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The Alchemist’s Retribution (AE and Futa TF)
🕑 Added 2025-03-17 22:55:01 +0000 UTCThis is a 2am Story, that means the quality might not be as high as you are used to from me. Full info about 2am Stories here.
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The grand hall of Eldralis Palace was alive with laughter and music, but Seraphina stood apart, cradling her glass of wine near the edge of the room. She wasn’t avoiding attention—attention seemed to find her regardless, like a moth to a flame—but she kept her distance from the center of the court. The nobles, dressed in silks so fine they shimmered like water, cast glances in her direction as though she were an oddity. A curiosity. She had come to expect it.
And, of course, the loudest voice among them belonged to Princess Amara.
“Oh, don’t just stand there, Seraphina,” Amara called from across the room, her voice cutting through the polite murmurs of the other nobles. “You’re not some statue to decorate the king’s palace. Or is standing all you’re good for?” She smirked, reclining in her throne-like chair at the head of the long banquet table. “Perhaps I should commission you as the court ornament instead of an alchemist.”
A few courtiers chuckled nervously, their laughter teetering on the edge of discomfort. Seraphina’s knuckles tightened around the stem of her glass, but she exhaled slowly and tilted her head with a calm smile.
“I’m simply admiring the elegance of this gathering, Your Highness,” she replied, her voice measured and soft. “It’s an honor to be in the presence of such refinement.”
Amara’s smirk widened as she took a sip of her wine—the very same goblet Seraphina had discreetly spiked earlier that evening. “Oh, such refinement,” Amara mocked, rolling her eyes. “Do you think we don’t notice how out of place you are, Seraphina? This isn’t your quaint little alchemy lab. You can’t just toss on a gown and expect to blend in.”
Seraphina didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she let the princess’s words hang in the air, their weight pressing down on the gathered nobles. She glanced toward the courtiers, many of whom shifted uncomfortably, their gazes flickering between the alchemist and the princess.
Then, she stepped forward, closing the gap between herself and the banquet table. “You’re right, Your Highness,” she said with a gracious dip of her head. “I am out of place here. But I hope, in time, to learn from all of you. After all, isn’t kindness and guidance what makes nobility truly noble?”
Amara raised an eyebrow, her smirk faltering for the briefest moment before she laughed, a sharp and dismissive sound. “Kindness?” she echoed. “Oh, my dear, you’ll find precious little of that here.”
As she spoke, Amara shifted in her seat, her expression tightening ever so slightly. Seraphina noticed it—the way the princess’s lips pressed together, the faint furrow of her brow. Amara’s body was responding to the potion, though the effects were subtle at first. The fabric of her gown stretched just slightly around her hips, her lower half growing fuller in ways only she would feel.
“Is something the matter, Your Highness?” Seraphina asked innocently, tilting her head.
Amara stiffened, her composure returning with practiced ease. “Nothing at all,” she said curtly, taking another sip of wine as if to underline her point. “Though I must say, your attempts at flattery are as clumsy as your… well, everything else.”
The courtiers around the table glanced at each other, unsure whether to laugh or remain silent. Amara was known for her sharp tongue, but tonight, there was an edge to her insults that made even her allies uneasy.
Seraphina’s smile didn’t waver. “Perhaps clumsy, yes,” she replied, her voice calm. “But sincerity matters more than perfection, wouldn’t you agree?”
Amara opened her mouth to reply but froze as a faint, unfamiliar sensation rippled through her body. It was as if her seat had suddenly become softer, her lower half pressing more firmly against the plush cushion beneath her. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table as a flicker of unease crossed her face.
She glanced around the room, her gaze darting from one noble to the next, but no one seemed to notice anything amiss. With a forced laugh, she waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, please,” she said, her voice louder than before. “Sincerity is just an excuse for those who can’t handle a little criticism. But I suppose you wouldn’t know much about handling anything, would you, Seraphina?”
Seraphina took a measured sip of her wine, her eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “I handle quite a bit, Your Highness. Potions, for example. Elixirs. Remedies. Even… curses.”
The words hung in the air, their weight unmistakable. Amara’s smirk faltered as she set her goblet down with a soft clink. “Curses?” she repeated, her voice carefully neutral. “Is that meant to be a threat?”
“Of course not,” Seraphina replied, her tone as smooth as silk. “Merely an observation. Magic is a curious thing, after all. It often responds to the intentions of those around it.”
