The Futa Ring Ch. 06: Sisters

Content Warning: incest

*

"How's Ba'Ale today?" Jack asks, peering down at the blessedly sleeping infant. My brother is staying with us for a week or two, and while he is understandably nervous around the ogre in the kitchen and unsurprisingly skittish in the company of the vampire upstairs, he has yet to question either his sanity or my own.

I join him by the cot. My daughter has a tail, and sharp, sharp teeth. Nine months old, she's a bundle of joy, and is her godparents' delight. Bastet Alexandra is her name - may she forgive us - and though I adore her to bits, she quite exhausts me. Were it not for my budding magical skills, I doubt there would be anything left of my breasts.

"Well fed," I reply. "I don't know whether to feel offended that she prefers Eric's soup to her mother's milk." I massage my overfull breasts, wondering how long it will be until they return to normal.

Jack eyes me with amusement. "Perhaps Jill could help you with that?"

Jill is Jack's alter ego, his fantasy futa self. He's usually a well adjusted young man, if a little weedy and effeminate, but with wig, breasts and make-up, and with dress, stockings and heels, he transforms into a convincing and even sexy young woman. With a big cock. (I'm not exaggerating.) And while I've never been sexually attracted to my brother Jack, the whole incest thing not really working for me, my fantasy sister Jill and I hook up for playtime every so often.

My wife, who isn't around half as much as I'd like, thinks it's hilarious.

"Perhaps," I say, "but I have a better idea. Look after Ba'Ale till Eric gets back, then meet me in the library."

I've lived in the Mansion for a year and a half now. I use solar panels to charge my phone and laptop, since I don't trust the decades-old electrics not to fry my modern gadgetry, but still need to go down to the village to access the internet. I don't get television, let alone Netflix, so my only regular connection to the outside world is the local radio station with its cycling of latest hits, eighties favourites, and inane chatter.

So I am aware there's a virus out there, one that prevents my daily visits to Diana's café, and one that will probably keep my brother with me longer than planned. It's nice to have human company, but there really is nothing to do here except reading - and, naturally, fucking.

The library is my home in the Mansion. I've dusted all the shelves, brushed away the cobwebs, sorted and indexed all the books, and made myself a workbench that, despite half-hearted efforts to keep it clean, is invariably littered with tools, scraps of paper, and miscellaneous chemicals. This is where I practise alchemy and witchcraft.

I'm far from proficient, and have yet to figure out the whole balancing on a broomstick thing (although my evil cackle is coming along nicely and I have the sexiest outfit to go with it), but I have some instinct for certain kinds of magic, and I have a powerful magic ring - my gold wedding ring - that provides deeper insights, if I dare to wear it.

It's Jill that slips into the library eventually, her lips bright red, her face artfully coloured and framed by blonde tresses. Her silky orange dress emphasises her breasts and the sharp points of her nipples, and her legs are revealed by coarse, white, fishnet hold-ups. I'm impressed by her confidence walking in high-heeled stilettos (also white). "Hi, Sis," she says, her voice sultry. "Like what you see?"

I give a quiet wolf-whistle of appreciation. She's quite the seductress, and it's what isn't seen that really excites. She presses herself against me as we kiss, her lips both familiar and strange to me. For a moment I wish it were my wife holding me like this, my wife's fierce mouth against mine, my wife's urgent futa cock promising ravishment. But Lady Catherine has been gone a week, and only the gods know when she'll return.

I push aside thoughts of my feline wife, and drop to my knees. My sister lifts her dress, revealing white lace knickers that I tug down about her fishnets to her ankles, until she is able to step out of them, and meanwhile her cruelly contained cock, free now, rises to its full magnificence.

I am blessed with an understanding wife. Lady Catherine knows that no one can satisfy me like she does; besides, we are bound by magic, matrimony and maternal love for our Ba'Ale. Not even Jill's impressive length can compete with that.

Jill has shaved her pubes, but I spy a stray hair. Taking tweezers from my workbench, I pluck it. "Ow!" Jill cries.

"Oh hush," I say, depositing the short'n'curly onto a dish on the bench. "I'll need this."

It's not all I'll need. I hand her a jar of pinkish cream. "Take your dress and breasts off, and rub this into your nipples."

Jill takes the jar with clear reluctance, and grumpily follows my instructions while I work on improving her mood significantly, kissing my way up her shaft to the sweet, sensitive head of her cock, licking up a bead of precum from the very tip. I try not to look up. Jill without her breasts looks entirely too much like my brother Jack, and the thought of sucking off my brother always takes me out of the mood.

