . .

She finally knew the word for the feeling that had been assaulting her, wearing away her warrior’s resolve, her determination, her will to power.

Fear. Raw undiluted fear. It invaded her mind and stole her reason. She could not fight it for it came from a place deeper within herself than she had ever known. Beneath the pinnacle warrior Brunhilde, beneath the instinctive rage of the She-Beast. Revealing these selves to be not but hollow shells.

Brune ran, every muscle in her supreme body concentrated toward a task inimical to its very reason to exist, trying to outrun a terror that threatened to consume her. She was a mouse within the body of a lioness.

Pieces of ruined armor broke and fell in her wake, falling victim to a quickening corrosion that was now visibly advancing, leather cracked and smoked, woven fabric began to fray. One shoulder strap of her battle leotard snapped, her massive left breast bouncing free in the icy cold air, then the other gave way, the leather cups falling apart. Her bosom bouncing and smashing glacially against itself with each bound.

Laces snapped one by one. A leather legging, turned aged and brittle, exploded over a bulging thigh, the front of her disintegrating leotard split down her hard stomach, it's last rotting scraps falling away between her legs soaked in now ice cold urine. A hot trickle still escaped her as she ran.

Pumping arms tore apart what was left over her long leather gloves until only the hands remained and even those soon fell apart in tatters as the threading rotted away.

A steel shod boot came apart, Brune staggered on half barefoot.

She made it to the tree line before the inevitable caught up with her. Brunhilde staggered as if struck through, her muscles locking like chains of iron. A throbbing began to build within her, accompanied by waves of raw undiluted heat. Veins rose and darkened, throbbing in time with the pounding of her heart as they began to leach from the flesh they had previouslsy nourished.


A defiant cry was driven from deep within her as her chest began to constrict, her breasts thrusting upwards against gravity, ribs groaning under some impossible inner stress. Brune could only move her eyes, their venomous glow flickering and finally fading as she watched her body twist and flex as if she were a doll on invisible strings.

A simple truth occurred to her in the midst of her terror and it shook her to the core. A mouse could not live long as a lioness, inevitably, the mouse must die, or the lioness so afflicted must become a mouse. In some indescribable way she knew she had betrayed herself.

The heat within her grew greater still until her flesh felt like red hot steel, annealing within the furnace blaze. Liberated from the form it had been quenched into, her body of steel began to flow, to change, to yield and soften into a lesser form. She was powerless to stop it.

Long serpentine muscles of the back flowed into one another, their lines fading. Broad bunched shoulders shrank and narrowed. The taut stiching of the ribs groaned as they girdled inward, bone strained and then yielded. The pitch of Brune’s roar began to rise higher as her cavernous chest caved in on itself.

Glutes puckered tightly, trembling as they softened subtly into femininity, developing a faint sag of womanly fat, thighs and calves crawled as muscles relentlessly consumed themselves becoming slimmer and sleeker by the moment.

The bones of her hands and feet cracked and popped as fingers and toes wriggled, growing smaller and more slender, their lines softer.

Abdominals twitched and strained defiantly, bellies bulging one by one and then collapsing, bulging and collapsing, an oscillation traveling ever downard, eroding the chiseled lines of her stomach, like a craggy bluff subjected to aeons of wind and wave until what was left was only a faded impression of their formally harsh and jagged definition.

Dark webs of veins revealed themselves beneath the skin of her breasts, nipple swelling and softening as if in pregnancy, at last it became too much to resist, the seeking pressure found release in a spray of thin milky fluid, first squirting, and then dribbling urgently as breasts slowly deflated.

Brune regaind enough control of herself to flex her arms, straining her biceps into mountains the size of goards only to watch in dismay as they too began to shrink, their strength slipping through her grasp as they become smaller and smaller still finally ending up a bit more than half their initial size.

Finally, the pressure reached her head, and it was like a spike was driven into her brain. Brune clasped her hands to her brow as if to stop her skull from splitting. She felt her face changing in her palms, its features softening, hard lines fading, cheeks, lips, the shape of the nose and of brow . . . From between her fingers, hair began to fountain, spilling long and lustrous first to her shoulders and racing further down her back.

At last, the changes began to slow, though by no effort on Brunehilde’s part. The heat had simply been spent, what was left of her diminished flesh hardening once again, obstinate against further change.

Brune collapsed, trembling as the ragged tatters of her chain mail shirt clung around her hips like a loincloth, she was almost blind, both from the tears burning in her eyes and the long luxurious pink hair that now spilled past her waist, seemingly a full half of which had fallen into her face.

“Lady Brunhilde! Lady Brunhilde!” Fyrd was the first to find her, and when he did, even the old Beast-Man was given pause and had to resort to scenting the air to recognize her. Even then, her scent had changed, the strong musk of giving way to milder odors.

What was left within a crater of melted snow was a woman of utter and stunning amazonian beauty, easily standing over six feet tall, her body conditioned to olympian perfection was possessed of a powerful sleekness that spoke of every muscle and sinew trained to work as one.

Yet she possessed a feminine softness, a gentle curve to her buttocks, a faint sag and softness to her breasts, their plump soft nipples turning to tender buds in the clutch of icy air. The smooth pale skin creamy and devoid of defect or deformity.

As magnificent as she was, she was unrecognizable diminished from the She-Beast of the North.

“Milady?” Fyrd panted as more of the pack caught up with them. In the far distance the death cries of the female troll could still be heard, a victory for the pack. One which Brunhilde had not been a part of.

“Fyrd?” Brunehilde rubbed her throat, voice raw and pitched an octave higher, it was the voice of a stranger, of a woman. She stared at her own hands, stunned at their softness and near femininity, then turning, her hair parting to reveal a face . . . still matured past the cusp of womanhood . . . but softened as if years of hard living had never been. Full peach colored lips, bright green eyes, small straight nose, smooth pale brow.

“Fyrd?” Brune repeated, a tremble in her voice. “What has happened to me?!”
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Re: Beast to Beauty - Beautification, Feminization, Ungrowth

Postby Shadowlogia » Sun Jan 24, 2021 9:38 am

Its a great story to read and enjoy, i'm glad you continue this.
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Re: Beast to Beauty - Beautification, Feminization, Ungrowth

Postby fuzzyduck2017 » Sun Jan 24, 2021 4:29 pm

Fantastic story!! Really enjoying!!
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Re: Beast to Beauty - Beautification, Feminization, Ungrowth

Postby Tigerharpy » Mon Jan 25, 2021 7:46 am

fuzzyduck2017 wrote:Fantastic story!! Really enjoying!!

Thanks. As always feel free to pm me with any thoughts or questions.
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Joined: Wed Jan 09, 2019 1:53 pm

Re: Beast to Beauty - Beautification, Feminization, Ungrowth

Postby Tigerharpy » Mon Jan 25, 2021 5:20 pm

Part III(a)

The pack’s return to the castle was met by much fanfare as servants rushed out to meet them. The carcass of the female troll was in tow, carried upon sleds, pulled by teams of Beast-Men. The treasure trove of the creature's chemical metabolism would be broken down and converted to serve the purposes of the Wizard Gaits.

If he lived past the hour.

“Gaits!” The door of the great hall was nearly kicked from its hinges as Brunhilde stormed into the vaulted chamber, her broadsword in hand.

She’d acquired a pair of boots off a dead beastman, suitable for her newly shrunken feet, but wore only a fur cloak and the jagged remains of her chain mail hanging between her legs. She’d spared only the time to pull her newly grown river of hair back with a cord before going to make good on her promise of murder a few months early.

“Gaits!” Brune bellowed again in a voice that cracked when she tried to pitch as deeply as she was used to.

“Would you keep down that racket I am . . .” Brune turned the corner and found herself face to face with the Wizard busily carrying a stack of books. He was dressed in shirt sleeves, slacks and suspenders, more like a city clerk or banker than a master of the arcane. He took one owlish look at her, dropped his books, and made to flee.

“GAITS!” Rage boiled up inside of Brune as broken into a distance eating pursuit.”

“Lady Brunhilde?!” Gait’s stammered.

“WHAT THE HELLS HAVE YOU DONE TO ME!” Brunhilde roared, dodginig books that shot from the shelves of their own volition, sympathetic magic attempting to protect their master.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Didn’t know?



She had him backed into a corner now, a cul de sac of bookcases where she could run him through and leave the body like a pinned fly.

Realizing he was trapped, the Wizard finally put up a fight, snapping off two hasty binding spells. Brune acted on reflex, blocking with her forearm. The spells struck and shattered one after the other and then she was upon him, seizing Gaits by the neck and lifting him off the ground, back pressed hard to the wall of books. She drew back her sword, ready to run the wizard through his stomach.

“Lady Brunhilde!” Fyrd barked as he caught up with her. But it wasn’t the threat of being killed in kind that stayed her hand.

“Magic spells don’t work on you!” The tip of the sword stopped an inch from Gaits’ breast as the past seconds replayed in her mind. The binding spells, they had shattered as easily as any other magic she had ever faced. I could haven’t have done anything to you. You know it’s true!"

“Then . . .” Brune said between heaving breaths “Explain!”

“I don’t know!” Gaits gurgled. “If you do not believe me . . . I know you have a truthsayer in your possessions! Use it on me!”

“Fyrd!” Brune shouted without looking over her back.

“M-Master?!” The Beast Man trembled, caught between one he admired and one he obeyed.

“Do it!” The Wizard ordered. Shortly, Fyrd returned with the requested item, a silver ring containing a smooth oval stone. Brune forced the truthsayer onto Gaits’ hand and held it before her own eyes.

“What magic have you cast on me Gaits?” She asked again. "What have you done to my body?"

“I solemnly swear that I have cast no spell nor curse on you!”

The ring warmed, its gemstone glowed white then blue. A truth had been spoken. But it brought Brunhilde no peace.