Amara narrowed her eyes, leaning back in her chair as if to reassert her dominance. “Perhaps you should stick to brewing perfumes,” she said coldly. “Leave the magic to those who know what they’re doing.”
Seraphina inclined her head, her smile growing ever so slightly. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
Amara shifted again, her discomfort more apparent now. Her gown felt tighter around her hips, the fabric pressing against her skin in a way that was impossible to ignore. She glanced down briefly, her cheeks flushing as she realized her lower half seemed… larger. Fuller. But how? It was impossible. She shook her head, forcing the thought aside.
The night was young, and the alchemist had all the time in the world to watch her plan unfold.
Amara’s discomfort was growing, though she masked it with the same haughty confidence she always wore like armor. Seraphina could see the subtle shifts in her posture: the way she adjusted her seat, her fingers brushing briefly against the edge of her gown as though to confirm what she was feeling. She knew something was wrong.
The princess straightened her back and plastered a smile on her face, addressing the courtiers around her. “Tell me,” she said, her voice rising to regain control of the room, “how many of you have ever heard of an alchemist achieving nobility before? It’s unheard of, isn’t it?” She turned her sharp gaze back to Seraphina, who stood calmly a few steps away. “Most of them are happy enough making poultices for farmers or selling tonics to cure imaginary ailments. But not you, Seraphina. You’ve clawed your way into the court like a stray cat sneaking into a feast.”
The laughter this time was more pronounced. The courtiers had found their courage, emboldened by the princess’s lead. Amara smiled triumphantly, her chin tilted upward.
Seraphina remained silent, her calm demeanor unshaken. She took another small sip of wine and allowed the moment to stretch. Then, with a quiet voice that carried just enough weight to pierce through the noise, she said, “Stray cats can be quite resourceful, Your Highness. After all, they survive where others might falter. Perhaps there’s something to learn from them.”
The laughter faltered, some of the courtiers glancing at the alchemist with newfound curiosity. Amara’s smile wavered, but she quickly recovered, waving a hand dismissively.
“Oh, please,” she said, shifting again in her seat. Her voice was as sharp as ever, but there was an edge of strain now. “Don’t mistake desperation for resourcefulness. You may have charmed the king, but charm only goes so far. When the novelty wears off, everyone will see you for what you really are.”
Seraphina tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady. “And what is that, Your Highness?”
“A pretender,” Amara said with a sneer. “A commoner playing dress-up.”
The moment the words left her mouth, she stiffened. The sensation returned, stronger this time, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping. Her thighs pressed more firmly against the arms of her chair, the fabric of her gown stretching audibly. Her hips felt impossibly heavy, as though her body were growing around her.
Amara glanced down, her stomach twisting. Her thighs were noticeably thicker now, the once-loose fabric of her gown clinging tightly to her skin. Her hips had widened, pushing her further into the plush seat. The realization struck her like a blow: whatever was happening wasn’t just in her head.
She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze back up. No one had noticed. Not yet. If she could just maintain her composure, perhaps she could avoid the humiliation she felt creeping at the edges of her mind.
Seraphina watched the princess’s struggle with quiet satisfaction. She knew Amara wouldn’t acknowledge the changes, not in front of the court. The princess’s pride wouldn’t allow it. And yet, the growing unease in Amara’s expression was enough to betray her.
“Are you feeling well, Your Highness?” Seraphina asked, her tone soft and laced with concern. “You seem… uncomfortable.”
Amara’s eyes snapped to hers, wide and filled with something dangerously close to panic. “I’m fine,” she snapped, too quickly. Then, catching herself, she added with forced calm, “I think I’ve just had too much wine.”
“Ah,” Seraphina said, nodding sympathetically. “It’s easy to overindulge at events like these. Perhaps some water would help?”
Amara’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need your advice, alchemist,” she said, her voice low and venomous. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch me another glass?”
Seraphina didn’t move. Instead, she smiled, inclining her head ever so slightly. “Of course, Your Highness. But if I may suggest…” She paused, her eyes glinting with amusement. “It might be wise to pace yourself. You wouldn’t want to find yourself in an… awkward position.”
Amara’s face flushed, her fingers curling tightly around the stem of her goblet. She opened her mouth to retort but hesitated. She was starting to feel trapped, though she couldn’t quite place why. The weight of her body against the chair, the constriction of her gown, the way Seraphina’s calm gaze seemed to pierce through her—it was all too much.