Cognitive dissonance is a wonderful thing.

I embrace my inner slut - she's never far from the surface - and lose myself in worship of the cock. I take the head in my mouth, my lips tight about the shaft as I create suction, my tongue seeking out that sensitive spot. I adore the salty taste of precum...

The cream that Jill rubs into her nipples is infused with rose and patchouli, and the fragrance fills the air around us, drowning us in unsubtle perfume. Even the library's ever-present smell of leather and parchment is washed away by the cream's scent. Jill gasps suddenly. "My nipples have never been this sensitive before," she murmurs. Her hips grow restless too, seeking with gentle but ever more persistent nudges to penetrate deeper into my mouth.

"Warn me," I say, then descend on her, taking fully half her length into my mouth, before withdrawing slowly. I tease her like this for a while, sometimes pulling away entirely and instead kissing and licking the shaft, murmuring hungrily, before at last I breathe out in preparation and take her into my throat, so deep that my nose presses against her belly.

Jill moans with pure delight, and for what feels like forever but is probably barely a minute she clutches my head tightly, breathing heavily, holding me fixed in position, unable to move, unable to breathe. I'm worried that she will come like this, her semen pouring unrecoverably into my own belly, but at last the danger passes and she releases me.

I pull away, gasping for air as Jill returns her attention to her nipples and her cock glares hungrily at me, weeping tears of precum that I catch with my tongue. "Warn me," I repeat, insistently, and take her cock into my mouth again, into my throat. This time I am free to establish a rhythm, an alternation between fucking my throat with her and catching my breath between kisses.

How long we continue, I don't know. Part of me hopes she will last forever, but also the hard wooden floor hurts my knees so I'm a little relieved when she says, "I'm close."

I pull away quickly, and work her cock with my left hand while my right snatches up a clean, medium-size test tube from the workbench and holds it to the tip. There's something almost anticlimactic about collecting cum in a test tube (instead of in a mouth, or in or on somewhere more intimate and ultimately messy). It's just so clinical. And being merely human, the volume of Jill's cum is hardly overwhelming.

But I do love the feel of her cock throbbing and pulsing in my hand as it spits its load into the glass tube. And I enjoy the taste of her afterwards as I lick her clean.

Placing a stopper on the test tube, and the tube in a rack, I pick up another one, smaller. "This may hurt a little," I warn her, "but it will be worth it later. Trust me." Her nipples are an angry red, and visibly swollen, and Jill whimpers as I suck on them, squeezing and biting, until there's a bitter taste to each.

Jill gapes down at the milky tears escaping her nipples, tears that I collect with the small test tube. Only a few tears from each before the flow stops entirely, but hopefully sufficient. Jill pinches the swollen tips herself, trying to produce more, but without success. "How did you do that?" she asks, her voice catching.

Despite all that she's seen, my sister still doesn't really believe in magic. She doesn't believe that Eric is really an ogre, or that Eloise is really a vampire, or that the elusive Lady Catherine really has a tail. Even Ba'Ale's tail is something Jill acknowledges without consciously accepting its significance. And of course she doesn't believe her sister is really a witch.

"Magic," I say with a wink. "Spit in this." I hold out a third test tube and Jill carefully deposits some saliva. "Great! Now go, relax, get Eric to pour you a bath, or something, and tonight, by the light of the full moon, I'll show you what magic can do..."

*

I have come a long way since my early experiments with night magic, but in truth I am yet a novice in the art of witchcraft.

The trouble is not so much that magic is hard, but that it's such a personal thing that almost no one bothers to explain it. Most magic books are like collections of recipes jotted down by chefs, and often in code. Eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, and all that, simply code for mustard seed, buttercup and holly leaves.

Lately I've been working through a thick, fourteenth century text by Nicholas de Gaysele, titled 'Alconomye'. Not only is the old English almost intractable, but the lettering is faded and often illegible. Good bedtime reading, however. Nicholas was fascinated with the moon's transformative power over human flesh. There is a whole chapter dedicated to women's reproductive systems, complete with grotesque and bloody illustrations. Another chapter is dedicated to myths of transformation, and reads almost like Ovid's Metamorphoses.

