A shrine maiden’s encounter with a corrupt crystal unlocks the darkness within.
tags: corruption, demon, heroic azuras, nsfw, transformation
“OWWWWWWW,” Angela whined, shocked and scuffed. The novice shrine maiden had volunteered to clean out the village’s decrepit campanile, readying the bells for the High Priest’s imminent visit. It had been going so well, too, right up until she disturbed a nest of bat… things… and took a nasty tumble. She fell, right into what she assumed was some sort of old rock or crystal. Apparently, it had been stored in the tower and forgotten; now, it was firmly lodged in her forearm.
“Owwwwwwwwwwww,” she repeated, more out of habit than pain. It looked absolutely awful, a long, jagged piece of blue-green crystal jutting several inches out of her skin. She opened her mouth to call out to Karl and Rosaline, down below in the shrine’s courtyard, then thought better of it. The wound didn’t hurt and, miraculously, it wasn’t even bleeding. Her two friends had already begged off bell cleaning duty, citing their fear of heights; the last thing she needed was for them to trudge up the steps and mock their “third wheel” about some magic rock she had fallen on.
Weirdly enough, it actually felt pretty good, a soothing warmth radiating out of the crystal and into her arm. The pretty cyan was even beginning to leach into her skin, giving the surrounding flesh a slight blue hue. Angela wasn’t concerned, though. The warmth was settling in her thoughts, gentle waves lapping away at her worries. Something that felt this good must be good itself, right?
Her hand twitched, an involuntary convulsion that curled her fingers into a claw. The movement jostled Angela out of her reverie, enough to realize that she couldn’t feel her arm any more, just a gentle, warm numbness from her fingertips to her shoulder. It was like the feeling of weightlessness that accompanied a pleasant bath.
This is nice, the gentle warmth told her, and Angela wanted to agree. Except now her fingers were… well, they weren’t twitching anymore, but they were involuntarily moving, stretching out from their clawed position, curling open without any input from their owner. Her worries erupted back out of the contentment that had sunk into, her dread all the more powerful for having been momentarily assuaged. Panicking, she willed her fingers to ball into a fist, only to see her fingers begin to open-close, open-close. Then her hand started to roll around its wrist joint, as if testing the limits of its newfound emancipation.
“Hu-huh? My arm is moving on its own—” This time she really did try to call out to her friends, but the warmth was in her throat, coating her tongue, muffling her voice. Tears—of terror, of frustration, of anger—pooled in the corners of her eyes as she struggled to regain control of her traitor limb, her left hand trying to pin the right arm in place.
You’re a fighter, the warmth giggled. We’ll be absolutely perfect together. The dusty blue began to spread further, down her arm and into her right hand. She watched in muted horror as the hand—still numb with that delicious warmth—darkened, as if the corruption were pooling in the extremity. And this was corruption, she realized too late, true and awful and deceptive in its sweet, warm poison. Her fingers darkened even further, to a monstrous purple-black, and her nails began to elongate into bestial claws.
Unlike her nails, the crystal protruding from her arm had begun to shrink, its cyan taint absorbed into Angela’s body. As if rising to meet the vanishing crystal, her forearm began to bristle with chitinous barbs, their dark tips matching the dark of her corrupted hand.
Apparently content with its physical changes, her right claw now turned its attention to the rest of Angela. It slunk down the front of her blouse, slowly dropping further and further, the grip of her left hand unable to halt its inexorable descent. As a single sharp claw dragged along her pleated skirt, Angela understood, with sudden and absolute clarity, what… it… intended to do to her. To do with her.
Her flesh was warping into something inhuman, and yet the terror she ought to have felt was slipping away, sinking back into bottomless sea of bliss that had threatened to engulf her before. Intellectually, she knew this was wrong. She should be terrified, or worried, or something, some negative emotion that fully encapsulated the strangeness and horror of her situation. A malign intelligence was animating her arm, sliding her hand down her skirt and between her legs, and all Angela could muster was concern that her new claws would cut the pretty fabric.
The numbing warmth began to spread to her left hand, and Angela watched in blank fascination as it darkened, too. Her chest tightened and breathing became difficult—not because she was panicked, but because her breasts were growing, pressing into the soft fabric of her purple top and constraining her chest. Soon, your skin will match the color of your blouse, the warmth purred as the seams began to give away. Soon, you won’t need clothes at all.
To emphasize the point, her monstrous claw gently pushed down her panties and, with that same incongruous sensitivity, slipped a taloned finger along her delicate folds. For a brief moment, it was strange and invasive, warm and leathery hide along cool and dry skin. And then the warmth was in her pussy, too, flooding into her and then out of her, coating her claws with cum and ripping a gasp from her unwilling lips.
But the tightness across her chest had not abated, and the unexpected pleasure forced the remaining air out of her lungs. Still her breasts continued to grow, straining against her garments, and joining them were two new nubs pressing out of Angela’s back. Pressure was building in her skull and tailbone, too, skin and fabric straining and twisting as something new and terrible began to well up within her. The warmth in her pussy grew in concert, heat and pleasure filling her and push-push-pushing their way out, until with a satisfying rip both flesh and cloth gave away. A pair of cute horn erupted through Angela’s pink hair, while miniature wings struggled to shake off the remnants of her blouse. A tiny tail snaked out of the top of her skirt, its heart-like tip pushing her skirt and panties down past her thighs.