“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome,” Amara said finally, her voice rising slightly. “Surely there’s some potion or powder that requires your attention elsewhere.”
“I’m quite content where I am, Your Highness,” Seraphina replied smoothly, her smile unwavering. “But I wouldn’t dream of imposing. If you’d prefer my absence…”
“No,” Amara snapped, drawing more eyes than she intended. She lowered her voice, forcing a tight smile. “No, you’re fine. Just… stay out of my way.”
“Of course,” Seraphina said, her tone gentle, her smile widening just a fraction. “As you wish.”
The princess shifted again, her discomfort now impossible to ignore. Her thighs pressed tightly together, the chair creaking faintly beneath her as her widened hips spread against the cushion. She clenched her teeth, desperate to maintain her composure, but Seraphina could see the cracks forming.
The hum of the palace’s grand hall buzzed around them, but for Princess Amara, the world was starting to narrow into a singular point of focus: the strange, unwelcome sensations coursing through her body. She adjusted in her seat again, shifting her weight in a futile attempt to find comfort, but her expanded hips and thighs made the motion feel cumbersome. Worse, the constricting fabric of her gown was beginning to dig into her skin, its seams whispering faint protests with every movement.
Seraphina watched it all, her expression carefully composed, though her sharp eyes missed nothing. The princess’s growing discomfort was a symphony to her, each subtle shift and flicker of panic another note in the melody of her comeuppance.
Amara’s face remained an impassive mask, but there was a fine sheen of sweat forming at her temples now. She raised her goblet with a stiff wrist, taking a long sip of wine to steady herself. The irony of drinking more of the very potion that was tormenting her wasn’t lost on Seraphina.
“Your Highness,” came the voice of Duke Lorian, one of the older nobles seated a few chairs down from the princess. His tone was respectful, almost deferential, though his curiosity was clear. “You seem troubled. Is everything all right?”
Amara froze, her fingers tightening around the goblet’s stem. For a fleeting moment, her carefully constructed façade threatened to crumble, but she caught herself just in time.
“I’m perfectly fine, Duke Lorian,” she said, her voice cold and clipped. “Though I must say, this evening is far more… tedious than I anticipated.” She shot a sharp glance at Seraphina as if to drive the point home.
The duke raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the princess’s tone, but he said nothing further. A few courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, their attention drifting between the princess and the alchemist.
Seraphina inclined her head slightly, her expression serene. “I’m sorry to hear that, Your Highness. Perhaps I could offer something to lift your spirits?”
Amara’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I highly doubt you could offer me anything of value.”
The alchemist let the insult hang in the air, the weight of it rippling through the room. The courtiers fell silent, their gazes darting between the two women like spectators at a duel.
And then it happened.
Amara stiffened in her seat, her face betraying the slightest flicker of alarm before she masked it. The potion’s effects surged again, her thighs expanding further, their plushness pressing against the wooden arms of her chair. Her hips widened once more, the fabric of her gown now visibly taut, its seams straining to contain her exaggerated figure.
She could feel it now, the undeniable fullness of her lower half, the weight of it pinning her to her chair like an anchor. A flush of heat crept up her neck, and she fought the urge to look down, knowing it would only confirm the changes she was desperately trying to ignore.
Seraphina broke the silence, her voice light and casual. “You seem uncomfortable again, Your Highness. Are you certain you’re feeling well?”
Amara’s gaze snapped to her, her eyes blazing with barely contained fury. “I told you, I’m fine,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
Seraphina raised an eyebrow, feigning concern. “If you say so. But you’ve been shifting in your seat quite a bit. Perhaps the cushion is too soft? Or…” She paused, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Too full?”
The princess’s face turned crimson, and for a moment, she seemed on the verge of exploding. But then she caught sight of the watching eyes around the room, the curious gazes of the nobles who were beginning to notice her odd behavior. She forced herself to relax, though her hands trembled slightly as she set her goblet down.
“I assure you, I am perfectly fine,” she said, her voice brittle. “Though I can’t say the same for this conversation. If you’re quite finished wasting my time, I suggest you find someone else to pester.”
Seraphina inclined her head in mock submission. “Of course, Your Highness. I wouldn’t dream of imposing further.”