As Gaits sagged to the ground in relief, an inarticulate noise of rage issued from between’s Brune’s gritted teeth. Rage, and then doubt, and then . . . another feeling . . . not fear this time but . . . a painful emptiness. Her eyes began to burn, she wanted to hug herself, she did as she sank to her knees.

Grief. Intuition told her. This was grief.

She grieved for her diminished self. For her lost size and strength.

For a short time, when she had realized what had happened and who had to be responsible, anger had triumphed over and banished fear. She did not know how it had been done, but she had an enemy to slay and crippled as she was, a body fully capable of doing it. But now Gaits had stolen her anger from her and she . . . hated him for it . . . Hated herself for hating him and was then angry once again at him and herself.

Why didn’t she just kill him anyways?

She didn’t know.

She didn’t know.

Nothing was making sense now. Nothing was as it should be . . . It was too much too fast and now she was simply tired . . . so very tired.

She felt something dabbing against her burning wet cheeks. She brought her broadsword blindly into a guard. But when she could see again, it was only the Wizard with a handkerchief and a kindly look on his face.

“Dry your eyes, Lady Brunehilde. You . . . ARE Lady Brunhilde yes?”

She nodded, wiping her red rimmed eyes angrily. “What is becoming of me?!”

“Your body is just going through some . . . changes . . . It seem . . . We certainly will not learn how or why by you crying here on the floor.” Gaits replied. The truthsayer glowed blue once again before Gaits removed it and handed it back to her.

“I simply thought . . .” Brune mumbled “ . . . I thought it must be you.”

“A logical deduction.” Gaits agreed. “But logic can only carry you as far as the facts you have.”

Brune closed her eyes, feeling fear beginning to crawl back inside of her. No! She couldn’t let fear in. Not again. She couldn’t let it happen again! If she did . . . there might not be anything left of her the next time. She turned to her only remaining option.

“H-Help . . . Me . . .” Brune panted. "Help me . . . and i will renounce my claim on your life . . ." She would even join him if he desired, pledge her life to his cause, if only he would restore her lost power.

“I will do all I can.” Gaits answered. But first, you need rest, a hot bath and a warm meal. “I have no idea how this has happened but it is never good to tax a body after violent morpho-ontological collapse. Good heavens, running all the way here after such a catastrophic change it’s a wonder you didn’t rip yourself apart or . . .”

Brune felt a churning within her guts, saliva suddenly flooded her mouth. With no more warning she doubled over and emptied the brackish contents of her stomach onto the stone floor.

“ . . . that.” Gaits finished. “Feel better now.”

Brune nodded again as she wiped the sour taste of bile from her lips. As she rose to her feet, the last rusting ring holding up what was left her mail snapped and the makeshift covering slipped down her long sleekly toned legs into a heavy pile of scrap between her feet.

She saw Gaits eyeing her in a way that he had not quite done before and for only the second time, Brune experienced an awareness of herself as a woman. In fact, for the first time she could remember she felt truly naked.

“So . . . What now?”

“First, rest.” Gaits instructed. “The most important thing is to ensure your morphic field has stabilized before I attempt to take any readings. I will prepare a battery of tests for the morning. In the meantime, as I said, rest, warm meals, avoid garlic.”


“Terrible for you after any morphic accident.” Gaits nodded sagely. “Lost a professor to a clove in our morphology studies . . . Oh . . . Your hand.”

As if prompted by the Wizard’s words Brune felt her knuckles start to burn. She found them raw and bloodied. She must have scraped a hand somewhere in the haze of her anger.

“It’s fine.” She said. Well . . . it hurt more than it should. But she wasn’t going to say that.

“Nonsense!” Gaits scolded. “You should take care of your body. The big problems and the small ones.” He took a spare handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed away the blood before tying it tightly. “I’d offer a healing spell but . . . They don’t work on you, do they?” He chuckled wryly.

“No . . . They don’t . . . Th . . .”


“Thank you.” Brune managed to mumble.

Gaits bowed his head. “Milady, it is my pleasure.”

Ester and Astrea were waiting for her when Brune returned to her apartments along with a service tray of hot food. Someone had clearly told them what had happened, they looked unsurprised to see their mistress so violently changed. Or perhaps it was simply a fact of their feline temperaments.

“Milady.” Ester approached with a folded pile of silks. “I suppose these may fit you now. Milady?” Brune strode past her, making straight for the mirrors.

So far, she had only seen only with her own eyes and not the totality of the change. Even if it was painful, she had to know . . . Throwing off her cloak, Brune forced herself to look . . .

She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood.

The woman in the mirror, and she had no problem thinking of her as a woman, was what might have been called statuesque. A lovely amazonian body in the prime bloom of womanhood. The twin flames of youth and maturity still strong within her. Her pale creamy smooth skin almost glowing, was stretched over a well toned physique. Limbs long and supple. Muscles firm and pliant. Hard flat stomach framed beneath the arch of ribs, etched by the faint lines of trained abdominals.

Puberty had clearly been generous with her as well, bequeathing her a generous helping of figure, full plump breasts, their nipples soft, pink, and perfectly formed, and wide womanly hips framing an impressive flare of pubic hair the same color as the stuff on her head.

But she was not Brunhilde.

Her body suffused with a feminine softness, fat upon the hips and buttocks smoothing their curves, the lines of muscle both sleeker and more faintly cut beneath her skin. It was well trained muscle, yes, and well conditioned, but raw power had been exchanged for flowing grace.

The face was regal enough, and decidedly feminine, like that of a young amazon queen just attaining her throne. Fimly set and proud. Jade green eyes gazed out with an intensity which was all that Brune recognized. It lacked in hard lined authority and was deficient in character compared to the one it had displaced.

This woman could not have weighed more than fourteen stone despite her towering height and generous proportions and even that was a head less than she was used to. She realized that her chamber seemed bigger now, the doorways wider. Ester and Astrea, who had barely reached her sternum before now stood level with her shoulders.

She need only flex an arm, making a muscle, to see what this new woman called a bicep. It was . . . not bad . . . impressive even. But nothing compared to the mountain of flesh that she could so easily have conjured that same morning.

Was it lost forever? She wondered longingly.

No! She could not allow herself to think like that. This could not be her fate!

“What are you doing?” Ester asked her.

“Taking stock . . .” Brune answered tursely.

Ester nodded thoughtfully, meeting her mistress’ gaze in the mirror. Then, without prompting, she gave Brunhilde a firm slap on the buttocks.

A gasp exploded from the amazon as her new body went rod straight, breasts jumped and bounced. A flash of pain induce pleasure raced down her nerves. And though she’d admit it only to herself, she was sure she felt a tiny trickle of pee escape her.

“What are you doing!” Brune turned upon her maid servant, incensed by both the act and the thought that her body could be so . . . so . . . sensitive.

“Taking stock.” Fearlessly, Ester proceeded to squeeze the cheek in her hand, feeling the padding fat yield until she reached a firm core of muscle. Brune did not care for that in the least.

“Stop that!” Brunehilda grabbed Ester’s wrist and peeled the hand away. Immediately, Ester began to poke her in the stomach, the flesh soft until Brune tensed her abs, causing it to become like jabbing at stone, finally pinching the skin just beneath her navel, pulling upon the pale flesh. “Stop!”

Ester sensed the danger in her voice and relented at last, stepping back obediently. “Take heart, Milady, there is a silver lining to all of this.”

“Oh?” Brune laughed bitterly.

The maid took her hand and showed her the handkerchief tied there. “I’d say your new form is quite charming to our master.”

“Ridiculous.” Brune snorted.

“Perhaps not.” Ester replied. “You may not see it but this new form is surely gorgeous, Milady. Why would our Master not be attracted to someone so obviously beautiful."

“I am NOT beautiful!” Brune protested. At least . . . she didn’t think she was. She spared a doubting glance into the mirror.

She tried to imagine the reflection as someone else, easy enough, this was someone else daring to occupy the space where her real body should be, she barely recognized it as herself. She tried to imagine bedding that creature and when she imagined how that made her feel . . . Long flowing hair, sleek figure, the face of a stern yet vibrant young warrior princess . . .Damn it all to hells she thought.

Even if it wasn’t true, she couldn’t unsee the possibility.

“Ships have been launched for homelier faces.” Ester observer.

“Even if that’s true . . . I do not wish to be beautiful. I wish to be strong.” And she had been. The strongest warrior in the world. Now . . . She might have confidently judged herself the strongest woman in the world. Probably far superior even to most men. But she was not so arrogant to think, as she was now, there were not men who be her match or better in the arts of war. "Beauty fades.” Brune muttered. No matter how lovely this body was now, the traits Ester called admirable would wither with time. It was no fair trade.

“So does strength.” Ester argued.

“Strength does fade.” Brune agreed. “But if you think that is all strength does, then you do not understand what it is to be a warrior . . . Enough of this! Bring me the clothes.”

Astrea presented her with a pair of loose violet trousers and a matching shirt, both cut from silk. Brune was surprised to find how far the waist had to be to be tightened for the pants to close around her stomach. She wore the shirt unbuttoned, hanging from her breasts, the plackets catching on her nipples as they pointed erect through the silk.

Though vastly diminished, compared to her shrunken frame, her breasts were still sights to behold. Twin ivory orbs hanging high and proud above her ribs. The greatest difference was in their texture. Before, her woman flesh had been held taught by the underlying muscle. An inner pressure lending firmness that defied gravity. This new flesh was softer in nature, resting slightly lower, and seemed to have a mind of its own, rolling and changing shape almost amorphously. It would take some getting used to.

That evening was the first she’d dined in her room in quite some time. A hearty meal of soup, fruit, cheeses, and bread served with tea and mulled wine. Despite losing over a hundred weight in a single day she founder her appetite almost insatiable, and it convinced her to take the Wizard’s proscription seriously.

