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Lethia woke up, rolled over on the bed of dry moss, and squinted through the purple haze of dawn at the gravestones looming above her. She blinked, her long eyelashes batting against her white cheeks like the black wings of a moth against flapping against the face of the moon. The delicacy of the girl’s features were made macabre by the inky black cupid’s bow of her lips and the black eye-shadow smeared into two black whorls on her pale face.
Her body was wrapped in a black lace gown- the same one she had worn to her parents’ funeral so many months before. The night of their deaths- and her 18th birthday- was when she had begun praying to Lord Satan. At least once a week, she sneaked out to the little graveyard near the church, knelt down and kissed her parents’ graves, and then began drawing magic sigils over the two tombs with charcoal. She whispered her spells and prayers, mumbling in a mix of latin, herbrew, and another, stranger, older language.
Though she had missed school, she knew no one was wondering where she was. Keeping her eyes down, ignoring the whispers in the school hallways, Lethia had slowly stopped speaking to her fellow students in the weeks following their deaths. Week by week, she had stopped even showing up to school. Her uncle, Lyle, had been content to indulge her. He had even upped her allowance after she stopped showing up to school altogether.
He had shrugged at her teachers’ inquiries.
“She’s young,” he’d said, “She lost her folks. Let her do her own learnin’.”
Lyle hadn’t done much learnin’ himself. He had used his body to make his money in his twenties and thirties. He had retired by forty. His hobbies now were sweating, sleepwalking, and noticing the budding womanhood of his orphan niece over the rim of his mint juleps and whiskey-and-sodas. She wasn’t a tall girl, but a symphony of curves played from her slender ankles to her slim waist. Her thighs were full and her buttocks were plump and round, but her chest was flat and glittered with rosaries. The house whose dim hallway mirrors reflected her body was an old, forbidding place, which had been in the family for a very long time. The family butler, Adam, too was old, and tall, with a thin voice and a face like an anole lizard. Other than Lyle and Adam, Lethia was alone there. And it was in the library, thickly coated with cobwebs, that she had found the volumes containing her Master’s words.
Thirsty, Lethia licked moisture from the gravestones. She slipped her rosaries into her tiny black minaudiere and frowned down at the sigils she had scraped over the graves. Straddling one of the gravestones, and she hugged the cross-shaped marker to her chest, and then wrapped her legs around its base.
“Lord Satan,” she murmured, “Won’t you send me a sign? I’ve done everything you asked…”
She had. She had made the sacrifices she heard whispered in her dreams, and no one had even suspected her of being involved in several the missing person cases that plagued kütahya seks hikayeleri the small, decaying city. And she wasn’t responsible for most of them, of course. Just… a few. Thirteen. A small number, really. She had sunk the sacrificial dagger into the swamp after she was done. No one would ever find it, she thought.
And it wasn’t only that. She had waded at midnight through darkest of the swamps on the edge of town. And she had found the statue half submerged in the swamp, hidden by brambles and spanish moss. It was her Lord- or at least of some dark, nameless demon- standing 14 feet high and wielding an enormous erection. And she had scaled it, scraping holes into her velvet stockings, crawled onto its lap, wrapped her legs around it, and slid the tiny pair of black, silk panties down her thighs to her ankles and then dropped them into the swamp. Then she had lowered herself onto the stone penis. It had taken awhile, but she had managed to fit the tip inside. Her pussy lips were bowed, and her hole was a complete “O” when she had sacrificed her virginity to Satan’s idol.
It hurt, but she had chanted Satan’s name, and His prayer, and rocking back and forth she managed to kind of semi-orgasm. Her walls had clenched around the stone cock tip. Afterward, she had visited a shambling, dead-eyed tattoo artist and instructed him to black out her left ring finger with ink as a symbol of her unholy marriage. And she sucked his cock as payment. The cock, the first she ever tasted, was sweaty and far too big for her mouth. Her black lipstick had smeared all over its shaft when he shoved it down her throat, but it was worth it- she was married, after all. Married to her master, Satan. And she needed the tattoo as a wedding ring.
And now she had drawn Satan’s symbols on her parents’ grave and whispered, in the ancient language “make me your ideal bride, Master. I only want to serve You.” And she had slept, expecting to wake up changed in His image.
But she wasn’t. She was only herself. She felt her body, and popped a tiny mirror from her minaudiere. Her eye-shadow dripped down her cheeks and her black hair was matted with sweat and moss, but other than that she just looked like herself.
“Damn it,” she said.
Lethia started to make her way back toward her uncle’s house. She liked her uncle, and she didn’t mind his lewd gazes. She knew he often stood outside her window and pressed his face against the glass at night when she changed into her black silk negligee. She was married to Lord Satan, but He wasn’t a jealous husband. She hadn’t let herself get seduced by her uncle yet because she wanted her first child to be by Satan, but once she was pregnant, she saw no need to resist. He wanted her, and his desire was wrong, and that was satisfying to her and her Husband.
She was walking barefoot, in thigh-high stockings held up with a black garter belt. She darted across a highway- her city’s only- and encountered a funeral procession. It was slow enough that she barely needed to hesitate. As she paused in front of the main hearse, just before she plunged into the woods on the other side, she felt the first pang.