Amara exhaled sharply, leaning back in her chair—though the motion only served to remind her of her predicament. Her widened hips pressed tightly against the arms of her seat, and the weight of her growing lower half seemed to sink her deeper into the cushion.
The alchemist took a step back, retreating to the edge of the room with an air of quiet satisfaction. She could feel the tension radiating from the princess like heat from a fire, and she knew it was only a matter of time before Amara’s pride led her into another slip of the tongue.
The evening dragged on, though not for Seraphina. For her, time seemed to pass like the slow, satisfying ticking of a clock, each second bringing her closer to the princess’s inevitable breaking point. The alchemist remained at the edge of the hall, observing quietly, while the courtiers continued to feign polite conversation around the clearly agitated Amara.
The princess’s discomfort was no longer something she could hide entirely. Her shifting had become more frequent, her movements stiff and awkward as she struggled to accommodate her exaggerated lower half. Yet, her pride refused to let her acknowledge it. She sat rigidly in her chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder she could still speak.
But speak she did.
“Tell me,” Amara said suddenly, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the room. She directed her gaze at Seraphina, her lips curling into a tight, forced smile. “Do you find this sort of event… enlightening?”
The question seemed harmless enough, but the sharpness in her tone betrayed the venom beneath it. Seraphina met her gaze, her own expression calm and unflinching.
“Enlightening in some ways,” the alchemist replied smoothly. “It’s always interesting to observe the dynamics of the court. I find that people reveal much about themselves when they think no one is paying attention.”
Amara’s smile twisted into a sneer. “How insightful,” she said, her words dripping with sarcasm. “Though I suppose it’s easy to make observations when you’re on the outside looking in. After all, you’ll never truly be one of us, will you? No matter how many titles the king bestows upon you, you’ll always be…” She paused, her gaze sweeping over Seraphina with barely concealed disdain. “…quaint.”
The insult hung in the air like a dagger poised to strike. A few courtiers glanced at Seraphina, their expressions ranging from discomfort to pity, though none dared to intervene. Amara leaned back in her chair, her smirk widening, clearly pleased with herself.
But her satisfaction was short-lived.
The potion reacted immediately, and this time, the change was anything but subtle. Amara gasped softly, her body tensing as a strange, unfamiliar sensation surged through her lower half. It started as a deep warmth, spreading outward from her pelvis like the ripples of a stone dropped in water. Her thighs and hips, already swollen from the previous transformations, seemed to shift slightly, making more room—though for what, she couldn’t yet tell.
And then she felt it.
A pressure, unlike anything she had experienced before, building between her legs. It was almost unbearable, an aching fullness that seemed to grow with every passing second. Amara’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson, her hands clutching the arms of her chair as she tried to suppress a panicked whimper. Her heart raced as the truth dawned on her, her mind reeling with disbelief.
No. It couldn’t be. This wasn’t possible.
But it was. Beneath the layers of her gown, her body had betrayed her in the most unimaginable way. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare so much as shift in her seat for fear of confirming what she already knew. Her breaths came shallow and quick, her chest heaving as she fought to maintain her composure.
“Your Highness?” Duke Lorian’s voice broke through her haze of panic. He leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowed in concern. “You look… flushed. Are you certain you’re well?”
“I’m fine,” Amara snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. She cleared her throat, forcing herself to smile, though the edges of it trembled. “The hall is simply… warm tonight. Someone should tell the servants to adjust the braziers.”
The duke hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but he nodded politely and returned to his conversation. The rest of the court, while still curious, seemed content to follow his lead, their attention shifting away from the princess.
Amara exhaled shakily, her hands still gripping the chair’s arms. She risked a quick glance at Seraphina, who stood at the edge of the room, her expression as serene as ever. But there was something in the alchemist’s eyes—a glimmer of amusement, a knowing look that sent a chill down Amara’s spine.
“You,” Amara hissed under her breath, her voice too low for anyone but herself to hear. “You’ve done something.”
Seraphina tilted her head slightly, her smile widening just a fraction. She didn’t speak, but the message in her gaze was clear: Yes, I have. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
Amara’s fingers curled into fists, her nails digging into the soft fabric of her gown. She wanted to lash out, to scream, to demand answers. But she couldn’t—not here, not now. The risk of drawing attention to herself, of revealing the changes that had taken place, was too great. She bit her lip, her mind racing as she tried to think of a way out of this nightmare.