She spent the evening reclined upon her bedroom sofa, a roaring fire beside her, a bottle of mulled wine in one hand, and ‘Taming of the Orc Queen’ in the other. Losing herself in the pages proved all the easier to escape the shock of her new reality.

“Do you really think he finds me attractive like this?” She asked Ester as the maid trimmed her hair. She’d already cut the bangs back into a boyish mop and just about to begin on the back.

“I cannot say for certain Milady. But your present physique is certainly what one might call conventionally attractive. And we have established before that our master apprecies conventional standards of beauty.”

“Was I not attractive before?”

Ester paused, squashed feline nose twitching as she thought. “Not conventionally as such, no.” She answered diplomatically. “You were certainly quite unconventionally attractive."

“I see . . .” Brune fingers ran through a long lock of pink hair, curling it around her finger, she ran it beneath her nose, breathing in the scent of lilac shampoo. “You can leave the rest for now.”

“Of course Milady.” Ester ceased her cutting and handed Brune a mirror to examine her work. “I will braid it for you in the morning if you like. In either case, you have the added advantage now that you have asked our Master to treat your ailment and he has agreed. This means you will be spending more time with him. There will be more opportunities to enact the plan. If you still so desire.”

If she still desired.

Did she desire?

Brune didn’t really know.

One thing was for certain thought.

Whatever ephemeral advantages this form might offer was as nothing. Defiantly, Brune thought, she would have her strength back!
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Re: Beast to Beauty - Beautification, Feminization, Ungrowth

Postby Tigerharpy » Wed Jan 27, 2021 7:38 am

Part III (b)

“How much longer is this going to take?” Brune asked, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. It was maddening how easily it could crack from a deep and commanding femininity into a juvenile whine.

“You know, it would go a lot faster if you could just sit still.” Gaits replied, wearing a white smock and a piece of ornate insectile headgear made up of dozens of adjustable mirrors and lenses.

“It would be easier to sit still if you would stop poking me!” Squirming as she suffered the wizard’s latest proding.

Brune lay naked upon a stone table beneath a towering mechanism of glass and bronze and the white glare of magic lights. The cold air was having the expected effect on her body, goose flesh and hardened nipples, but more so than she was used to. The loss of bulk seemingly had left her more vulnerable to the cold, her flesh turning achingly numb as she suppressed the urge to shiver.

They’d been at it for over an hour now, though it felt like an eternity with no end in sight. In that time Gaits had taken his instruments and probes to every inch of her.

She supposed she should have been grateful. The wealthiest nobles could hardly afford a more thorough diagnosis. If only it weren’t so humiliating.

Gaits had checked her pulse, her breathing, and her reflexes, examined her teeth and her eyes, palpated her stomach for any irregularities, taken blood samples, urine samples, stool samples, saliva samples, ear wax samples, even clippings of her hair and nails. His instruments had gone down her throat and up her pussy and asshole and now he was preparing his omniscope to look even further inside of her.

Brune braced herself for whatever alienating ritual would be required by the mechanism.

“Say Cheese.” Gaits said.

“Cheese?” A blinding flash left Brune dazzled and blinking spots from her eyes. When her vision returned Gaits was climbing down from the top of the omniscope with a stack of square silver plates.

“There we go. I’ll get these developing and we can break for breakfast.”

“Wait?” Brune sat up. “That was it?”

“You mean the omniscope exposures? Oh yes. Marvelous instrument isn’t it?” Gaits disappeared into a tiny lightless booth in the corner of his lab where he set about some arcane ritual with a tinkling of glass and a sloshing of liquids.

While she waited, Brune pulled on a pair of plain white cotton panties and a sleeveless white cotton top adjusting the underwear until they fit snugly. It didn’t do much for the cold, but Gaits could do his remaining examinations whilst she was wearing them and, if Ester was right about her new body, She saw no reason to drain away its efficacy by allowing Gaits to see it whenever he liked.

That’s what she told herself at least. That it was strategy . . . It hadn’t just been the probing that had left her uncomfortable layed out on the table to be touched and batted about like a slab of meat . . .

Brune touched her temples, massaging them gently. Not for the first time it occurred to her how much a difference a body made. Everything felt more acute, more intense, her sense of touch was more sensitive, smells were more evocative, colors more vibrant.

Taste . . . Taste had exploded for her. She’d never noticed before, but even something like a soft boiled egg with a little salt tasted wonderfully creamy and savory like . . . soft cheeeeeeeesseeee . . .

“You know, you could thank my chef sometime if you like his cooking so much.” Gaits observed.

She was seated partly cross legged on the examination table, her breakfast plate balanced on her bent leg while the other stretched long and sinuously off the edge of the table so that the ball of her foot just barely brushed the ground.

Brune realized the blissful face she had been making and quickly dabbed away a bit of egg yolk with a napkin, washing it down with a glass of tea. “What next?”

“While the slides are developing, stress tests.”

The Wizards lab played host to a truly bewildering array of equipment meant to explore the body’s physical limits. Some of it seemed permanent while other pieces looked hastily slapped together over the night.

Brune was given a pair of small sleek shoes made of canvas and rubber which molded to the soles of her feet and was put upon a belt of leather wrapped endlessly around two rollers. The rollers set the belt moving, forcing Brune to keep pace or else fall off.

She settled into an efficient long legged gate, feet springing, tendons stretching, breasts bouncing heavily within the confines of her cotton shirt and the firm jiggle of her shapely butt sending ripples of self consciousness through her entire being.

While she ran, she breathed in and out through a rubber mask that captured her breath for analysis.

There were dedicated stations to test her lung capacity by blowing into a tube containing a small ball and measuring how long and how high she could sustain it upon a single breath. And other machines to test her strength by use of both weights and springs.

The two most peculiar devices were a curved wooden frame that reminded her of a torture wrack, she would grab hold of its handles in various combinations and hold on as her body was pulled in odd directions to test its flexibility. Her new body proved incredibly limber, supple limbs stretching though every contortion with ease, tendons and muscles like elastic and rubber.

Only at the machines very limit did she feel the ache of straining flesh. Mostly, she was just uncomfortable with how inadvertently lewd the poses she was stretched into seemed.

The second machine was a system of pulleys suspended from the ceiling. The cables would be strapped to her wrists, ankles, and waist and weights applied to their far ends. Brune was forced to balance herself in midair lest she become hopelessly tangled. It was an exercise in balance and subtle movement, the trick proved to be finding the point of balance and holding it for as long as she could bare before her burning muscles gave out.

By the end of it, her cotton underwear were soaked nearly translucent with sweat, the tests proving a challenging workout in their own right. The results told her mostly what she had expected, though still impressive, her strength was nothing like what it had been. What most surprised her, however, was that her stamina had barely diminished.

“Well of course. You’re much less muscle bound.” Gaits surmised as he busied himself with his developing plates. “All that mass was getting in its own way. Extra weight to carry around, extra friction between the muscle fibers. A lot of raw power, but it wasn’t very efficient.”

“That is your professional opinion?” Brune asked, feeling irritated at the critique of the form she sought to reattain. Even so, she couldn’t help but continue to stretch her new body, standing balanced on one leg as she pulled her foot back until the sole of her shoe was pressed flush with the curve of her ass. She held it easily for half a minute before switching.

It just felt so . . . good . . . to be so unconstricted.

“I’ll have you know I minored in kinesiology at University.”

Brune had no idea what ‘kinesiology’ was and only a vague idea about University. Mostly they seemed to be places that warehoused very useless smart people.

“Hmmm . . .” Gaits hummed to himself as his omniscope plates finished developing. They revealed what even Brune could recognize as a ghostly likeness of a human skeleton rendered in varying degrees of shadow.

‘Those are images of me.’ Brune thought. Somehow the idea making her feel even more naked than when she had been bare on the table.

“A lovely bone structure.” Gaits observed thoughtfully. “No sign of adolescent deformities or birth defects . . . You’d expect at least a little adolescent bone stunting but your skeleton is almost perfect . . .” Brune felt a faint flush coming to her cheeks at the thoughtless complement. “Tell me . . . Did you break many bones while you were fighting?”

“I could more easily count the ones I have not broken.” The amazon replied. Every rib to begin with. Both of her legs and one arm at different times. She’d only recovered from each still stronger than before. But the scars of those wounds had vanished from her skin. They had vanished from her bones as well.

“Surely I just healed well.” Brune decided.

“Even if your bones healed just as strong as before, there would still be signs an omniscope could read.” Gaits insisted. “It’s almost like the injuries never happened at all.”

“And what does all this tell you?” Brune was growing impatient for answers.

“I don’t know yet.”

Not what she wanted to hear.

“You don’t know?!” Brune’s voice rose so high it was for a moment almost shrill. She stopped herself, pitching from lower in her diaphragm. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Today was just to establish a baseline!” Gaits answered cheerilly. “We’ll have to monitor you closely and observe any changes before we can make any sort of definitive diagnosis”

“No!” She snapped, surprising Gaits. “I won’t accept that! We’re trying to stop any more changes!” She shook her head. “We’re trying to stop them . . . to stop them.” Memory of the day before came welling back. It wasn’t easy to come to grips with. Even now she wanted this to just be some horrid vivid nightmare.

She felt a warm hand resting atop her own. Gaits gave her a serious look. “I understand completely, Lady Brunhilda. We will of course do everything that we can. But it might be best if you start to think of this as an illness.”

“Illness.” She repeated. Such an alien thought. Illness was succumbing to weakness. It was something that happened to other people, not her. Never her.

“You are sick, Milady.” Gaits nodded. “And even with treatment, it may get worse before it gets better. But we will do everything in our power to achieve the best outcome.”

She looked into his eyes, wondering how anyone branded an enemy of the Kingdom could be so . . . kind.

Ultimately, Gaits was her only hope. The only thing she could rely on beside herself. She would just have to trust him.