Her chest throbbed, so harshly that she felt it in all of her veins. She cried out. A woman in a black veil looked up from behind the glazed, black glass of the hearse she collapsed against. The woman’s eyes were a hollow darkness. Lethia hugged her chest. She wanted to keep crossing the road, to plunge into the safety of the woods, but she couldn’t move. She felt her breasts throb again, then wobble- and then they burst outward. She fell completely against the hood, grasping at her chest, staring in shock at her full hands.
Eyes open wide, she stared down, open-mouthed. She had been flat her entire life. And now… now… Her breasts were overflowing her grasp. Her nipples were still small and pink, but the cups of her black gown were full.
“Oh, Satan!” she whimpered.
Then, the second pang came. Her breasts popped outward again, buttons bursting from the dress, its seams tearing, and Lethia cried out. Two massive, pale breasts were bulging out of her dress, and she smooshed herself against the hood of the hearse. Her nipples pushed against the windshield. The woman in the hearse stared at her, her eyes two white pinpoints from below the dark shadow of her veil.
Lethia managed to pull herself from the car, and staggered into the woods. She was too dazed to notice if anyone was following her or not. No one did. The woman in the car was praying.
Crouching over a small pond, Lethia stared at her reflection. Her breasts where still growing, and they had burst her gown and were still swelling. She couldn’t hope to cover them anymore, so she let them balloon outward as she staggered wildly home, running her black-nailed fingertips over the trunks of the willow trees, feeling their branches brush her head like the fingers of fallen angels caressing their bastard daughter.
“Satan…” she whispered, in the dark of the woods. “They’re big… they’re really really, big.”
By the time she had stumbled home, each of her breasts was the size of a sugar watermelon. Each was buoyant, unnaturally so for its size, tipped with a swollen pink mound or aureola and crested with a tiny nipple. She felt their weight on her chest, and when she looked down, her vision was eclipsed by her white, puffy breasts. She could no longer see the mossy grown, or her stockinged feet.
“Uncle” she moaned, her vision starting to fade as she fell onto the floor of the veranda, “Uncle, help me, please…!” Lethia heard his footsteps creaking toward her as she lost consciousness.
When she woke, her shoulder blades were itching.
She was laying on her back, under cool, white sheets. Two white curves took up the bottom third of her vision. “Uncle…”
“I’m here, Leth,” said a male voice, calm but grave. Another man said something- she noted the black leather case set on the table near her bedside, and she inferred that Doctor Oleandor was here. She couldn’t see him beyond her breasts.
Muzzily, she felt upward. The two soft, smooth, swollen balloons loomed above her, and filled her palms with warmth.
“How big are they?” she asked, quietly.
“About as big as Old Farmer Nash’s prize hogs” Uncle Lycle said, grimacing. His eyes were alight with a strange fire
“Uncle, you liar… they’re not *that* big,” Lethia said, and with an effort, she sat up. And they weren’t *that* big, truly, but they were about as big as the third-placed winner of the Best Pumpkin category in their county fair. Both of her beasts stuck out far to each side of her body. They jutted forward almost two feet in front of her chest. She felt instinctively that her changes weren’t over.
“Now then, girl- Doc Oleandor says they ain’t plastic. So what in the hell happened?” The doctor’s face appeared, gazing fixedly at the girl’s giant breasts. Without moving his eyes, he handed the Lethia a glass of water. She grasped it, and then swallowed, maneuvering carefully over her massive breasts.
“I um… I don’t know, uncle.”
Lethia bit her lip, looked down, and shrugged. Her beasts wobbled. She realized that two adult men were staring at her naked breasts, and she blushed. Slowly, the creamy flesh covering her chest turned pink as well. Dimly, she was aware of the itching scratchy feeling coming from her shoulder blades. She felt something hard start to emerge from her flesh back there, and what was worse, a slow throb had started from her tailbone as well. The men couldn’t see it yet, and she didn’t want them to.
“Uncle, can I cover up? Please?’
The man sighed, and rolled his eyes. “Sure, hon. I’ll have to call the quarry to make you a bra for them big ol’ titties, though.”
“Uncle! Please be delicate!” Lethia gasped. Uncle Lyle snorted, leering at her. Doctor Oleander’s stare never wavered.
It would take six days before Lethia’s breasts would stop growing. When they were done, each was the size of a woman’s fully pregnant stomach. They were round but heavy, teardrop in shape but also jutting impossibly forward so that her tiny navel was still just barely visible. Uncle Lyle had paid off Doctor Oleander enough to not call the papers- at least so far. So Lethia laid in her bedroom, covered by her grandmother’s quilts, and crept around the house after dark, after Uncle Lyle had gone to bed. During the day she let him stroke his cock against her breasts while she pretended to sleep. She really didn’t mind, and he even wiped up after himself.
And all the while she covered the black, bat-like wings that folded against her spine, and the black spade tail emerged from the base of her tailbone and that curled around her plump, white thigh.
“Satan…” she murmured, stroking her breasts. And for the first time, she felt certain of a silent smile in the darkness.
Somewhere, somewhere far beyond her perception, her Husband was returning her love, rewarding her devotion. And she, Lethia, would serve His will… and she would enjoy it.
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