The Elven Princess and the Witch.

From somewhere beyond the bars of Miriana’s cage, someone began to cackle. It started low, a distant, tentative giggle emanating from somewhere nearby in the darkness, before slowly building into a full-on maniacal cackle as the unseen crone built up momentum. It was a chilling laugh, the sort that seemed to promise nothing but a miserable death with every bark of wild, self-confident hilarity, and the way it echoed around the scarcely-lit basement made it sound like there were a dozen old crones all cackling at once

Still, Miriana refused to be cowed. She rattled the bars of her cage furiously, glaring out into the impenetrable fog of the darkness.
“Let me out!” she demanded, “Don’t you know who my father is? I’m a princess! You can’t keep me locked up in here, I’ll-”
She jumped as a wizened face loomed suddenly close out of the darkness, starting hastily away from the bars as what could only be the face of an ancient and powerful witch drew into view. Her nose was bent and crooked, her skin sallow and creased with age, but her eyes glimmered with undeniable power.
“You’ll do what, deary?” the ancient witch asked, with a mildness born of supreme confidence, “Rattle your bars again? I wouldn’t bother if I were you; I can’t actually hear from all the way up in my kitchen, and you’re going to need all your strength soon enough…”
Miriana swallowed, before stepping boldly towards the bars again.
“My father’s men will be out looking for me right now,” she told the hag, “And when they find you they’ll gut you like an old, ugly fish.”
The witch cackled again.
“Oh, don’t worry, they won’t find you down here,” she promised, “Not if they look for a thousand lifetimes. Not that I’ll need so long…” a bony hand shot through the bars of the cage and caught Miriana about the wrist. Her grip was like iron as she felt the elven princess’s firm lower arm, squeezing the slender limb speculatively, “Oh yes, I’ll only need a few months for you, at most…”

Furious, Miriana managed to snatch back her arm.
“A few months for what?” she demanded, rubbing at the red marks already showing on her otherwise-pristine pale skin, “Just let me go!”
The crone didn’t answer her though. She just withdrew cackling into the shadows of the basement, leaving Miriana with just her thoughts for company.


Hungry! Why was she so hungry?!
Miriana groaned. She’d woken up on the floor of her cage, unsure of how long she’d slept or even what time it was outside. Before her dreams had even fully faded from her mind, however, a monumental hunger had come crashing down on her and she was suddenly ravenous.
Miriana had never really experienced hunger like this before. Elves, as a rule, tend to be happy with a modest diet of vegetables and berries, but now for the first time Miriana was craving heavy, fatty food – and a lot of it. It felt like there was a cavernous pit inside her belly that was crying out to be filled, and when a desperate glance around her cage revealed a steaming mound of indistinguishable meat stew sitting in the corner that had most definitely not been there the previous night, she was only too glad to tuck in.
Grabbing the heavy pot with both hands, she lifted it to her lips and tipped it, pouring a stream of the thick stew directly into her mouth. She swallowed again and again, almost choking herself in her lust to get as much of the rich stuff into her belly as quickly as possible. A little of the excess spilled down her chin, spattering her elegant green tunic with steaming brown stains, but she didn’t even notice, too obsessed by the blissful feeling of the hot stew making its way down to fill her empty belly. Before she even knew it the pot was empty, and she slumped down against the bars in an exhausted heap. Her stomach was round and swollen, protruding out drastically in front of her with the huge volume of stew that now sat slowly digesting within it, and she stared blearily at it.
What- what had just happened? Why had she been so hungry? Had she been starving for weeks? It was the only explanation she could think of for such an intense hunger, but she just couldn’t remember any such extended fasting. Her mind full of questions and very few answers, she promptly drifted straight off back to sleep.