“He doesn’t know?” Fyrd grunted as his short cleaver of a sword glinted in the bright winter sun. It met with Brune’s own practice blade and was diverted, it’s remaining force spent as it clashed against a steel buckler.

“He doesn’t know?!” Brune’s anger flared as she counter attacked, placing the beast man on the defensive with a fury of quick feints and thrusts.

The sword in her hands was unfamiliar, a lighter weapon than her broadsword meant predominantly to be wielded one handed. What she lost in experience with the weapon, however, she was quickly making up with ease of use, finessing the blade like she could no longer manage with the larger two handed sword.

“The Master be wiser than you give him credit for.” Fyrd hacked back, Brune turning her body to present a fencer’s narrow profile. “He might yet surprise you.”

“He might!” Brune agreed. It was all she had to hope for.

Luckily, in the meantime, the castle was stocked with more than just an endless parade of dresses and underwear. The armory and barracks had been well stocked with weapons and pieces of general purpose garrison plate designed to be one size fits all.

While no replacement for her lost suit of custom armor, the light breastplate and arm pieces provided a degree of protection to her tender new flesh when worn over a sturdy pair of green trousers and a v-necked cotton blouse.

She was grateful for the work clothes, especially now. She lacked confidence with this new body. She wasn’t ashamed to show herself in the least . . . but it was so tender and sensitive the thought of baring it casually to the world, exposed and vulnerable, sent feelings of unease twisting in her stomach.

Brune and Fyrd locked blades, hilt to hilt. Fyrd grinned, his tongue lolling out from his wolf-like jaws, the rank smell of his breath curling Brune’s nose. Then Brune smiled.

“Awoo?” Fyrd went before Brune stepped back and out of the way. The Beast-Man stumbled past as she turned the flat of her blade and swatted him firmly on the behind with a yelp of surprise.

Laughter erupted from the watching pack as Fyrd scampered around clutching his tail. Brune resheathed her sword, feeling mildly better. If she did not have raw power, she at least had skill. She had to keep those skills sharp now more than ever. She couldn’t risk neglecting them for even a single day.

An archery range had been set up across the castle courtyard. Brune retrieved a hunting bow, a weapon lacking the raw power of her cherished Far Reacher but infinitely easier for her weakened arms and chest to draw. She was about to take her first shot when she noticed Gaits watching from the wall.

“Oh don’t mind me!” He called down. “I’m just taking notes.”

Brunhilde did mind him. More than she cared to admit. But ignored him the best she could as she took aim, drew and released her first shot.

The air flew fast and true, striking near the center of the target. It was joined by three more in a tight cluster. Not as tight as she could have managed with Far Reacher . . . She cursed that fact. The truth was that she would surely find herself wanting no matter how she tried.

Another four arrows. Another tight clustering. She emptied the quiver and went to retrieve them. Gaits was still watching. She walked faster, irritated at the way he watched and scribbled in one of his little leather notebooks.

She did not bother him in his lab without telling him what she was doing there. He should speak plainly.

She felt his eyes on her as she set up again. Taking aim.

One perfect shot.

A second very near the first.

Brune squinted, her vision had been feeling a little . . . fuzzy . . . all day but the shot landed within the inner bullseye.

Concentrate. She thought to herself. What did matter if Gaits was watching her . . . after all . . . he’d seen her naked . . .

The arrow loosed. Clean miss. Brune lowered the bow, feeling a flush of heat on her face. Unbidden, her eyes shot up to the castle wall. But gaits was already gone.

Perhaps . . . that was enough for one day . . .

Gaits had not been present for dinner that night, locking himself away to study the samples he had taken from Brune that morning. In turn, Bunhilde decided she wanted to spend the evening in peace, without Ester’s running commentary and had given the girls the night off after dinner.

She had never selected anything from the wardrobe to wear for herself, always relying on Ester’s recommendations, but that night Brune didn’t think it could be so hard. In any case, far more of it was liable to fit now.

At least . . . That was how she had thought.

Standing before the mirror in a ragged leather loincloth and feathered headdress, Brune was met by her own perplexed reflection beneath blue and white war paint.

Now this clearly was not right.

Next was a deep blue skirt and matching long sleeved top with yellow bow. But even on her shrunken frame the top was midriff bearing and her breasts threatened to burst the buttons of its collar. Meanwhile, the pleated skirt swished around her legs, conspiring to flash her panties with every step.


Besides she was fairly sure noble girls wore these at the academy. Something in her rebelled at the idea of wearing clothes meant for a . . . she shuddered . . . little girl . . .

What about . . . She pulled out a pair of fishnet stockings and a leotard made of some shiny slick ruby red material. While she liked the height that the matching heels gave her, and the way the whole outfit emphasized her long legs and tightened her butt, she couldn’t for the life of her figure out how to put on the detached collar and cuffs, and the purpose of the long floppy ears totally eluded her.

Ester said you couldn’t go wrong with the ‘Little Black Dress’. It fit her new body nicely and she admitted there was something to admire in the how it simplified and emphasized the sleekness of her physique. But like the others it wasn’t exactly sleepwear . . . And besides, she didn’t really have anything to put in the tiny purse it came with.

Brune shook her head, she should fall back on what she knew.

Opening the lingerie drawer, she once again turned to the former queen’s panties and maternity bras. She selected a pink and white thong with pleated white straps and matching rose print brasier. Her breasts filled the cups perfectly and felt snug and supported, as if it had been made for her, and the panties clung so gently that they represented complete comfort.

Turning to look herself over in the mirror. She nodded.


Something about these clothes always made her feel at ease. Something in the scent that had been rubbed deeply into the fabric. Subtle and persistent to have endured since they were last worn. It filled Brune with a sense of safety and peace.

Brune sat down to unbraid her hair, combing it straight in long steady strokes as Astrea had shown her before working her way across the vanity to protect her delicate skin with the many lotions and moisturizers the maid servants had arranged for her.

She closed her eyes, hands moving by feel, first in small rubbing circles, smooth soft palms against warm silky flesh. The circles grew bigger and bigger trailing away as her fingers explored lines and probed contours of her firm shapely muscles.

Gaits had known what he was talking about. What this body had lost in raw power was partly offset by effectiveness. Every muscle was sleek and efficient, interleaving into a totality that was greater than the sum of its parts.

Left hand following her jaw, fingers brushed soft peach lips, right hand sliding down her flat stomach to navel. She opened her eyes, realizing she had been breathing deeply. Blowing out the lamps one by one, she retrieved a book from the shelf. “The Taming of the Orc Queen 2 : The Retamening” and fell into the decadent luxury of silk sheets against cream skin.

Brune squirmed as her feminine figure conformed to the pillows, the line of her back, from shoulders to butt and then down long graceful legs formed a smooth s-curve, bottom popping up soft and purt as she clutched a pillow between her thighs for support and started to read where she had left off.

In this volume, the Orcish Queen Gerta was finally to marry her beloved Mister Darby, wealthy up and coming merchant in the Savage Eastern Marches. She’d left off where Gerta was seeking the advice of her friends . . . the Lady Sybil insisted that she must Marry Mister Darby as he had already seen her naked . . .

Brune’s eyes scanned down one page and then the next. The whole scenario seemed painfully forced to her.

Chastity? Marriage due to witnessed nudity?

Men weren’t held to those standards and if the gods thought they should apply to women they would never have invented contraceptive herbs and taught druids how to cultivate them!

She rolled over onto her back, still reading as one hand absently set to running idle circled on her belly. Luckily, Brune had never fallen pray to such a childish way of viewing sex. If he hardened and she softened then it was good enough for a night sharing the same bed.

Her train of thought was suspended as her fingers slipped beneath her panty line and sank into the soft plushness of her pubic mound.

Putting down her book, she peaked between her pancaked breasts as she pulled back the front of her underwear, admiring the thick womanly bush between her hips.

That at least had not changed too much. At least she didn’t think it had . . . Peeling her panties back further she retrieved a hand mirror from the night stand. She had to curl herself up until her knees were close to her head, but she managed to get a clear view of her own reflection.

She sighed. Perhaps a little smaller, a little paler and pinker, but mostly the same. Her strong beautiful flower. Her inner lips were swollen and darkly pigmented, protruding out from her outer fold, the pronounced bump of her hood, the dormant pink of her clit just peaking out. Slipping her fingers inside, she parted her labia to reveal the smooth dark pink walls of her inner vagina, her finger tips already growing slick with lubricant. Closing her eyes, she slipped them deeper, all the way to the second knuckle and then concentrating . . . she squeezed.

A little tremble ran through her frame, she shivered, her knees rubbing together anxiously, her breathing deepened and she felt a pressure seizing her finger tips. She slipped them in and out, pushing against them and then pulling as they drew back before finally slipping out with a wet noise.

She had not brought herself to orgasm, nor did she feel the urge to, content to simply sustain herself in a warm haze that spread out endlessly from the pit of her stomach.

The strange sense of relief made her giddy . . . She had . . .

“Pussy power.” She said out loud before giggling.

“Pussy power.”

“Pussy power!”

She didn’t know why, but at that moment she found it incredibly funny and was also glad Ester wasn’t around to hear her or she’d never live it down.

Gradually, she stopped playing with herself until her hand simply rested, fingers buried in her soft pubic bush as she resumed reading her book. Eventually, she drifted off as the lamp oil ran out.

Brune woke to find herself lying upon the stone examination table with no idea how she had gotten there.

“Gaits?” She sat up slowly. “Gaits?!” Panice rising within her.

She was dressed, or rather wrapped, in a long sheer white fabric that glowed translucently beneath the operating lights.

“I am here.” Gaits voice reacher her as if from a great distance, but she turned her eyes he was right there. A familiar bearded face. The same dark watery eyes full of concern and gentleness.