Most of the book, however, is given over to descriptions of the author's own experiments with alchemy, moonlight and the transformation of flesh. Mostly failures, too, some quite horrifying. Wells's The Island of Dr Moreau is light reading in comparison. That Nicholas de Gaysele was a man obsessed is clear as day, and like many mages (and, indeed, like many wealthy people) he viewed ordinary people as disposable and inconsequential, but intelligence and perseverance led him to a reliable process.

One that I've managed to wrap my head around and even try out a few times.

The library door opens. It's Eloise. The sun must be down. "What mischief are you up to in here?" she asks.

"Just making a dream come true," I reply.

"I collect books to stop fools like you from reading them." Her smile is chilling.

"Maybe if you get broadband..."

There's a glint of amusement in her eyes. "Be careful," she says. "Not all magic can be undone." And then she's gone, leaving me alone again in the library with my paraphernalia.

Cum, saliva, milk and a plucked hair. Any one of these ingredients would be sufficient for a variety of mischiefs, but what I have planned is not mischief but an act of love. Almost selfless, in fact, if you factor out that I'm a bored, horny housewife with a fascination with magic and a thing for futa sex.

And I've been planning this for days. In a way, I've been planning this for years, but until recently I've lacked the knowledge and experience to do it in a way that didn't lead to a discussion along the lines of, "Um, Mum? Dad?"

"Oh dear. What is it now, Alina?" (My parents' ability to somehow chalk up all the weirdness in my life to me being me is quite astonishing.)

"It's Jack... He's had a sex change."

"Dios! Why?"

"Um, that's complicated... Anyway, he - she - is Jill now."

"Jill? What kind of a name is that? Oh my poor Jack. You did this to him, didn't you, etc. etc."

No, I really don't need that conversation.

*

The library window, normally shuttered against the morning sun, is thrown wide to admit the spring air and the light of the full moon. Jack lies naked on my workbench, bathing in the lunar goddess's silver radiance while I trace designs into his skin with quill and ink. No ordinary ink, of course. It is the essence collected from Jill today, mixed with some of my own, and blended with Alchemilla vulgaris (Lady's Mantle), Crataegus monogyna (hawthorn) and just a drop of Aconitum lycoctonum (monkshood; specifically northern wolf's-bane).

I'm wearing my gold wedding ring, because it sharpens my magical senses, even as it distracts me. I dare not wear it for more than a few minutes, half an hour at most, or the desire to taste myself will become irresistible, and I do not relish the consequences of that.

My whispered incantations breathe life and light into the ink. Like a tattoo artist with a geometric flair, I mark imaginary contours across Jack's chest, draw symbols of mystical power upon his lips, and write words of esoteric power between his wide-stretched thighs and on the ticklish soles of his feet. "Keep still," I insist.

Jack's patience with all this absurdity is remarkable. By the time I am finished, he looks more like the victim of a graffiti artist than a tattoo artist, scribbles of bright silver everywhere from head to toe. Even along the length of his cock, which has been standing erect ever since my quill first touched it. It throbs and twitches very temptingly, a strand of precum glistening beautifully in the moonlight.

My own excitement echoes his. While surveying my art, my idle hands have been doing the devil's work, one scratching a nipple through material wet from leaking milk, the other buried in my crotch. The advantage of wearing a short skirt and no underwear is that you can touch yourself easily. The disadvantage is the same, and right now I can't afford to be distracted.

"Are you ready?" I ask.

Jack snorts gently. "Sure," he says, his disbelief in this bizarre ritual that he has humoured for the sake of his silly-but-sexy sister clear.

Intoning words of power, I inscribe one last symbol immediately above his heart. The whole complex design of lines and symbols flares bright with visible light, and Jack gasps so loudly that I fear it has burned him. "Does it hurt?" I demand, half in a panic.

"No," he says, panting heavily. "No - Fuck!" Cum bursts from his cock, splashing across his chest. I watch, spellbound, as he massages the torrent of cum into his nipples with his hands, and as his body convulses in the throes of obvious ecstasy, my own hands drift inevitably to my breasts, to my pussy, to my m-

"Shit!" I catch myself at the last moment, and pull the ring off. I no longer need its magic.

Were it not that I can see the moonlit magic at work, I would dismiss what I am seeing as wild imagination. The changes are slow and subtle, most noticeable in the engorgement of his nipples, but his body is everywhere shifting to match the contours I have drawn. A rounding of the hips, a suggestion of breasts, a more feminine cast to his face.