Her clothes destroyed, air now rushed back into her lungs, and with it came a moment of clarity. “Nn… I don’t want to do this… But my hand won’t stop…” Angela mumbled, mustering the last dregs of her self-awareness and self-control. Even if she could command her hands, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. It feels good to tease our warm cunt, doesn’t it? But her legs had only just begun to turn a light shade of blue, and her feet were miraculously free of the darkening taint. If she could stumble toward the edge of the bell chamber, maybe she could signal Karl and Rosaline below. Maybe they would see her and go get help, a priest or a healing draught that could free her from this unholy corruption.
With great difficulty, Angela dragged herself toward one of the bell tower’s cavernous openings. The entire time, her right hand played with her pussy and clit, while her left hand, now completely lost to her control, reached up to play with her hard nipples. You’re so excited, it cooed. You must really be looking forward to showing yourself off.
Angela ignored the warmth, ignored her wicked hands roaming her body, ignored her lengthening tongue slipping along her lips, and scanned the temple’s landscaping for her friends. She finally spied them, loyal Karl and beautiful Rosaline, running through the topiary, smiling and carefree. They were a picture of innocence, everything she had been, everything she hoped to be again.
She pooled every ounce of control and command she still had, opened her mouth, and—
—and Rosaline turned and kissed Karl. Not a chaste kiss on the cheek, but a powerful, thirsty demand on his lips. Her hands entwined in his short hair, keeping him close, and in response his hands slipped under her shirt and began to run along her bare skin.
Angela’s shout for help died on her lips, and out came a rattling moan of frustration and need. The warmth bubbled up next, a triumphant giggle. “What a shocking turn of events,” it said in faux surprise, taunting Angela with a facsimile of her own voice, perfect save for an uncharacteristically sensual edge. “But you already knew about this, didn’t you?”
Angela watched her two friends tumble into the grass, shedding their clothes, their naked flesh pressed against each other. “Handsome Karl and beautiful Rosaline. You knew they were lying about their fear of heights. You’ve known about their lying for a while, haven’t you?”
Now the arousal flooding through Angela was intensely familiar—not the work of some alien force possessing an unwilling host, but a powerful lust that had animated Angela before. Her lips curled into a cruel smile. “And you’ve been such a naughty girl. Not because you lie for them, but because you wish you were with them. With both of them.”
No trace of resistance or dissent remained in her lewd moans. What was there to disagree with? For months, she had frantically touched herself just like this, fantasized about a scene just like this. She had always loved both of them, lusted after both of them, that perfect beautiful pair. She knew what they were doing, behind the parish’s backs, and bit her lip, silencing herself in more ways than one. She had always hoped that they would notice how she covered for them, notice how she looked at them, notice her. Her friends, fucking with no shame or worry, letting her watch. Inviting her to be with them. She lifted a dollop of cum to her lips, wishing it was Rosaline’s, or Karl’s, it didn’t matter. She wanted to be down there with them, between them, pussy and cocks and cum and kisses. And now, watching them both fuck, this dream of hers made flesh…
Admit it, the warmth said, returning to Angela’s thoughts. This is what you’ve always wanted.
“Yeeeeeeeeessssssssss,” the budding demoness groaned. “Yes! This is bad… but… it’s so… GOOD…”
The warmth, the corruption, it was no longer animating Angela. It was Angela. Maybe, she realized, this had always been her—a lewd woman, hiding in the shadows of some barely remembered chapel. Or maybe, with a clear head, human Angela would have turned away from this path, buried it down deep inside of herself. But she also knew that the old, human Angela would have buried her face in a pillow as she came, muffling her moans as she fantasized about the very power and sensuality she now had at her claw tips.
“Hahh… hahhh… I’ve never felt such freedom…” she gasped
She embraced that freedom, fully and unconditionally—the freedom, the pleasure, the corruption, all of the repressed needs and desires she had or ever had—and felt the final changes wash over her. Her legs darkened to match her arms, more chitinous barbs growing along her fuller, stronger thighs. The same barbs speckled her décolletage, promising a mixture of pleasure and pain for any mortal brave enough to reach for her breasts. Her long and pointy ears twitched, now able to hear the sex playing out below, wet and visceral and so, so hot. A long and lewd tongue slid over pointed incisors and hung free, eager for the sex that was sure to come. Her horns and wings, once cute and unthreatening, had matured into something worthy of a true demon. All that remained of the old Angela was her curled pink hair, now a shocking contrast to her purple-blue skin and her glowing aqua eyes.
Finally, finally, her right hand moved away from her cunt, pushed out of the way as her long, thick tail ground along her folds. She stroked the tail like it was a massive cock, enjoying the feel of her cum-soaked fingers gliding along the new flesh. At the tail’s tip was a brilliant cyan stinger of crystallized corruption, and the last thought Angela gave to her old life was the realization that it must have been a stinger like this that had served as the catalyst for her own transformation. Had it been stored in the tower, the trophy of some long-forgotten victory? Had the bat-things she startled stung her? None of that mattered. What did matter was that she now wielded a similar catalyst at her tail-tip, ready to uplift other hapless humans. “More… I want to feel good with everyone…”
The demoness stared down at her old friends, handsome Karl and beautiful Rosaline, and smiled a wide and wicked smile. They would still be friends, of course.
But this time, they would notice her.
They would love her.
And then, together, they would prepare for the High Priest’s arrival.
This story was written in tribute to Mokushi c-san’s magnificent demon girl transformation sequence. I found translations of the dialogue on hypnohub.net and did my very best to incorporate the lines into the story at the appropriate times. I also translated the artist’s tweets about the artwork, ensuring that their original intent—a corrupted hand compelling a woman to masturbate—was honored. Artwork used with permission.