An Unfamiliar Experience

To gain a magical core, Thistle had pledged himself in service for a year and a day to a witch called Amaranthe. In exchange for doing her bidding, she would, at the end of his term as her familiar—as such an arrangement made him—open his heart and place a sliver of her magic inside it. Such a gift would make him a witch in his own right—and quite a powerful one too, he hoped, since Amaranthe had a reputation best described as a natural disaster waiting to happen.

He’d expected his year and a day to be hard work. To be scrubbing floors and pulling weeds, hanging laundry and harvesting herbs; all the things he’d grown sick of doing at home, their mundanity given sparkling new purpose by the reward they promised.

So far, whilst his stint as a familiar had indeed involved those things, it had also involved a good deal more unusual services than he’d ever anticipated providing.

This morning had begun like many others—with Thistle cleaning the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, the way Amaranthe preferred. He’d refused at first, until one afternoon she’d presented him with a chest wrap that tucked his breasts away into some Other space, and huffily asked if that would suit for him to do as she said. Thistle, ecstatic to have a chest as flat as a chopping board, had said it would.

After that, he hadn’t questioned her desire to have him do household chores half-dressed. Amaranthe was a witch, and witches were odd; this was simply another aspect of her Oddness. And besides, she kept the cottage comfortably warm, so it wasn’t as if he suffered in his shirtlessness.

Since the chest-wrap, though, her odd desires had evolved into something more—or rather, they had elaborated like one of the unfolding wooden puzzle boxes she so enjoyed, fresh new pieces emerging from surprising places, until the end result hardly resembled the simple cube it had started out as.

“Familiar!” Amaranthe greeted him, striding into the kitchen with a sense of great purpose. She strode most everywhere with a sense of great purpose, so Thistle wasn’t particularly worried.

“Mistress.”

Amaranthe beamed, her teeth very white beneath her blackberry-coloured lips. Yesterday they’d been cave-moss green; blood-at-midnight red the day before that. She never settled on one colour for long, save black, which was practically all she wore. Black skirts, black corsets, black complicated wraps of fabric that somehow passed for dresses in ways that contrived to reveal most everything a dress in its usual sense was intended to cover.

Today was a skirt and corset day, the skirt ruffled high in front and draped with glittering fairy-lace in the back, the corset glowing with magical markings on every other panel.

“I have a present for you, bunny,” Amaranthe declared. He wasn’t sure where she’d gotten the idea to call him bunny. She’d just started doing it, the pet-name sprouting like one of the mandrakes in her greenhouse, and it had stuck. She cycled through others like she cycled her lipsticks, but bunny—like black—she kept coming back to.

Her heels clicked on the stone Thistle had just finished sweeping as she crossed towards him. He leant his broom against the table, then clasped his hands behind his back. She liked it when he did that. He liked that she liked when he did that. Her smile widened at his doing it today, her deep amethyst eyes crinkling.

“My good boy,” she praised, ruffling his hair. “Now, hold still.”

Amaranthe produced her wand from thin air with a flourish, and tapped him on the head with it. Roosters crowed in both his ears, and a dreadful ache like apples rotting at double speed curled through his abdomen before bursting into a spray of peach-scented delight that left him dizzy and desperately aroused.

“Thank you?” Thistle said, not immediately sure what she’d done other than turn him on—which she didn’t usually need magic to do.

Amaranthe huffed, then yanked his trousers down. “Ta-da!”

He had a cock. And balls. He could still feel his cunt somewhere, wet and needy, but wherever it was, it wasn’t between his legs.

“Um,” Thistle said. He swallowed, tasting peaches, and the cock—his cock—stirred, the way he’d seen other men’s cocks stir.

“Do you like it?” Amaranthe asked, bouncing in place. Her breasts did a sort of heaving thing above her corset that Thistle was fairly certain was only supposed to happen in books.

“It’s…big,” he said. And it was, or at least it certainly looked that way attached to his small, narrow frame. It was as golden-brown and freckle-dusted as the rest of him, with a fluffy nest of auburn curls at its base, just like the ones on his head.

