Ms. August: Spellbound

Trigger #110: "Mistress Molloc's School for Witches, Wizards, and Warlocks".


Location Class: Headquarters of the Demon King of Myrcea's Witches' Guild. A school for witchery operating out of the Demon King's Night Tower in northern Myrcea. Lead by Lileth Molloc, a gifted protege of the Demon King.


Transformation Type: TG, Monster Girl.

Threat Level: Benevolent. Assists young magicians and aides in the fight for a free and equitable Myrcea for Human and Demon-kind alike.

Subject: Fledgeling Beatrix "Bell" Belladonna, 19, F, formerly Benjamin Bell, AMAB.

The following is a biographical account of events based on the subject's own testimonies and several eyewitness accounts.

Trigger Warning: Fantasy Depictions of Transphobia and Abuse.



Only in her dreams did it come back to her.

The smell of burning wood and flesh. The taste of dirt in her mouth, too weak and weary to even spit it out. The jeering of her former "brothers in arms" as they left her for dead.

She could feel the very life drain from her stomach, like a wine bottle emptied onto the cobblestones. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Her life flashed before her eyes, although it wasn't much of a life to begin with.

Her parents were poor. There's no shame in that, although they squandered what little they had on gambling and drink. They sold their only "son" to King Saberon's army for a measly sixteen silver.

She remembered Sir Calypso, her commander. He had her pegged as a "faggot and a coward" the second she'd stepped foot in camp. She couldn't swing a sword, neither silver nor steel. She could hardly walk in armor, nor properly ride a steed. And bad luck always seemed to follow her like crows to a corpse. In a way, she already was one. "Dead man walking." That was the nickname her so called "brothers in arms" chose for her.

"The Dead Man."

It was as if they could smell it on her. They could tell she wasn't a man, not really. And they hated her for that. Tried to beat manhood into her, like one strikes steel into blade. But she refused to bend, and not through lack of trying. She hated herself, deeply, for her supposed transgression. Hated herself for envying how the other boys took so easily to manhood. Hated herself for loathing the witches they were to fight even more. She dreamed of becoming one of them, taking to the skies on broomstick, far away from the world of men and manhood, farther away from herself. Perfect, inside and out.

Traitor. Faggot. Freak. She believed what they all said about her. She tried so long, and so desperately, to please them. To belong.

Until her first raid.

There was a family of demons, huddled in the corner of their burning homestead. Sir Calypso gave the order. 

"Let's finally make a man out of you, Dead Man. Kill them."

She still hated herself. How she considered it. How she'd drawn her blade with intent to kill them, to kill this thing inside her, this weakness, this want to understand, to be kind and compassionate.

The mother was sheltering her children from her blade, whispering hollow comforts in Infernal. The mother's eyes pleaded with her, pleaded to the broken, bloodied woman inside her.

Please don't take my children from me.

She'd turned her blade on her commander before she'd even realized it, commanded them to run before her mind read the words off her tongue. A quick slash to his smug, sadistic face, and by the time her brothers shook to their senses, the demons had escaped.

Her satisfaction was short lived. She never was any good with a sword, after all. He disarmed her as if she was a child playing with a wooden blade. He repaid her strike in kind, choosing silver, no longer thinking her worthy of steel, of basic humanity. She remembered hitting the earth, scrambling to wipe the blood from her eye, and finding no sight underneath. The second strike was long, and torturous. He sank the blade into her stomach, and dragged the rusted, bloodied metal across her innards.

"If you want to be one of them so badly, then you can die in their stead."

And there she laid, as the world burned around her.

But then, gentle, inhuman hands, the color of sunset, took hold of her.

She'd come back for her.

This demon woman, this so called monster of the night, had shown her love not even her own mother was capable of.

The woman dragged her to safety, the children pressed strange herbs into her wounds and their mother tore her own clothes for bandages. They lay their in the forest, huddled for warmth. She sang lullabies to her. Only later would she learn the words in Common.