But the alchemist wasn’t finished yet. Not by a long shot.
Amara clenched her fists tightly, her pulse thundering in her ears. She couldn’t ignore it anymore—every movement reminded her of the alien weight between her legs, the unbearable fullness that shouldn’t be there. Her gown felt like a fragile prison barely concealing her growing shame. The idea that anyone might notice made her heart pound with panic.
Her gaze snapped back to Seraphina, who stood at the edge of the hall, calm and composed as though she were merely a guest enjoying the festivities. Amara’s lip curled in frustration. She couldn’t call attention to the alchemist outright—too many eyes were on her—but she needed to act. Now.
“Seraphina,” she called sharply, her voice cutting through the gentle hum of conversation like a whip. Several heads turned, curious, but Amara ignored them, her eyes fixed on the alchemist. “Come here. I wish to speak with you.”
Seraphina raised an eyebrow, her expression one of polite curiosity, but beneath the surface, she was savoring every moment. She dipped her head graciously and made her way across the room, her movements unhurried and graceful. The court’s eyes followed her, curiosity and unease flickering across their faces.
The alchemist stopped a few paces from the princess’s throne, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “Yes, Your Highness?” she asked, her tone as serene as ever. “How may I assist you?”
Amara leaned forward slightly, her voice low and strained, though it still carried the sharp edge of her usual superiority. “I don’t know what game you’re playing,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing. “But whatever you’ve done to me, undo it. Now.”
Seraphina tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “I’m not sure I understand, Your Highness,” she replied softly. “What exactly do you think I’ve done?”
Amara’s cheeks flushed, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. “Don’t play coy with me,” she snapped. “I know it’s you. I don’t know how, but I know.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a furious whisper. “Fix this before anyone notices, or I swear you’ll regret it.”
Seraphina regarded her for a moment, as though considering her words carefully. Then she smiled—a small, knowing smile that made Amara’s stomach twist with unease. “I would never dream of causing you discomfort, Your Highness,” she said sweetly. “But perhaps this is simply… a consequence of your own behavior.”
Amara stiffened, her nostrils flaring. “You dare—” she began, but the words caught in her throat as the potion activated again.
This time, the transformation was undeniable.
Amara gasped softly, her hands darting to her lap as the warmth between her legs flared once more, spreading outward like molten fire. Her rod, already an unwelcome presence, surged in size, growing rapidly until it surpassed anything she had ever imagined—or feared. Beneath the layers of her gown, the length pressed against the fabric, its size impossible to ignore. Her balls, already swollen, grew heavier, fuller, their weight settling in her lap with a near-physical thud.
She froze, her breath catching in her throat as the changes settled. Her gown, already strained from her exaggerated lower half, was now precariously tight around her groin, the fabric stretched dangerously thin. The weight of her new anatomy was unbearable, pulling her hips further into the cushion of her chair and making every movement feel clumsy and awkward.
Seraphina’s gaze flicked downward, just for a moment, and though her expression didn’t change, the faintest glimmer of amusement danced in her eyes. “Is something the matter, Your Highness?” she asked softly.
Amara’s face burned crimson, her hands clutching the arms of her chair with white-knuckled force. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, to throw the alchemist out of the palace entirely. But she couldn’t—not without drawing attention to herself, not without revealing the grotesque changes that had overtaken her body.
“No,” she ground out, her voice low and strained. “Nothing is the matter.”
Seraphina inclined her head. “I’m relieved to hear that,” she said, her tone light and calm. “You seemed… tense.”
Amara glared at her, her teeth clenched so tightly it was a wonder they didn’t crack. She wanted to lash out, to hurl another insult, but the memory of the changes that followed each barb kept her silent. For the first time in her life, the princess felt truly trapped, a prisoner of her own arrogance and pride.
The alchemist smiled faintly, bowing her head in deference. “If there’s nothing else, Your Highness, I’ll take my leave. But please—don’t hesitate to call on me if you need… assistance.” With that, she turned and walked away, her steps slow and deliberate, her calm demeanor only further infuriating the princess.
Amara watched her go, her mind racing with a storm of anger, humiliation, and desperation. The weight of her new anatomy pressed heavily against her, a constant, inescapable reminder of her predicament.