Amaranthe ran a finger along its length, giggling when it twitched and stiffened in response. “I’m so glad the spell worked. Come on, bunny”—she kissed his forehead—“let’s put that beauty through its paces.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

---

Like any good witch, Amaranthe had a collection of extra rooms hidden around her cottage, tucked into shadows and dark corners, folded up beneath rugs and squeezed into narrow gaps between overflowing bookcases. Thistle had stumbled over several of them in the months he’d been her familiar, but today she took him into one he hadn’t found before; a twist of Other space behind an aggressively territorial potted plant, which smelt of cinnamon and cloves and was furnished in much the same way as Amaranthe dressed.

There was a bed—a great, four-poster thing with velvet drapes and a mountain of pillows—but Amaranthe ignored it, settling herself into a large wingback chair that sat atop a deep red rug in the middle of the room.

“C’mere, bunny,” she instructed, and Thistle obeyed. “Neck, please.”

He bent so she could fit her hands around his throat, and when they came away, they left a collar in their place, a leash glimmering into existence as Amaranthe sat back. Thistle’s new cock throbbed. She’d introduced him to such accessories fairly early on in their association—once he’d gotten over his initial shock, they’d quickly become a staple favourite, in both reality and his fantasies.

With him successfully leashed, Amaranthe shifted in her chair, hiking her skirt up to her waist, and Thistle’s breath caught. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath except a set of stockings, which stayed up over her plush brown thighs without garters because they knew what was good for them. Any stockings she owned that didn’t possess such self-preservation instincts ended up in the fireplace.

Amaranthe tugged his leash. “Distracted already. What am I going to do with you?”

There was an established answer to that question. “Anything you like, Mistress.”

Again that wide smile. Maybe it was the magic, maybe it was just Amaranthe, but Thistle loved being the cause of that smile. She tugged his leash again, pulling him into place between her legs—the act sent a dart of lust through him, and a pearly bead of pre-cum appeared at the head of his cock. Amaranthe made a pleased sound and reached down to swipe her finger through it, swirling it over the head.

“So pretty,” she said, wrapping her hand around his shaft. She slicked him with his own arousal, stroking in slow, steady motions. Thistle rocked into her touch, which made her make that pleased sound again. He liked that noise, the rise and fall of the little half-hum, and more and more he found himself willing to do whatever it took to get her to make it.

“Feels good?” she asked.

“Very, Mistress.”

She gave him a squeeze, then pulled on his leash again, manipulating him with it until the tip of his cock was lined up with the curl-covered entrance of her cunt. Wetness gleamed between her folds, where they shifted from warm brown to a pinker hue, and at that moment Thistle wanted nothing more than to bury his gifted manhood within them.

“Go on,” Amaranthe said.

Thistle thrust forwards and it must have been awkward for her, his sudden entrance, but he couldn’t think about that, he could only think about how warm and wet and close she was, how she engulfed him, how the sweet press of her walls pulsed around him the same way her magic pulsed inside him—

“Aw, you look so cute when you’re too horny to think,” Amaranthe teased. She lifted her leg, setting her heel on the arm of the chair so that, with a tug of his leash, she could pull him deeper. Thistle groaned as he sank into her right to the hilt. Amaranthe ran a hand over his hair. “Fuck me, then, familiar. That’s why I gave you that cock.”

Slowly at first, Thistle pushed into her, his movements jerky and uncertain as he figured out exactly how to move his hips. She’d had him fuck her with toys and conjurations before, but having the ‘toy’ actually attached to his body was a whole different kettle of fish. After a dozen or so thrusts, he’d fairly well figured it out. He fucked into her faster, barely pulling out at all—he didn’t want to pull out, wanted to stay embedded in her perfect warmth.

“That’s it,” Amaranthe gasped out. “Just like that—oh, you can’t help yourself, can you?” She yanked his leash hard, bringing him within kissing distance. “Now you have one, you just need to bury that sweet little cock inside me, don’t you?”

“You didn’t make it little, Mistress.”

“No, I made it to fill me up.” Amaranthe kissed him, licking into his mouth with possessive force until he moaned enough to satisfy her. “Are you going to do that for me, bunny? Pump your Mistress nice and full of all the cum she’s given you?”

Thistle whined. The slap of skin on skin and the overwhelming wetness of her cunt made his head spin. His cock was soaked, her juices mixing with his along the shaft, both her dark curls and his red ones damp and tangled.