“I had the strangest dream.” Brune’s voice echoed. “Oh . . . It was terrible . . . But . . . I can’t remember it now.” It had been awful though. She’d felt lost and consigned to some terrible fate.

“Shh.” Gaits placed a finger to her lips, smiling kindly. “There is nothing to fear now, my love for I have cured you”

“Yes.” Brune nodded. That made sense. “Oh yes, My Dear Gaits!” She reached out to cup her face in her hands, they gazed into one anothers eyes, growing closer until their lips met in a passioned kiss.

Before it had even ended, their hands were all over one another, the gauzy fabric was ripped from her frame, revealing the gorgeously fit body benath, an urgent hand squeezing one of her breasts blindly, roughly rubbing the excited nipple. She tore open the front of his blouse, buttons popping to reveal a broad smooth bronzed chest and hard sculpted abdominals.

Brune found herself seized in passion and lust, pushing Gaits down onto the table and climbing on top of him. She felt his cock grinding against her thighs through the fabric of his pants and after a few fumbling moments, their hands getting in each others way, she managed to free his shaft, clutching the long hard pillar of flesh in her hands, its heart shaped tip livid and glistening. So hot it almost burned.

She didn’t hesitate, Brunhilde impaled herself, feeling Gaits’ member bore into her, so thick and long that it made her insides ache. She pulled back, and then did it again, and again, her breathing rising to moans and then cries of raw exctacy mingling with those of her partner.

They made love, for seven minutes, or seven hours, it made no difference.

With each plunge she was changed.

One moment, she was Brune, She-Beast of the North, bellowing in triumph, hear breasts shaking like twin volcanoes about to erupt, her mountainous body of raw nude woman flesh threatening to draw Gaits in and rip the tiny unsatisfying cock off of her puny conquest until . . .


She was Brunhilda, amazon princess, her graceful figure arching as she squatted over her lover, bracelets of gold and silver tinkling on her wrists and ankles, long hair fanning out over the both of them. Her muscular body rippled sleekly beneath smooth pale skin in perfect compliment to that of her partner.

Their hands intertwined as their cries mingled. Gaits sought to fill her and Brunehilda sought to be filled, their sexes fitting together perfectly. But it was not to last, for the two of them to reach completion they had to come apart and then again . . .


She was Hilda, a woman-child barely upon the cusp of adulthood. A flush extended from her cheeks down her pert darkly nippled breasts all the way to her navel as she rested atop the broad powerful chest of her betrothed. Her voice was a high pitched cry of pleasure and pain as her tight bald pussy could barely contain the cock that was stretching her. Every fiber of her small, hard, muscly body trembled. But she couldn’t stop. Her juices running freely had soaked her cunt and lower belly, turning his shaft slick enough for her to . . .


Her name . . . was Hildy . . . And she both wanted this, desperately, more than anything and wanted to be almost anywhere else. Shame and excitement mingled in her as she heaved her soft weak body atop her partner. Pale chubby thighs precariously gripped the hips of a man she had to squint to see clearly with her weak eyesight blurred by tears.

She was finally having sex. A man wanted her. And she was crying over it!

She was so pathetic!

She panted asthmatically as his cock entered her soft yielding vagina beneath a sparse few wisps of dark scraggly pubic hair. Her pale doughy belly jiggled and small puttylike breasts bounced beneath her tank top. Her cries rose as she felt his manhood threatening to rupture her maiden’s head. Her legs burned as she struggled to lift herself, calves giving out with a . . .


She was . . . She did not know who she was. Or rather she knew exactly who she was and simply could not place it into words. She was . . . all of the other Brunhildas. The real part of each of them as if each was a reflection in a funhouse mirror. An exageration of what was really there. She was the beast and the woman, virgin and the harlot, the crone and the maiden, and much much more . . .

Her body and face were a dark silhouette illuminated beneath a misty vale. But it was not yet her time, so she allowed herself to . . .


Brune again, vicious, cruel and dominating, selfishly seeking to satisfy herself without pity or remorse. Her muscles bulged, engorged on their own power, tendons straining, veins throbbing as her thighs scissored shut. She would have it with one final . . .


Brunehilda starred, eyes wide as she looked into Gaits own. Watery depths met jade green as together they tottered over the edge. Brunehilda pushed hard against her lover until thel felt almost fused at the hips. Heat blossomed inside of her and she pushed all the harder. Wanting so badly, just for that moment, for their two lonely bodies to become one.

She longed for a completion that was more than just the satisfaction of the flesh. To fill an empitiness. An entire lifetimes denied to her . . .

Within the solitary body that they formed, an entire universe of two complimentary parts, two lesser halves met, and there was light . . .

Brune shot up in bed, panting and hot. Looking about wildly, she was in her own bed in her own bedroom, the sheets slick with sweat. She gulped down air until he breathing came under control, placing a hand to her brow.

A dream . . .

It had been dream.

About . . . About . . . But even as she tried to grasp it, the memory faded. Like morning mist burning away in the first rays of sun.

Evidence remained though, heat compelling Brune to slip her fingers between her thighs. When she drew them back, they glistened wet and sticky, and smelling sweetly of her own nectar.
Posts: 39
Joined: Wed Jan 09, 2019 1:53 pm

Re: Beast to Beauty - Beautification, Feminization, Ungrowth

Postby Tigerharpy » Mon Feb 15, 2021 8:15 am

Full part III c

“I still don’t understand how this could happen.” Brune grimaced, only slightly from the pain. “I didn’t even strike it that hard.”

She sat once again upon the examination table her tall athletic figure clad in simple white cotton underwear. Her long toned legs and arms and her fair face were decorated in a light dusting of white bandages.

Here, a strip of gauze wrapped around her upper thigh, there, an adhesive applied to her knee and elbow, along the line of her cheek beneath her right eye.

The most prominent was a compress that the Wizard Gaits busied himself applying to her left forearm. A faint aching throbbed through the arm, growing more acute if she tried to do much more than wriggle her fingers.

“This sort of thing happens when you don’t give your body time to heal.” Gaits warned, tuttering like an old woman.

“Perhaps it happens to your body.” She snapped as the pain flared and subsided again. “How can you stand being so . . . so fragile?!”

It was like being made of glass. Bones like brittle twigs. Skin like velum.

And beyond that. The way the cold seemed to penetrate her skin like icy needles, sapping away her precious strength. The way that this body simpered and recoiled from pain, refusing to as it was told.

It was equal parts frightening and infuriating.

Yet despite all of that, Gaits insisted that she was still a physically and mentally superior specimen of the human species. The ‘top ten thousandth percentile’ he had called her. If this was what mere humans called physical superiority, she wanted none of it.

“We manage well enough.” Gaits answered, oblivious to her distress. “How does that feel? Any trouble moving it.”

“No. It’s good . . . thank you.”

“It may just be that you are comfortable exceeding this body's limits. Self control may come with time or you'll learn the hard way not to pull yourself apart. In the meantime I recommend not straining that arm for the next few days. Then only light exercise on it for a week.”

“A week?!” Brune fought down the rising pitch of her voice.

“If not, next time it could be two.” He advised. Brune bit off a dwarvish curse that was on the tip of her tongue as she bitterly she climbed off the table.

“I will be able to continue training though?” Brune asked, anxious that the answer might be ‘No’.

“So long as you take care and do not do the same to your other arm. Any other questions?”

“No.” She shook her head thoughtfully. “Thank you.”

“And there’s the magic words again.” Gaits chuckled. “Two in one conversation. My we are polite today.”

The amazonian beauty felt a flash of heat. She crossed her arms and averted her gaze from the man who stood scarcely taller than her shoulders. “You have been showing me a great deal of care . . . I just wanted to show my gratitude is all . . . Fool!”

It wasn't like they were comrades or anything!

She went about putting her blouse and trousers back on, noticing the way that Gaits looked and then looked away, as she presented her hind quarters bending over. It was like he too was becoming more aware of her womanly shape.

She was becoming more aware that he was aware as well . . .

While her martial powers had been gravely diminished, it seemed her feminine powers had flourished in their place. Brune filed this information away for her next conversation with Ester.

“Ah . . . Lady Brunhilda?” Gaits asked as she sheathed her sword upon her back.


“It occurs to me with the trolls now dealt with. You might wish to take a ride of the valley.”

“A ride?” Brune repeated. She tilted her head, a moment of innocent self awareness occurring. “You mean with you?”

“Well . . . N-No not as such . . . Unless that is you wish . . . But we are sheltered from the harshest of the winter weather here. You may enjoy the fresh air. Ester is knowledgeable about a number of points that may interest you, and Fyrd’s packs have secured our perimeter. There should be no threat of something like . . . well . . . ” Gaits stammering came to a halt as he realized he was treading on a nerve. “I’m . . . ah . . . I’m sorry that was thoughtless of me and . . .”

“No. It’s fine.” Brune shifted awkwardly. She just didn’t want to think about it. “But the answer is no.”


It was really quite simple.

She nodded. “You see, I hate horses.”

“How can you hate horses?” Ester sounded almost offended as Brune recounted later that day. “It is a scientific fact that every little girl dreams of owning a pony.”

“I was never a ‘little’ girl.” Brune objected as she sat before her vanity and made faces at herself in the mirror. The novelty of her new visage still hadn’t worn off. “Bestides, the feeling is mutual. Horses hate me.”

She hadn’t, as best as she could tell, done anything to earn their ire. When they didn’t run from her immediately they flew into a frothing terror on the edge of madness.

Ester scowled at her in reflection before disappearing from view. There came a sound of rummaging and she returned with a bundle of clothes in earth tones. She dumped them beside Brune. “Get changed.”

Brune frowned, watching the furrow lines appear on her elegant brow, the corners of her full soft lips curving down. “No.” She said simply. Expecting that to be the end of it.

But Ester was a cat.

“I said.” Ester threw arms around her from behind, grabbing the chest of her blouse. “Get . . .” She pulled “Changed!”