Seraphina’s calm, deliberate steps echoed faintly against the marble floor as she walked away from the princess’s throne, her serene expression masking the triumph bubbling beneath the surface. The court was beginning to turn its attention elsewhere, the tension in the room slowly dissipating as the nobles resumed their idle chatter.
But Princess Amara was far from calm. Her fingers dug into the arms of her throne, her knuckles white as she watched the alchemist retreat, her frustration and humiliation mounting with every passing second. The unbearable weight between her legs, the constriction of her gown, and the ever-growing pressure of her exaggerated lower half pushed her pride to its breaking point.
She couldn’t let Seraphina have the last word.
“Walk away, then,” Amara snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. The alchemist paused mid-step, her head tilting slightly, though she didn’t turn around. The princess’s lips curled into a sneer as she spat, “That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? Turning your back on your betters, hoping no one will notice how pathetic you truly are.”
The words rang out across the hall, and the court fell silent once more. A few nobles exchanged uneasy glances, their gazes flickering between the princess and the alchemist. For a long moment, Seraphina didn’t move, her back still turned to Amara.
Then, with deliberate slowness, she turned her head just enough to glance over her shoulder. Her expression was calm, unreadable, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.
Because the potion spoke for her.
Amara’s breath hitched as the transformation surged through her body, more powerful and overwhelming than any of the changes before. It began with her thighs, which ballooned outward with impossible speed, their sheer size surpassing anything remotely human. The fabric of her gown shredded audibly, unable to contain the massive, tree-trunk-like limbs that now filled her lap and spilled over the sides of her chair.
Her balls swelled next, their already immense size and fullness reaching grotesque proportions. The sensation was unbearable, a near-painful tightness as they became almost comically heavy, their weight pressing her further into the cushion of her throne. She stifled a gasp, her hands darting to her lap in a futile attempt to hide what was happening, though it was far too late for that.
And then her rod—it grew longer still, the already enormous appendage stretching further until it was undeniably the largest in the room. As if that weren’t enough, it hardened fully, rising with a near-mechanical rigidity and straining against what little remained of her ruined gown. The sight was absurd, obscene, and utterly inescapable.
But the potion wasn’t done yet. The final touch came with her hips and buttocks, which expanded again, their massive size forcing her deeper into her throne. The wood creaked loudly under her weight, the chair groaning as though it might splinter at any moment. Her rear became so impossibly large, so exaggerated, that it completely wedged her into the seat, pinning her in place like an oversized doll on display.
Amara’s face burned crimson, sweat beading at her temples as she struggled against her own body. She tried to shift, to free herself, but her enormous hips and thighs left her utterly trapped. Every movement only emphasized her absurd proportions, and the faint sounds of tearing fabric and creaking wood filled the stunned silence of the hall.
The court stared, their eyes wide with shock and confusion. Some whispered nervously, their voices hushed but no less audible in the quiet. Others looked away, their discomfort written plainly on their faces. But no one dared to speak aloud what they were all thinking: that the once-proud princess now looked like some grotesque caricature, her arrogance and cruelty mirrored in the exaggerated proportions of her transformed body.
Seraphina turned fully now, her gaze sweeping over the scene with an air of calm detachment. She clasped her hands neatly in front of her, her serene smile betraying none of the satisfaction she felt inside. “Your Highness,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the murmurs like a knife, “you seem… stuck. Shall I call for assistance?”
Amara glared at her, her eyes blazing with fury and humiliation. “You… you witch,” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. But the words lacked the bite they once held, her position rendering her powerless. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t hide. And worst of all, she couldn’t undo what had been done.
Seraphina inclined her head slightly, her smile never faltering. “As you wish, Your Highness.” With that, she turned once more and walked away, her steps light and unhurried, leaving the princess to stew in her embarrassment.
And Seraphina had won.
—
The night of the princess’s transformation was declared a mystery, a “curse” placed upon her by some unknown force. The kingdom’s finest mages and inquisitors scoured the palace for evidence, testing every goblet, every corner of the hall, and every person present for traces of magic. When their investigation led them to Seraphina, the alchemist remained poised and calm under scrutiny.
“I have nothing to hide,” Seraphina had said with serene confidence as the inquisitors examined her belongings. Her laboratory was searched, her potions analyzed, and her every movement observed. But no trace of foul play was found. Every concoction she’d prepared had a documented purpose, and her reputation as a healer and scholar only bolstered her innocence.