When next she awoke, the exact same thing happened. An all-consuming hunger, a pot of steaming stew, and a desperate frenzy to sate the former with the latter as quickly as possible. This time though, when she sank down against the bars in a stuffed daze, something new became evident; she’d put on some weight. Her belly bulged out drastically in front of her even further than it had before – and this time, instead of being just taut and firm from her massive meal, it was also swollen by a thick layer of cushioning flab. Miriana’s figure had always been flawless, an elegant, svelte masterpiece of elven beauty; now though, the sharp lines of her figure were visibly rounder, softened by an undeniable amount of extra flab. Her arms and legs were thicker, the outline of her toned muscles blurred by excess weight. Her thighs especially were much plumper, their soft, pale expanse visible even through the oppressive darkness as two overstuffed sausages that tapered down to knees that themselves now looked decidedly pudgy. Even her chest was a little rounder, spilling a little over the low-cut neckline of her stained tunic.
The only upside of the situation, a horrified Miriana thought as she drifted off again, was that at least the extra cushioning on her backside made sitting on the rough stone floor of her cage a little more tolerable.

From there, the routine was set. Every day (was it every day? Every week? Every month? She had no way of measuring the passage of time) she would wake starving, gulp down the waiting stew, then collapse in a miserable, increasingly-flabby heap in a corner of the cage. Every time she awoke she was bigger, softer, heavier, the delicate features of her body soon buried beneath folds and rolls of cloying, clinging fat.
She didn’t know how long that situation had been going on for when she finally managed to act. Perhaps it had been five repetitions, perhaps twenty. It was hard to remember. All she knew was that one day she awoke, and discovered that simply getting to her feet was a challenge. She felt buried within her own body at this point, thick pads and cushions of fat sagging from her body on every side, feeling unfamiliar sensations as her form interacted with itself in strange ways. The feeling of skin rubbing together between her new folds of flab, of her thighs forced up against each other by their own bulk, of her breasts, sagging free from the ruins of what had once been her tunic, sitting heavily atop the swell of her belly. Her gut felt like a heavy pack strapped to her front, constantly drooping towards the floor under its own weight, and the way every part of her body quivered and jiggled if she made a sudden movement was alien and uncomfortable.
Trying to get up surrounded by so much fat was a struggle, and when, puffing and wheezing, she was eventually forced to use the bars of her cage to help heave herself to her feet, she knew that she had to act now.

Summoning all her courage, she ignored the intense hunger burning within her. It was just a feeling; she didn’t have to eat. This was all just some ploy by that infernal witch, and Miriana wasn’t going to play the old crone’s game any longer. Gritting her teeth, she began to walk laps around her cage, trying to ignore how much smaller and more claustrophobic it felt now that her own form was so much larger.
It wasn’t long though before the burden of her weight and the desperate hunger began to become too much, however. She was overheated and sweating, clad as she was in so much quivering insulation, and her muscles – muscles that had once been so lithe and strong and powerful – were already burning just from the strain of walking. Her eyes felt magnetised to the pot of stew, and every time she passed it she had to resist an intense wave of desire, caught up in imagining herself pouring it down her throat, filling the great void within her with rich, fattening liquid…
“No!”
She cried aloud, kicking the pot with all her wilted strength. It skittered away through the bars of her cage and out into the darkness, slopping stew onto the stone as it went, and immediately she was overcome. Falling to her knees, she lapped stew from the ground like a pig, not caring about anything anymore besides filling the hungry abyss inside her. The little that had spilled though wasn’t nearly enough; she needed the pot, and all the delicious sustenance within. Flinging her fat body against the side of the cage she reached as far as she could towards the pot, feeling her belly ooze through the narrow bars as she was pressed close against them. It had come to rest so, so close, but she just couldn’t quite reach it, her own bloated body preventing her from quite snaring it.