“Harder,” she instructed. He obliged, gripping her shoulders for balance, his fingers digging into her soft skin. “That’s my good pet. My good pet with his good cock.”

Her words drew something tight within him—no, within the new balls she’d attached to him. Wherever his cunt was, it ached, dripping into whatever Other space Amaranthe had stashed it in, desperate for something to fill it the way he was filling her, but all he could do was fuck his Mistress like an animal in heat.

Amaranthe took his hand and moved it to her clit. “Make me come, pet,” she said. “Then fill me up.”

Over the course of their acquaintance, she’d taught him well how to touch her. At first it had been just another chore, like the cleaning and the cooking and the laundry, but he’d come to understand that it wasn’t a chore at all—it was a gift to touch a witch so intimately. To touch his witch so intimately.

Amaranthe let out a moan, deep and throaty, as he rolled his thumb over her clit, slicking it with their mingled arousal. She was swollen and sensitive, bucking her hips and gasping higher and higher with every pass he made.

“Yes,” she panted. “Yes, oh yes!”

She arched off the chair with a cry, clenching around him, and the power of it, the all-consuming claim of her cunt, caught him hook, line and sinker. His hips stuttered to a halt, and Amaranthe pulled him face-first into her cleavage as he spilled inside her.

“That’s it, bunny, let it all out. Give it all to me, sweet boy. Every last drop.”

“Feels good,” Thistle whimpered into her breasts. Another twitching shudder rolled through him, a peach-flavoured tingle from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. “Feels so good, Mistress.”

“I know,” she soothed, stroking his neck. She held him as he rocked helplessly into her, spent but needing to keep moving, keep feeling her. His cock twitched again, the jolt of pleasure almost painful—it felt as if he’d poured out gallons of seed, as if he’d emptied some hitherto unknown reservoir of self into his witch.

After a small eternity, Amaranthe finally raised him from the pillow of her bosom.

“What do you say, familiar?” she said, bumping his nose with her own.

“Thank you, Mistress,” Thistle managed.

He trembled as Amaranthe took careful hold of his hips and eased him out of her, sensitive in a host of new and disarming ways. Was this how it felt for those born with a cock, or was it because of the magic?

Amaranthe eyed his sticky cock and her cum-drenched cunt with pride. “Look what a good job you did!”

She stroked two fingers through the mess, shivering in delight, and sucked them clean with a satiated sigh. Then she got to her feet and took Thistle by the hand.

“Alright, my hard-working little bunny. Time to get you cleaned up.”

---

“Do you want to keep it?”

After Amaranthe had bathed him, she’d taken Thistle back to the kitchen, though she hadn’t yet returned any of his clothes. Thistle set down the bread he’d been buttering and looked at the soft, still-oversized-seeming cock hanging between his legs. It had felt so good to have Amaranthe around him, to sink into her and have her engulf him—but then, it felt equally good when Amaranthe put something in him, be it some strange toy or her fingers or her tongue.

“Maybe not all the time, Mistress,” he said. “I do quite like my cunt.” He could feel it in that Other place, wet and wanting.

“It is a very pretty cunt,” Amaranthe conceded. She flicked her wrist, conjuring her wand, and twirled it at Thistle’s crotch. Roosters crowed in reverse, apples filled out ripe, and the fresh scent-taste of grass after a spring storm filled his senses. Thistle groaned and pressed his thighs together—his clit ached, and he was absolutely soaking wet.

Amaranthe ran the tip of her wand through his folds and his legs very nearly gave out. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she licked it clean. “Eat up, then go finish the rest of your chores, familiar,” she said. “Then we’ll see about taking care of that.”

Much as Thistle would rather have ridden her wand to orgasm right then and there, he knew his place. He bowed his head. “Yes, Mistress.”

Amaranthe went skipping out of the kitchen, and Thistle returned to his meal, resigned to several hours of unresolved arousal and uncomfortably naked chores. He slathered the bread he’d baked yesterday in jam Amaranthe had gotten from the goblin market and took a large bite, savouring the sweetness.

A year and a day in service to a witch. He’d never expected his service to be like this—but when it came to Amaranthe, he wouldn’t change a single thing.