Eventually, the court ruled that Seraphina bore no responsibility for the so-called “curse.” Without evidence, the mages had no choice but to release her from suspicion.
But Princess Amara was not satisfied.
“It was her,” Amara insisted, her voice sharp and unwavering as she glared at the alchemist. “You’re all fools if you think she didn’t have a hand in this! I demand that she be punished!” Her permanently exaggerated form made her words less intimidating than she intended; seated awkwardly on a specially reinforced chair, her enormous hips and thighs spilling over the sides, she looked less like a regal figure and more like a grotesque caricature.
The court exchanged uneasy glances, unsure how to respond. “Your Highness,” one of the inquisitors began cautiously, “we have no evidence of wrongdoing. To imprison Lady Seraphina without cause would be—”
“I don’t care about your evidence!” Amara snapped, her voice rising with fury. She slammed a hand down on the armrest of her chair, causing it to creak ominously under her weight. “I am the princess! If I say she’s guilty, then she is guilty!”
The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, the nobles glancing between one another. Even Amara’s staunchest supporters seemed hesitant to act on her baseless accusations.
Seraphina, for her part, remained calm, her hands folded neatly in front of her. But beneath her composed exterior, she watched the princess with quiet satisfaction. Amara was playing directly into her hands.
As the princess’s demands grew louder, her rage boiling over, she reached for a goblet on the table beside her. Unbeknownst to her, it wasn’t her own—it was one Seraphina had quietly replaced earlier in the evening. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, the potion undetectable to even the most skilled mages.
Amara didn’t hesitate. She downed the drink in a single gulp, slamming the empty goblet back onto the table as she pointed an accusatory finger at Seraphina. “If no one else will act, then I will! Guards, take her to the dungeons—”
Her words were cut off by a sudden, uncontrollable movement. Her arms jerked upward without warning, her hands seizing her ears and pulling them outward in a comical display. The nobles gasped, and Amara’s face flushed with humiliation as she struggled to regain control.
“What—?!” she spluttered, yanking her hands away as soon as the strange force released her. She glared at the alchemist, her eyes blazing. “What did you—?”
But she froze mid-sentence as her reflection caught her eye in a nearby polished silver platter. Her ears, once elegantly shaped, were slightly longer now, the tips narrowing into a subtle point. It was a change so small that most wouldn’t notice—at first. But Amara noticed.
She touched her ears gingerly, her lips trembling with barely contained fury. “You—” she hissed, but before she could hurl another insult, her arms moved on their own again, her hands grabbing her ears and giving them another sharp tug. The court stared in stunned silence as the tips of her ears elongated further, their shape unmistakably elven now.
“What is happening to me?!” Amara shrieked, her voice rising to a near-hysterical pitch. She fought against her own limbs, but the magic was too strong, her hands returning to her ears with every outburst. Each time, her ears grew longer and pointier, their exaggerated shape becoming more prominent.
Seraphina stepped forward at last, her expression still calm, though there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Your Highness,” she said softly, “it seems you’ve been cursed again. A terrible affliction, to be sure.”
Amara glared at her, her face a mask of rage and embarrassment. “Undo it,” she demanded, her voice trembling. “Undo it now!”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Seraphina said with a shrug. “Curses like this often respond to behavior. Perhaps if you treated others with fairness and respect, it would subside.”
Amara opened her mouth to retort, but her hands flew to her ears again, pulling them outward until they were almost comically long. The court erupted into nervous whispers, their discomfort and poorly hidden amusement filling the room.
From that day forward, Amara’s new affliction became yet another infamous part of her legend. Every time she treated someone unfairly or spoke down to them, her hands would seize her ears, tugging them outward and reshaping them further. Over time, her once-proud, elegant features became more and more exaggerated, her elongated ears adding to her already grotesque proportions.
The kingdom gave her a new nickname to complement her humiliating reputation: The Seatcrusher Pendulum Elf Princess. A name that would live on in infamy for generations.
As for Seraphina, she remained in the castle, her reputation as an alchemist untarnished. She continued her work, ever composed and respected, her serene smile never fading. And though she never admitted to her involvement, the faint glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes spoke louder than words.
—
Days later, the grand hallways of Eldralis Palace echoed with the slow, heavy steps of Princess Amara, whos nickname The Seatcrusher Pendulum Elf Princess by this point has spread throughout the entire land. Once the epitome of royal grace and beauty, she was now a walking caricature of herself, her body grotesquely exaggerated by the effects of the curses that had plagued her since that fateful evening.
