A young woman learns that you are what you read.
tags: corruption, demon, nsfw, transformation
art by Angrboda
“OH SHIT,” Harriet squealed. “Izissia just wrote a new corruption story!”
The mousy computer technician glanced around. No one had noticed her outburst. More generally, no one ever noticed her—her bland brown hair, her conventional cardigan sweaters, her pitiful pedestrian flats.
Today, Harriet realized, was the day she was going to take advantage of her coworkers’ inattention.
“I’m… I’m going to the bathroom,” she stammered to no one in particular, her smartphone clutched in her sweaty palm. Normally, she’d wait until she got home, really earn that shower with a good jilling session, maybe sneak a little more erotic tumblr scrolling in right before bed…
… but not today. Today, she was going to quietly and politely make her way up to the corner bathroom on the third floor, the one that was even too far out of the way to be the “shit in peace” bathroom, and she was going to read.
Obviously, Harriet suspected that it might end up being more than simply reading. She knew herself. Fact: there was a new corruption story from her favorite author, Izissia. Fact: she was going to be alone. Fact: she was already a little wet. She probably wasn’t—probably couldn’t—stop herself from locking herself in a stall and slipping a hand down the front of her pants. If she were feeling really risque, she might even slip her hand into her pants.
She flushed at the thought. She hadn’t done something like that before, not at work. She had wanted to, though. Maybe today was the day that want became a satisfied need.
She snuck a glance at her phone, furtively reading the story prompt:
Anonymous asked: A girl plays a game, only to find that it keeps getting glitchier and hotter, and hotter, until she is a drooling cyber succubus hungry to fucking ruin other video games~
oh fuck, she thought. a cyber succubus. gonna be some mad corruption in—
Her phone glitched. Just for a moment, just long enough for Harriet’s heart to skip a beat—and then it was back. Harriet shuddered with something more than relief. She was definitely doing more than reading today.
She finally made it to the bathroom, her two inch pumps tak, tak, tak-ing across the tile floor. The stall doors were ajar; no one was home.
Harriet broke into a grin, her goals within reach. She locked herself in one of the stalls, braced herself on the toilet, and turned her attention to her phone.
It glitched again. She ignored it, sliding a hand up her too-short skirt.
Becky slowly withdraws her soaked through fingers from her slit, lazily running her other hand over her chest. Fondling her swelling tits with a gentle moan. Her eyes too affixed on the screen to care about the scuttering glitch pixels running up her legs, burrowing into her thighs. She hisses in pleasure, the gush of wind escaping her lips. Her body begins to glow, bright green veins rushing throughout her flesh.
“gaaaaaaawd,” Harriet moaned, delirious with pleasure. She didn’t even mind the glitching, constant as it was. “Pull those fat titties out,” she urged the story, her hand grudgingly leaving her wet slit to free her own budding breasts from her trashy halter top. She blindly pulled at the cloth, her efforts frantic but unfocused. She grew frustrated, white hot anger welling up within her. The desperate girl was torn between two all-consuming compulsions: her breasts needed to be free, but she couldn’t spare the focus to stop and carefully remove her top—she also needed to keep reading, to keep scrolling, to keep consuming and being consumed. The sum of her attention, her interest, her entire being, was focused on the glitched text flashing on her phone—twisted, glitched words seeping into a twisted, glitched soul.
Rrrrip~ Her shirt couldn’t take anymore, her fat tits spill free, the perfectly calculated bright green veins surge through her body, along her tits, up her neck, digging into her eyes. The circuit patterns branding her skin as she swings her hips forwards and moans in delight. Her eyes were seared, bright green. Her moans grew louder, and louder.
With a final, desperate rattle, Harriet ripped her top open, the fabric no match for her near-demonic strength. A pair of massive tits exploded out, beautiful and eager for her violent touch. Her hand, too long deprived of luscious tit-flesh, dug into the supple mounds, while her long nails—talons, really—sought out a hard nipple and unceremoniously inflicted a harsh twist, vengeance for being denied so long. The pain was as intoxicating as the pleasure. She moaned, a throaty cry that rolled her eyes and threw her head back.
Harriet blinked. The pain had broken her focus and brought with it a moment of clarity, a temporary reprieve from the intoxicating influence of Izissia’s writing. Her head lolled back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
She was suddenly aware, too aware, of everything.