"Fuck," he whispers, cum oozing from his cock and pooling on his belly. His hands cup and squeeze his swelling breasts. His fingertips map the expanding circles of his areolae, and pinch the thickening tips.

Suddenly it's no longer possible to think of him as 'him'. It's no longer Jack writhing in pleasure on my workbench, it's Jill, my fantasy sister made real. "Fuck," she whispers, even her voice more naturally feminine, and it's that impossibility that startles her at last from her orgasmic reverie.

With a cry of fear, she sits upright, staring down at herself, then at me. "What the fuck, Ali?"

Jill's breasts are now bigger than mine, and aside from her huge erect cock there's nothing to suggest she was ever a man. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

"Well, yes," she protests, "but... What am I supposed to tell people? And how the hell did you do it, anyway?"

I sigh. "You saw exactly how I did it. Magic. And don't worry, the change is reversible." I hope so, anyway.

Jill stamps her foot emphatically. "But magic isn't real!" She frowns down at the floor for a moment. "Are my feet smaller?"

"Come," I say. "Let's have a proper look at you."

I switch on the main ceiling light and lead my confused sister over to the mirror. She gasps at the sight of herself. Even without any make-up, she looks unquestionably like a woman. An attractive one too. She touches her fingers to her face, hardly daring to believe it's true. Her skin is smooth, not even a hint of stubble, and her mouth is transformed by lips that form a perfect pout. "Wow," she says.

Jill's fascination with her new self washes away her earlier alarm, and with all modesty I have to say she is voluptuous perfection, a true work of art. Like Pygmalion before me, I could fall in love with my creation. There's just one thing I still need to check.

Standing behind my self-enraptured sister, I work my hands down past her semi-engorged cock and the swollen balls beneath, and sigh with pleasure as my fingers discover soft labia wet with arousal, and between them a pronounced clit and the entrance to her vagina. "Holy fuck!" she says, and pushes my hands away so that she can explore this unexpected addition herself. "I have a pussy!"

I laugh delightedly as I watch her. Not only are her eyes bright with wonderment, her cock is rigid once again. "I'm a futa," she says. "A real futa!"

"Uh huh," I say. I hitch up my skirt as I perch on the edge of my workbench, legs parted. "Are you going to fuck me with that futa cock?"

I don't need to ask twice. Indeed, her cock is driving into me even as the words leave my mouth. She kisses me hungrily. "Too right I'm going to fuck you," she says. "I'm going to fuck you all night long. I'm going to fuck your pussy, your ass, your mouth..."

I raise an offended eyebrow. "What about my tits?"

She laughs. "I can't believe what a gorgeous little cumslut you are, Ali." She kisses me again, a long, lingering kiss, her tongue exploring my mouth. "I'm so glad you're my sister."

"Too much talk," I say. "Not enough fucking." I'm aware that Jill's magically enhanced virility will likely exceed my merely human stamina, but for the first time in months I don't need to worry about Ba'Ale's next feeding. I have nothing to demand my attention except my sister's hard cock, and if she fucks me into unconsciousness I will be well satisfied.

Even as Jill settles into a rhythm, her thrusts hard and fast and deep, each impact against my crotch sending a rush of sensation rippling out from my clit, she tugs off my shirt to reveal my bare, too swollen breasts, the tips wet with milk. She bends to suckle on my sensitive teats, and I moan with startled pleasure as the milk flows.

It's something my wife also enjoys, and it always excites me. So much, indeed, that it propels me to my first orgasm of the day. "Yes!" I cry as the walls of my vagina contract blissfully about the cock that continues its ramming assault on me. The suction on my breast, the milk streaming from my nipple, prolongs my sweet, convulsing surrender.

Eloise is here, beside me. "This lockdown is a nuisance," she says with a sigh of frustration. "A beautiful night for a walk, but no. They're cowering at home, worshipping their damn televisions."

Jill slows to a halt as she eyes Eloise uncertainly. There is hunger naked in the latter's eyes, but I doubt it's for sex. "Jill, dear," she says, her voice seductive, "why don't you lie down here and let me taste that sweet pussy. It smells simply divine."

There is no denying Eloise. Under the mesmerising power of those cool vampiric eyes, Jill's fear is washed away and she nods eagerly. Sliding onto the table, onto her back, she opens her thighs, giving Eloise clear permission to enter. Jill sighs with pleasure as the cool lips brush her inner thighs, a teasing trail of kisses to a promised ecstasy.