Suddenly, a withered hand snapped out of the darkness and caught her by the wrist, and Miriana whimpered as the witch appeared out of the gloom.
“Don’t you know that it’s not polite to deny your host’s cooking, deary,” the old witch crooned, her vice-like grip on Miriana’s wrist keeping her pulled close against the bars, “That said, it’s obvious that you’ve certainly been enjoying it most of the time…”
Bringing the other hand to bear she squeezed the drooping flab of Miriana’s upper arm, feeling the soft, toneless pliability of the elven princess’s fat beneath her fingers.
“Let- let me go. Please!” Miriana managed to wheeze, “You’ve had- had your fun… just let me go…”
The crone eyed her for a moment, then grinned widely.
“Alright,” she announced unexpectedly, “I’ll give you a choice. You can go. I’ll set you free, and you can waddle along back to your precious daddy… or you can have the rest of the stew.”

Miriana let out a little sob, knowing that she wasn’t strong enough.
“P-please,” she whimpered, tears mingling with the sweat dripping down her fat, rounded face, “Please…”
“You’ve got to choose, deary. Freedom or the stew. It’s your choice…”


When she next woke up in the cage, Miriana was aware that something was different. It wasn’t just that she was fatter once again – she was used to that now, used to feeling those strange, unpleasant new dimensions to her body. No, this was something new. Her hands crept to her head, and she let out a little cry of fear as she felt something new there. High up, emerging from between the strands of her silky blonde hair, were two strange, sensitive flaps of skin. Even as she drew her hands back quickly, frightened, her brain supplied the answer as to what they were – ears.
What had the witch done? Why was she growing new ears?! She grabbed her normal pointed elf-ears protectively, half afraid they were going to have shrunk away, but they didn’t feel any different. Now more afraid than ever, but not able to ignore her hunger any longer, she scrambled over to the pot of stew and picked it up clumsily with numb fingers, tipping it into her greedy mouth.
It was only once she was sated and slumped on the floor again, nursing her stuffed, swollen belly like a protective mother, that she noticed something else new. A strange nub had sprouted just above her buttocks, and was now aching from being pressed uncomfortably against the hard floor by her posture. Reaching tentatively back she nudged at it experimentally, but this time her brain wouldn’t tell her what this new feeling was supposed to represent. Whimpering, she shuffled into a more comfortable position, her fat body sloshing and wobbling with the motion, and managed to drift off once again.


A tail. After a few more wakenings, a few more gorgings, it had become obvious that the nub above her massive rump was growing into a tail. That realisation almost broke her. The weight gain was humiliating, agonising even, but this was an order of magnitude worse; this sort of transformation magic was ancient, absurdly difficult, and thoroughly irreversible. Before, she’d comforted herself with notions of losing the excess weight once she was somehow rescued, but now, even if she got away…

The tail wasn’t the only change, either. The flaps of skin on her head had grown into full-on animal ears, disorientating her horribly with the echoing double-input that resulted from hearing everything twice. It was only once her nose had turned upwards into a clumsy snout and her fingers had stiffened and fused into hooves, however, that she realised what was really happening to her.
She was turning into a pig.

She’d only realised when, too fat and weak to heave herself upright, with her hands too numb and hardened to pick up the pot of stew, she’d caught herself crawling over to her meal on her knees, belly scraping uncomfortably along the floor as she’d dragged herself along, and simply shoving her face into the pot to eat like an animal at a trough. Huffing and grunting as she struggled to eat and breathe at the same time, belly and breasts pancaking out beneath her as she strained to reach down to the pot with her mouth, she was struck dumb by the sudden overwhelming realisation of what had happened to her. She’d been reduced to nothing more than animal; her previous beauty was obliterated, and she was forced to eat like the hog she was becoming by the constraints of her ruined, transformed body.

Overcome by self-pity, she pushed the pot away and beat her hardened, keratinised fists miserably on the floor, sobbing at the clattering sound of hooves against stone, at the jiggling of her formless, bloated, quivering body, at the feeling of her stubby tail writhing and squirming in the air as she wailed fruitlessly into the darkness.

The elegant elven princess was gone. In her place, completely unrecognisable as her former self, lay the pig.