Her heavy, gasping breathing echoing through the bathroom…
Her mane of raven black hair, tumbling down her shoulders and matted to her back…
The trickle of sweat, dripping from her flushed pink flesh…
The drool coating her chin and pooling on her décolletage…
The cool press of the metal stall against her exposed shoulder, buckled where she had braced against it…
The fractured tile beneath her feet, the jagged shards oh-so-deliciously digging through the soles of her knee-high fuck-me-boots…
The smell—oh fuck, the smell—of her warm cum, coating her wicked claws and powerful thighs…
Harriet understood that what was happening to her wasn’t normal.
She understood that she hadn’t entered work like this. Not physically, at least. Maybe, deep down, she had always been depraved slut who liked pain. But she had hidden that under her bland brown hair, her conventional cardigan sweaters, and her pitiful pedestrian flats. Now… now all that wrongness, all that badness had been dredged up, pulled to the surface.
The story was changing her, glitching her into something wrong. Depraved. Evil. Fallen.
Harriet’s breathing was more regular now. She was still clutching her phone, but she hadn’t looked back at it. She knew what would happen if she did.
Already, she could feel her skin cooling, her breasts shrinking, her talons returning to regular fingers. If she just waited, everything would go back to normal.
Whatever malignant force was orchestrating this change, it had let her go before she drove herself to Hell in a haze of lust, her mind clouded with base physical need. No, it wanted her to choose. It wanted her to choose to follow, to fall. Final damnation required her full cognition, consent given with a clear mind.
She breathed in once.
Twice.
Three times.
And then she smiled, a smile that grew into a predatory grin of the deepest scarlet.
“More,” Harriet rasped. “I need more.”
The changes that had bled away came back in full, returned with interest. Her breasts swelled to ungodly proportions. Lines of dark power burned across her darkening skin, brands of ancient and esoteric evil. Piercings of foul design pierced her elongating ears, runes against the holy and the good.
The phone clattered out of her hand. She didn’t need the phone any more. She didn’t need the story. She was the story. The corruption was inside of her, filling her, warping her into a perfect being of sin and lust.
Out of her forehead grew a pair of horns, painful to behold in their dark glory. Harriet caressed them, pulling her hands away from her tits and slit to glorify the permanent marks of her demonic allegiance. Without missing a beat, her tail curled around and pushed deep into her cunt, its spade tip filling her as it grew in length and girth.
She cried out, a bestial howl of lust and madness, losing herself to the pleasure. Her powerful thighs clenched around the toilet beneath her. It cracked, then collapsed under the strain, porcelain fragments flying through the air. The new demon fell forwarded, her taller and more powerful frame crashing through the stalls. Water flooded out of the destroyed fixture, only to become steam the moment it touched Harriet’s crimson skin.
The demon barely noticed. Prone on the broken tiles, she was again face-to-face with that damned glitched phone. “More,” she demanded, glass cracking under the strain of her baleful, beautiful voice. “More,” she screamed, lights sparking and exploding above her. “MORE,” she roared, and the phone glitched one last time. Two leathery wings of the darkest Stygian night unfurled, and whatever remained of the human girl plunged into unending darkness.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
JORDAN flashed a mischievous smile. “Salty Tea’s got a new corruption story!” As always, no one had noticed the intern leave her desk with her phone and steal off to the third-floor bathroom.
But it wasn’t a bathroom anymore, Jordan realized too late, the door closing and sealing behind her. Too eager to read smut, she had pushed into the darkened bathroom before realizing it was a smoke-filled ruin, brimstone mixed with steam and broken tile.
In the middle of the darkened chamber stood its only source of illumination, if something so obviously malign could be said to emit light. The thing glowed a faint red, its eyes two embers against the coal-black. The monster, Jordan realized, was perversely human, a female form exaggerated to the lewdest proportions. Inhumanly tall and powerfully built, the she-thing was all curves and skin, clothed in nothing but sin and a underbust corset.
It stared, its golden eyes drinking in the poor human’s fear.
Forgotten at her side, Jordan’s phone began to glitch.
All glory to Izissa and Piddleyfangs, for inspiring me to write a perverse demonic corruption story. The original visual inspiration for this story was a commission by kachima (support him on Patreon) of an original character belonging to BlaineDaymon.
Two-and-a-half years after I wrote this story, I was able to commission Angrboda to illustrate the story. She had a brilliant, creative idea about how to implement the story’s “glitching,” and I’m so glad that my story gets to be associated with something so unique.