Buttons popped, a gasp of surprise exploded from Brune as her bosom erupted, proudly displaying a white floral print bra. Anger boiled through her, lethargy forgotten as she stood, turning upon the maid.

“How dare you, you little . . . ” Brune's voice rose to a rage, her mature countenance lending her an air of regal beauty even as her aristocratic mask twisted into a snarl. “I should SMASH you!”

The thought of inflicting violence scent tingles of excitement racing up and down Brune’s spine as she towered over Ester. She could feel every fiber of her being hungrily drinking it up like a man dying of thirst. Even her diminished power was ample to make good on the threat. It would be so easy . . . So right!


Her whole body began to throb.


But the feeling began to weaken an then die as she looked into Ester’s fearful eyes. They were left facing each other, breathing heavily until at last Brune let out a sigh, running a hand over her face.

“I’m . . . Sorry . . . ” Saying it felt like pulling a tooth. “I . . . didn’t mean that . . . I know you are trying to help. I . . . I just . . . I don't . . .” She looked reluctantly at the pile of clothes. Sighing, she took them up, and began to change.

Being that it was a dress, she had expected to need Ester’s help. But it proved to be peasants garb. Well made peasants garb, but simple and sturdy, and put on with lacing and ties that were familiar to Brune.

Cream white blouse, brown leather corset, long dark green skirt that reached from above her navel down to her calves, matching cream apron, and a pair of soft leather boots.

When she looked at herself in the mirror, the woman that looked out was the very vision of a fair fiery haired young milking maiden, if such a peasant’s daughter had ever stood over six feet tall.

Brune turned easily, watching the long skirt and apron swish. The corset brought in the profile of her waist, exaggerating her slimness. She felt a small shiver of deja vu, as if she stepping into a void that was perfectly her size and shape.

“What do you think?” She asked Ester.

Nose twitching for a moment, “Needs something”, the cat-girl proceeded to the vanity and retrieved a selection of jewelry. Silver bracelets to bedeck Brune's wrists and a silver feather hair piece to hold back a lock behind her left ear. Lastly, a small silver heart pendant clasped around her neck, resting just above her cleavage. “There.”

“So . . . why wear this?” Brune asked as she was lead by the hand.

“Because it suits the work we’ll be doing. The beast-men are attending to the valley today and your training was cut short.” Ester said. “You have time to help with chores.”

“I guess that is true.” It would be good to put herself to use, though, Brune wrinkled her nose at the thought of something so . . . pedestrian.

Her nose wrinkled for other reasons as she realized where Ester was taking her. The musky odor of animals and straw, and the sharper sinus plugging wreak of droppings assaulted her as they entered the relative warmth of the stables.

“This was a mistake.” Brune said, feeling her sympathy for Ester withering away. She tried to turn and leave only to have a brush thrust into her hand.

“Come on.” Ester was having none of it, pushing her deeper into the stables. Astrea was already hard at work, covered in a white canvas smock, shoveling out spoiled straw and replacing it with fresh bedding.

“The only way to make peace with horses is to face your fear.”

“I am NOT afraid of . . .” Brune fell silent as she was confronted by dark eyes set in a long face of pure white. She made a little noise at the back of her throat . . . And deep down . . . Knew that she just peed herself a little.

Her heart raced, so did her brain. There was precious little room to maneuver in the tight confines. She would have to duck low if the horse decided to kick but not stay in one place lest she be trampled . . . The horse blinked dark eyes, Brune felt her body tensing to burst into action.


Enormous nostrils flared, lightly spraying her in snot and the sour wafting scent of chewed plant matter. Then the horse buried its wet nose against her shoulder and licked her across the neck. A singuous slimy feeling that raised goose flesh as it passed.

“This is Artemis.” Ester explained, patting the white mare upon the side of her neck. “The master acquired her last spring. She’s a good deal less skittish than Ares.”

“Ares?” Brune asked as she recovered from her paralysis.

“The Master’s horse. He’s supposedly a courser, but I don’t think he was properly trained for battle. He gets much too anxious.”

“They have names?”

“Of course they have names.” Ester replied. “Humans give everything names.”

“I see.” Brune said. Then again, she had named her war axe and bow. A pang shot through her for her lost Tower Breaker as she attempted to extricate herself from the horse’s insistent licking.

“Here.” Ester handed her a weighty white crystal. “Give her this and she’ll leave you alone.” Brune took the offered salt lick and watched shyly as Artemis went at it. Gently snorting and shaking her head to and fro from time to time but hardly paying Brune any mind.

“Good, now you can brush her.” Ester was saying. “With the coat, not against . . . Mistress?”

“What was that?” Brune was distracted running a hand along the animal’s neck. Feeling the flexing of her muscles and the heat of her blood. The pulse of a strong steady heartbeat. She’d never been this close to a living horse before, not one that wasn’t in a panic.

“Maybe you just scared the hell out of them.” Ester observed.

“Maybe.” Brune agreed. Patting gently, she groped for something to say, settling upon : “Good horsie.”

Under Ester’s guidance she was soon grooming Artemis while the maid did the same for Ares. The stable played host to a small herd. The beautiful black and white corsers, but also a pair of riding ponies and a few work horses.

Brune found herself working up a sweat in the stale air until at last their task was finished with a sense of accomplishment, Astrea showing her how to securely mount the saddles.

“You handle them well.”


Ester nodded. “Could you help bring Ares out?” She handed Brune the reins and left her to coax the courser from his stall. Gaits was ambling down from the keep as they emerged from the stable.

“Lady Brunhilde, I thought you said you didn’t like horses.” Gaits smiled as he took the offered reigns.

“I . . . Don’t know.” Brune answered carefully.

“Your saddle is provisioned master.” Ester said. “And Fyrd reports that the valley is fully secure. Astrea and I shall ready the ponies to accompany you.

“You have somewhere to be?” Brune asked.

“Inspection.” Gaits answered. “Much to do now that the trolls have been dealt with.” For all his foppish appearance, the Wizard mounted his dark horse in an easy motion that left Brunehilde slightly irritated to be looking up at him.

A decision was made without much thinking about it. Disappearing back into stable, she emerged leading Artemis. Looking first to gaits and then to the white horse, if the Wizard could do it, it must not be so difficult. She hiked her skirt, slipping a foot into one stirrup, and halled herself up.

Not as easy as it appeared, but she managed without making a fool of herself. Gaits seemed to think so, his brows rising as she met his gaze smugly. The sense of victory was short lived as vertigo assaulted her.

“Tall.” Brune said. “Reeeeeaaalllly Tall.” To be mounted upon a horse was to have a higher vantage than she had ever known. Even at the height of her former glory she had not stood so tall.

“Easy now!” Gaits warned as Artemis grew skittish beneath her. “You can’t be getting nervous or the horse will feel it. Be confident, and your horse will be confident.” Brune caught herself, nodded, taking slow steady breaths. Gaits shook his head, “Doesn’t like horses, she says. Bloody natural is more like it. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

“Oh do shut up.” Brune scowled at him. Although she couldn’t deny a certain sense of intuition. In fact, she had mounted Artemis by following Gaits’ lead, but now that she was on the horse she had the strangest urge to throw her leg over and ride side saddle . . . she shook her head . . . Dangerous and impractical.Why would she even think of that?

Some of the other things coming to her by intuition seemed useful though. She held the reins in a way that felt right and coaxed Artemis with the stirrups and her own weight to move forward.

“Well then . . . Shall we be off?”

They left the castle behind at an easy canter, their small squadron, Gaits in the Lead, Brune close behind, Ester and Astrea bringing up the rear on smaller gray and brown ponies.

Brune did not know where they were headed but Gaits seemed to be following a trail left in the snow by passing beastmen. This theory was confirmed as they passed a newly garrisoned watch tower, it’s guards shouting greetings. Further down, they intercepted a hunting troop returning with carcasses and beyond that still more beastmen occupied in all of the activities necessary to sustain a winter fortress.

With each passing moment Brune felt herself growing more sure in the saddle, Artemis seeming less and less a beast threatening to buck her, and more and more a temporary extension of herself. A prosthesis of her lost glory. As her initial hesitation faded, the urge to test herself grew.

“Yah!” Brune spurred Artemis gently, taking Artemis to a cantor and cutting ahead of Gaits. She could see now the way he was going and had decided to get their first.

“Lady Brunhilde?” Gaits called after her. “Lady Brunhilde, wait for me!”

Glancing over her shoulder, Brune felt a grin spreading across her face as she spurred Artemis again, this time from a cantor to a full gallop.

How had she never tried this before? Brune wondered as the ground flew by beneath her. It was glorious!

She leaned forward, embracing the sensation of speed, her entire body settling into a spring like motion that merged seamlessly into the Artemis’ motion as if they were becoming one creature of combined athleticism. She could feel the horse heaving between her legs, the heat of her taut flanks burning against Brune's thighs, breath steaming as they went.

When she dared to look again over her shoulder, her eyes first widened, and then narrowed as she found Gaits close behind.

Without a troll to fight, or to terrorize his horse, Gaits was proving more adept in the saddle than she would have expected. And there was a familiar glint in his eye, one she had seen from across the battlefield, and more than once while surrounded by a ring of cheering onlookers. A determination not to lose.

Gods! She was liking him more with each day!

They raced one another, black and white streaks charging down the length of the valley. Trees closed in on either side of the path, Brune feeling a thrill of danger as branches rushed perilously low over head. She dare not look again to see how close or far behind Gaits might be, he might have been right next to her, but she was blind to everything but what lay ahead, the light of the forest thinning and an intuition that it marked the finish line. She spurred Artemis to a final effort, the two of them flying like an arrow into the light . . .

Brune blinked as sun on snow and white mountain cliffs all conspired to dazzle her. She felt Artemis beneath her, energy spent, falling back down to an easier gate alongside the heavier hoof falls of Ares.