Her massive hips swayed with each step, her impossibly large buttocks brushing against the edges of the palace doors as she passed through. Even the widest of doorways seemed barely sufficient to accommodate her exaggerated figure. Her thighs, thicker than tree trunks, rubbed together audibly as she walked, the friction making every step an effort. The reinforced fabric of her custom-made gown strained to contain her form, the seams constantly at risk of tearing under the sheer size of her lower half.
But what drew the most attention—what no one could possibly ignore—was the unmistakable pendulum swing beneath her dress. Her rod, permanently stiff and far longer than any man’s, swayed visibly with each step, a constant reminder of her humiliation. The fabric of her gown couldn’t fully conceal it, and the weight of her oversized balls added to the pendulum-like motion, making her movements even more awkward.
As she walked, her elongated ears, now so long they nearly reached the width of her shoulders, swayed gently with each step. Their pointed tips, once a subtle elven shape, now jutted out prominently, a clear and constant indicator of her inability to control her temper or treat others fairly. They framed her face in an absurdly exaggerated way, a visual symbol of her arrogance and failure to learn from her mistakes.
The princess’s steps were slow and deliberate, her head held high in a desperate attempt to cling to some semblance of dignity. But every step, every swing, every exaggerated feature betrayed the truth: she was a figure of mockery now, and no amount of royal composure could erase that.
As she approached the end of the hallway, a maid hurried toward her, clutching a small parchment in her trembling hands. The girl stopped in front of Amara, bowing deeply before speaking.
“Y-Your Highness,” the maid stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I regret to inform you that the food delivery you requested… could not be completed. There was an issue with the supplier, and—”
Amara’s jaw tightened, her composure slipping for a brief moment. Her gaze flicked to the parchment in the maid’s hands, and her cheeks flushed with irritation. She inhaled deeply, trying to maintain her calm, but the frustration bubbling beneath the surface was too much to suppress.
“This is unacceptable,” Amara snapped, her voice sharp and cutting. “Do you have any idea how incompetent you sound right now? A simple delivery, and you can’t even manage that? Honestly, I don’t know why we bother keeping servants like you around!”
The maid flinched at the words, her face pale as she bowed even lower. “I-I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” she whispered. “It won’t happen again.”
But Amara barely heard her. The moment the insult left her lips, the curse activated. Her arms moved on their own, jerking upward as though pulled by invisible strings. Her hands grasped her elongated ears and yanked them outward with a sharp, unmistakable tug. Amara’s eyes widened in horror, a soft gasp escaping her lips as she felt the familiar, unbearable sensation of her ears reshaping once again.
When the invisible force released her, her ears were even longer than before, their absurd length now well past her shoulders, their pointed tips almost comically exaggerated. She froze, her hands trembling as she lowered them from her ears, her face a mask of mortification.
The maid hesitated, unsure whether to offer assistance or retreat. Amara glared at her, her fury barely contained, but this time, she didn’t say a word. The sting of her ears’ growth—and the realization that she’d done it to herself—was enough to silence her.
The maid bowed once more and hurried away, leaving the princess alone in the hallway. For a moment, Amara stood frozen, her massive figure casting a long shadow in the dim light. Her buttocks swayed slightly as she shifted her weight, her thighs rubbing together with an audible friction, and the pendulum beneath her dress swung heavily in response. Her ears twitched involuntarily, the weight of their new length pulling them downward.
She clenched her fists, her face flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation. But even as she seethed, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered the truth she refused to acknowledge: she hadn’t learned a thing. And so the curse persisted, a constant reminder of her arrogance and cruelty.
With a deep, shuddering breath, Amara began to walk again, her exaggerated figure moving slowly down the hallway. Her hips brushed against the doorframes, her rod swayed with every step, and her long, pointed ears bobbed gently with the motion. Somewhere in the palace, Seraphina smiled to herself, knowing that the princess’s punishment would endure for as long as her pride remained unchecked.
The Seatcrusher Pendulum Elf Princess was destined to live in infamy, her humiliation a legend that would outlast even the grand halls of Eldralis Palace.
---
Bitchy princesses require extreme solutions at times.
Sketch by ThatFreakGivz