In the end, Gaits had been almost nose to nose with her. But, Brune was pleased to see she and Artemis had kept ahead to the very last moment.

“Whoah!” She said, pulling back on the reins as they neared another smaller copse of trees hugging the mountainside and strangely shrouded in a thick fog.

Fog? In the dead of winter?

“Quite the natural born equestrian.” Gaits observed as Brune slid down from the saddle. The amazonian beauty was surprised to realize she had worked up a sweat and was now breathless, as if she and Artemis really had been one creature.

“Well . . . “ Brune began, a flushed smile spreading. “I really don’t know what to say. But I think I might like horses now . . . What is this place.”

“Ah.” Gaits nodded. “I should allow Ester to explain once she catches up. I usually end my rides here as it’s a good place to relax and unwind. If you wish . . .”

Brune frowned as Gaits lead their horses to be handed off to a waiting beast man. It was only a short walk further to discover that the fog was in fact steam wafting off of a series of natural pools.

“These mountains were formed by volcanic action.” Gaits explained. “The hot mineral water has wonderful therapeutic properties for any injury!”

“You’re sure nobody is watching?” The question was raised by Astrea as the normally quiet maid emerged from behind a tree trunk clutching a towel to her front.

“The only people here other than us are Master Gaits and some of the beast men.” Ester answered, already seated in the hot clear water of an isolated mineral pool. “The Master made all your bits and the Beastmen couldn’t care so I don’t know why you’re being shy. You should follow our mistress' example.”

Brune was hardly paying attention. Having doffed her clothing, she stood nude, save for a sheathed dagger tied to her thigh by a leather thong. A woman needed protection after all. Brune tested the water cautiously with the tip of one feminine foot before slowly lowering herself into the pool.

“Ahhhhhh.” A sigh escaped her as she sank to her waist, then her ribs, the water crashing over the crest of her breast until she was down to her shoulders.

“This . . . is . . . divine . . .” Brunehilde purred as she felt the heat soaking into her body, warming her all the way to her core.

She had come across hot springs before while campaigning, aand she had enjoyed them well enough, but her recollections could hardly have prepared her for this.

While this frailer form magnified pain, it seemed pleasure was equally amplified and assumed nuance she could scarcely have imagined before. If this was how other women felt it was no wonder they could succumb to lives that made them soft and weak.

The knotted tension in her muscles melted away like butter leaving only an inward flowing sense of wellness so strong she could almost have believed that simply soaking here long enough would restore her former stature.

Brune sighed.

“How is your arm, Mistress?” Ester asked.

“Hmm?” Brune tested her wrist and found the dull ache had begun to ease. “It’s good . . . Tell me . . .”


“Did you plan all of this to get me here. Helping with the horses I mean?”

Ester sank until her chin brushed the surface of the water, nose and cat ears twitched thoughtfully. “Master Gaits swore me to see to your wellbeing, Milady, it is the reason I exist.”

“I see.” Brune murmured feeling pleased at her own cleverness at having figured it out. It seemed there was another dimension to battle that she had been neglecting all of her life.

Was this intuition a feminine power? And if so, why did it seem to flourish only now that her warrior power had diminished? Did one come at the expense of the other? And what would happen to it when her body was restored?

Brune sighed.

She tried not to let it trouble her. But she found herself thinking idly more and more with each passing day. The inside of her head was becoming fertile ground for questions with no answers and answers to pointless questions.

She was used to a mental asceticism. One thought at a time, to its natural concussion, and then on to the next. How could anyone think about anything truly important with this kind of . . . clutter . . . filling up their head?

Brune sighed.

She realized then . . .

"Young woman"

"Head filled up"

"Overflowing with sighs"

She’d read it in passing in one of the books Ester had given her. Poetry had seemed so frivolous she’d thought she’d banished it from her mind. Yet here it was now and it moved her so.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Mistress.” Ester spoked up. “But how old are you?”

“Pardon me?” Brunehilde arched a brow. “How old do you think I am?”

“Well . . . I have little experience judging human age, but based on the portraits I have studied, when we first met, I would have said if anything you were in your mid to late thirties. Now though . . . Maybe twenty seven?”

“Hmm.” Brune nodded. “I’m not actually sure myself. But the people who took me in made my birth week the one in which they found me. Going by that, and the age they assigned me then, I shall be twenty one come next fall.” She paused, noting the look in Ester’s eyes.


Brune nodded.

“You're only twenty? With a body like that?!” Ester grimaced at her.

“It didn’t come up once I was old enough to swing an axe.” Brune shrugged. “I was already bigger than most of the men in the company. And what does age matter then?” She frowned as Ester held her gaze. Then, with another flash of womanly intuition, she smiled. “I see . . .”

Brune made a show of raising her arms and spreading them across the rim of the pool, subtly pushing up her breasts as they were buoyed from beneath by the water.

“What sort of foods did they feed you?” Ester grumbled. “Probably a lot of rich meats.”

“I thought you were a cat. It seems odd to be envious of a woman’s body.” Not that Brunehilde minded. It had a remarkable salving quality for her suffering pride. If she were to be trapped in this form, at least she was envied for it.

“I am.” Ester scowled. “That’s why. I'm cat, we're jealous little shits!”

“Well.” Brune answered magnanimously as she looked down and began to lovingly grope herself. “I’m sure small ones too are fine in their own way.”

Ester stuck out her tongue. “Whatever . . . I need some wine. I left it over with the saddles.” She began to get up, but Brune beat her to it.

“I’ll get it,'' she said, climbing from the pool and stocking through the steam towards a mossy tree that marked the center of the springs. The extent of Ester’s planning became clear as Brune rummage through the saddle. She’d brought wine, glasses, even a wrapped cheese and fruit plate . . .

Brune made a bundle from a clean towel and was about to return when the sound of wet feet padding towards her from the other direction set off her warrior’s training, she unsheathed her dagger.

A silhouette approached her, resolving itself gradually until . . . The tree branches rustled. A chill filled the air as a sudden gust parted the perpetual fog and Brune came face to face with the Wizard Gaits.

They stared at each other, dumbstruck. Gaits standing, shoulders hunched in the midst of absently scratching himself like some caveman. Brunehilde, tall and proud, as if a Venus freshly formed into woman-like goddesshood from sea foam, revealed to be worshipped.

It was the strangest thing. Gaits had seen her nude many times now. But it was different now that he was naked as well. Each one’s eyes darting hungrily across the other’s body, as if seeing each other for the first time.

Gaits’ body was . . . Brune admitted . . . not bad.

More fit than she had expected. Soft, but not fat, nor devoid of muscle. By no means a warrior, but not as much a stranger to physical labor as she had expected. Quite a bit harrier than she had expected too . . .

And his cock . . . she paused . . . she’d seen bigger, then again she’d seen smaller. It wasn’t anything to be ashamed of either way. More importantly, there was no hiding how he was feeling looking at her.

Something awakened within Brune, an awareness of her own nakedness. Not merely discomfort, but a sense of . . . vulnerability . . . that had not been there before. She felt no fear of Gaits, but even so a tiny urge to brandish her little dagger and protect herself momentarily seized her mind.

Just in case . . . he tried to hurt her . . .

Brune shook her head, banishing the thought fit only for weak fearful old women. She needed to concentrate on something. Something else . . .

Something was wrong, and when she finally pinned it she wondered how it could have been missed.

“Your beard.”

“What?” Gaits ran a hand over his bare smooth face, a look of horror dawning.

“What happened to your beard?”

“I . . . well . . .”

Brune tilted her head, another strange feeling, warmer and more pleasant worming its way through her. It was kin to arousal but her loins remained calm as she studied him. Without the beard he looked a decade younger and . . . rather handom . . . she thought.

“Did you shave it away?” Brune asked.

“What?! Erm no . . . no . . . I . . .”

“It looks good you know.” The words spilled out. “I mean . . . you look good.”

“Er well . . . and you as well Lady Brunhilde. That is to say you look very . . . very . . . lovely . . . erm pretty . . . beautiful even.”

Brune bit her lip as she was showered with his adoration. This strange feeling growing, more delicate than pure lust, like tender spring blossoms, her heart beating faster. She took a step forward, getting closer to him.

Finally with an anguished groan Gaits blurted out. “I took it off!”

“What?” Brune blinked.

“My beard!” Gaits stammered, face growing red. “The glue would melt in the heat!”

“Glue.” Brune began, her eyes widened as comprehension dawned. “Your beard is . . .”

“Nobody takes a wizard seriously without a beard.” Gaits mumbled, looking away dejectedly. “You can’t imagine what it’s like being in the academy if all you can grow is a peach fuzz . . . It’s not funny!”

“Yes it is!” Brune managed, face straining as she tried to hold in the belly laughter. She clapped her hands over her mouth even as she felt herself grinning so wide it hurt.

She had never EVER wanted to laugh so hard that she came to tears. But at that moment, Brunhilde, Amazonian Beauty, Winter Flower of the North, nearly wept with mirth.

“Hey!” Gaits cried lamely.

Brune barely heard, doubling over, she took a step, foot catching on a stone, stumbled, the rocks were slick!

Gaits leaped to her aid, only managing to get himself in the way of a graceful recovery. They collided and fell to the ground in a tangle of ungainly and athletic limbs, bodies both mortal and semi-divine.

Suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore . . .

Brune lay on top of him, her breasts hanging heavily, brushing against his hairy chest. Her hands were planted to either side of his shoulders, her knees on either side of his hips. Eyes fixed on each other as they breathed slowly.

Neither dared to be the first to move. Afraid of what would happen. Afraid to LET it happen, whatever IT turned out to be. Be brave. Brune thought to herself. Damn you woman! Be Brave!

Slowly, haltingly, her hand move lower between them, searching blindly, her fingers curling as if around the handle of her dagger. Their faces grew closer, Brune's licked her lips, suddenly aware of how soft they were . . . Gaits swallowed, closing his eyes and . . .

“Mistress?” Ester called from out of view. “Mistress have you found the wine?”

The intrusion broke the trance. Suddenly they were themselves again, looking awkward and embarassed. Brune scrambled to her feet, Gaits staggering upright himself, neither looking the other in the eye.

Like school children caught in their first session of hanky-panky, there was a sense of shame, but also a feeling of excitement that lingered far stronger. Brune watched as Gaits scarpered off, stopping only long enough to grab a towel.

After he was gone, she pushed a thumb into her mouth and bit down to still the churning of her stomach.


“I’m coming!”

That evening ended without a proper dinner. Something that came almost as a relief. Brune wasn’t sure she could have handled seeing Gaits again so soon . . .

Time . . . she needed time . . . Time and distance to recover from what had happened. To figure things out . . .

“To know victory, you must know your enemy and know yourself.” Ester recited as she planted a massive leather tome upon the coffee table. “And in a thousand battles you shall never know defeat!”

“And you think this is the key?” Brune read the title : Intercourse and the Market Town, Answers to Questions of the Feminine Sort, Volume II, by the right honorable Lady Bradshaw.

“We’ve focused on Master Gaits so far.” Ester explained, opening the cover and turning to the foreword. “But all of this is being done for your sake, is it not? The problem is that you don’t know yourself as a woman. I think once you find who you really are . . . everything will change for you . . .”

Brunehilde nodded thoughtfully, pulling a fiery lock of hair behind her ear. “But this here says the Lady Bradshaw recommends reading this book along with your ‘intimate bosom friends’” Brune frowned. “I . . . don’t think I have any of those.”

“Astrea and I will have to do.” Ester decided. “This part here suggests an overnight reading in shared sleeping quarters. That is simple enough . . . Food and libations suitable for light dining . . . sleeping clothes . . . Astrea and I can go get our nightshirts.”

Brune raised a hand to stop her. “Why bother when we have all of these clothes here?”

“You mean . . . the royal wardrobe?” Ester hesitated. Well . . . She was merely a maid, and merely a cat besides that.

“Why not?” Brune reasoned. “I’m sure there is something that would fit you. And we are to be intimate friends after all. It doesn’t seem like it would do for me to wear fine silk as you sleep in wool.” Ester fidgeted with the bow of her dress. “Besides, I cannot believe you haven’t thought of wearing some of these clothes for yourself before. Pick what pleases you . . . ”

Ester nodded and beckoned Astrea to the wardrobe.

The girl had a talent for clothes. Or had singled out what she longed for long before. It did not take long for the two to be clad in lingerie of a matching pattern, sheer nighies over matching panties. Light pink for Ester, light blue for Astrea. They stood, holding hands, like perfect doll representations of women as Brune looked them over.

“I know you think I have the better body.” Brune observed. “But I really envy your fashion sense, Ester.”

“T-Thank you . . . Mistress?”



It had simply seemed like a polite thing to say. And it was true. If she had half of Ester’s fashion sense she wouldn’t feel so awkward picking clothes for herself.

They gathered around the coffee table and set in upon their reading, taking turns reciting as they walked randomly through the pages.

“Do you really mean there are people who will PAY women just to wear clothes?” Brune wondered.

“In the big cities.” Ester replied. “You can make a living at it. Though I hear the models themselves only get a fraction of the cut.”

Taking off their clothes, Brune understood, but the idea of just being given money for wearing them was new to her.

“You have the body for it you know . . . and the face. Way too many muscles, but your figure is right, and you’re super tall!”

"I'd have to think about it." Brune admitted.

The night wore on, the cheese and fruit plates were gradually grazed and the wine bottles emptied . . .

“This here says pink or light red is the color of a virgin making herself available for the first time.” Brune read the passage in a teasing voice as she eyed Ester. The girl’s ears flattened and her flush was so deep it darkened her face through her fine velvety fur. “And that blue is the color for tomboys.”

“Makes sense.” Astrea mumbled, nodding matter of factly.

“What about violet?” Ester said. “Is there something embarrassing for violet undies too?”

“See for yourself . . . A woman who prefers the royal purple perceives herself as royalty. She has strong self esteem and seeks a partner who is her equal but not her master. Well . . . these are the lingerie of a queen . . .” Brune smirked and Ester huffed.

“Whatever . . . Enjoy huffing the smell of her Majesty’s soured breast milk off that nursing bra!”

Brune blinked. Was that the scent she kept smelling?

“Wow . . . You really are total perv aren’t you?!”

“S-Shut up!” Brune felt her face turning red as Ester got in her laughs.

“You totally love it don’t you. That’s why you keep using the Queen’s undies!”

“Shut up!” Brune said, growing annoyed with the topic.

Later still the pages got steamier.

“Thy greatest ally in the bedchambers is thy vagina.” Brune recited. “The woman who is fast friends with this most remarkable part of herself will know her own wishes well and carry them out, enhancing every aspect of the sexual act . . . I already know this”

“Huh?” Ester looked at her. “What’d you mean?” She was slurring a little. The bottle next to her wine glass was down to its bottom third.

“Sex . . . Orgasm . . . I’ve always had my mind in it. It’s always come easy to me.”

“So you really are a pervert.” Ester observed.

Brune shrugged. “It’s good to feel good.” Why shouldn't she enjoy the pleasure her body gave her?

“Well maybe your extra big vagina will put that in a monologue!”

“Whatever happened to the Lady Bradshaw?” Astrea asked.

“Burned at the stake in 1055 for adultery.” Ester answered matter of factly.

“Ah.” Brune and Astrea said together.

More time passed, and more wine, the book was was half forgotten as Brune regaled her girlfriends with the story of a ‘battle’ that had taken place in the tent of an orcish war chief.

“You took the entire BAND?!” Astrea bleated, she and Ester looked ready to rupture with laughter.

“The thing you need to understand is that with Orcs, ten inches is like standard equipment. But each one’s only got enough ‘stuff’ for one go each night.” Brune leaned over the table like she was telling a conspiracy. “We’d been fighting their ancestral foes for a week straight, so I had a lot of tension built up. Long story short . . . Orc’s have great taste in mead and Oh. My. Gods! Their barbecued pork amazing!

Later still the performance had become silent, Ester and Astrea watched on in awe as Brune spread herself out on the far couch. Her eyes were shut and her breathing was slow and heavy as she opened and closed her thighs slowly building herself up and up and up until . . .

With a small gasp, Brune’s groin spasmed and a flash of heat spread and began to cool across the darkened crotch of her panties. She trembled, back arching for a moment before settling again.

“I told you I could do it.” Brune said breathlessly. “You didn’t believe me.”

“How do we know you didn’t just pee yourself.” Ester squinted through booze hazed eyes. “I demand evidence. Evidence I say!”

“Will this do?” The wine was getting to Brune as well as she peeled down her panties to show off the mouth of her pussy covered in sticky white cum.

Ester climbed over the table, hesitating . . . “Go ahead.” Brune giggled from the wine. “You won't hurt me.” She felt Ester’s little fingers enter her with a wet ‘splorch’ as she scooped out thimbleful of her nectar. The cat girl sniffed the white substance and then licked some from her fingers. Her face twisted up she started furiously wiping her tongue.

“Weird! Like . . . sweet . . . Is it supposed to taste sweet?!

“Depends on what I've been eating.” Brune laughed as she retrieved a hand towel to wipe herself. “Now . . . you lost the bet . . . I really could cum without my hands. You know what that means?!” Together, Brune and Astrea started clapping as Ester reluctantly climbed onto the coffee table.

Her movements become loose, almost languid, hands running of herself as she set in . . .

“Oh they call me miss pretty kitty.”

She sing songed.

“And all the boys think I’m pretty witty.”

“I once had a Tom, but he ran off too long.”

“So I scampered off to the big city!”

The lyrics went on and on. Brune was sure she’d heard them before . . . Or something close. Ester was reciting an old drinking ditty, the beats were the same, only the names changed. Even so, it had her and Astrea clutching themselves in drunken laughter.

“And I sang my sad song.” Ester hugged herself in her little nighty.

“Though I wasn’t alone long.” Hiking up the hem to flash her panties, she framed her crotch with both hands.

“Cuz all the boys loved my kitty kitty!”

She gave a bow, toppling face first off the table into Brune’s lap and setting them all giggling sapplily.

“Ya . . . Ya know . . . Iz thinks weeve drunken enough wine for the night . . .” Ester slurred as she was released from the discipline of her performance.

“I think yer probly right Brune agreed. Together, the three of them managed to stumble from the couches to the bed, collapsing on top of each and eventually, after a few false starts, getting settled.

In her drunk haze Brune continued to giggle to herself. Brunhilde, warrior queen of the North! She rather liked the sound of it. And this body did have some advantages.

Maybe . . . Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all . . .
Posts: 39
Joined: Wed Jan 09, 2019 1:53 pm

Re: Beast to Beauty - Beautification, Feminization, Ungrowth

Postby goldwolf903 » Sun Feb 28, 2021 6:54 pm

can you update this
Posts: 19
Joined: Mon Nov 16, 2020 8:34 am

Re: Beast to Beauty - Beautification, Feminization, Ungrowth

Postby Airum » Wed Mar 10, 2021 11:19 am

Haven't read something this good in a while. Love watching her descend the social heirarchy as she loses strength and gains beauty. Looking forward to more.
Posts: 16
Joined: Wed Jul 19, 2017 10:41 pm

Re: Beast to Beauty - Beautification, Feminization, Ungrowth

Postby goldwolf903 » Fri Mar 12, 2021 7:38 pm

you mean ascend right?
Posts: 19
Joined: Mon Nov 16, 2020 8:34 am


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