"Hush now, little one.

The witches will come."


For humans, this was a warning.

For demons, it was salvation.

This was always the part where she woke up, of course. Funny how a lullabye would be the thing to coax someone awake.


The forest foliage gave way to soft, cotton sheets and feathered mattress. Tree trunks gave way to glass and stone.

Bell's eyes fluttered awake in the girl's dorm of the Mollac School.

She yawned, and stretched her skinny arms as far as they would go. As she did every morning, she looked down and took inventory to make sure the past few weeks hadn't been a sweet dream.

Supple breasts, an hourglass body, and trusses of raven black hair greeted her.

When the witches came, they could do nothing to save her eye. Silver has a strange way of repelling mending spells. But her aunt Camille Cascade and her Coven had managed to save the rest of her. In more ways than one.

Bell had heard stories of her "estranged Uncle" who had betrayed her own kind and run off to join the Demon King's tyranny. She'd often longed to join him, despite the venom her parents dripped into her ears.

"Would you like to become one of us, then?" she'd asked when she recognized her niece, a knowing smile on her lips. 

It was like being born again. Surrounded by her new sisters, her body was made whole. Pitiful muscle melted into soft, smooth skin. The course barbs of dark hair that plagued her face and arms were plucked out by a million invisible pincers until neither bulb nor burr was left. Her chest swelled into two massive, heaving orbs, her hips spread like wings to make way for later life. Her chest and buttocks were perhaps a tad larger than she'd expected them to be, but she welcomed all their minor inconveniences nonetheless.

And her sword, that cumbersome, unsightly slab of useless meat, finally gave way to the slender slit of a sheathe.

She was her.

She was FREE.


Bell ran her hands over her body, as she did every morning. The joy it brought her would never grow old. Surely, someday she would grow used to these curves, maybe even forget that she had once been mistaken for all as a man. But deep down, she would always be grateful. Her hands ran uncontested by hair across her fox-like face. Her fingers combed through her long, raven locks, her long nails scratching her scalp. Her attention turned then to her chest. Her palms wrapped around their bountiful flesh, and her fingertips sank into them like fresh dough. She reveled in their weight, their presence. Even if they sometimes knocked over her inkwell when she turned at her desk, she welcomed them, all of them, into her new life. A giddy squeal leapt from her throat as she hugged her arms into her chest.

Bell kicked off her sheets and strode to her bedroom mirror. As much as she loved every individual puzzle piece of her, she loved the whole picture of her more. She was a girl now, unmistakably. She had hung a wanted poster on her mirror after word of her rescue got out. She liked to look at it for comparison. It would take an impressive amount of effort for her to disguise herself as that which she used to be now, a thought she silently relished. She turned in the mirror and playfully slapped her own behind. It jiggled in response.

Of course, she was not totally free from self-consciousness. There were so many other girls at the school she thought made her own beauty pale in comparison, some transformed like her, some not. She still envied their grace, how they effortlessly carried themselves with confidence, while she still stumbled like a newborn faun on borrowed legs. How they groomed and preened themselves to perfection, while most days she felt she looked like an unkempt, wild animal.

Bell shook these thoughts from her head, and smiled. This anxiety too was undeniably feminine, she believed. Rare and blessed is any girl who knows her own beauty. 

The sun was rising, which meant class was about to begin.

The past few weeks of Witchery Classes were a challenge, thankfully unlike her previous schooling, but still testing in their own right. And almost every day for the past month or so, Bell found herself unknowingly playing the part of the fool. During Flying Lessons, she'd gotten stuck hanging off her broomstick hundreds of feet in the air. She'd accidentally let a unicorn loose in the castle during Mystical Creatures Class, and it was still traipsing through the halls somewhere. And in Conjurations Class, she'd summoned a particularly grumpy gnome who viciously scolded her for stealing him several miles from his home.

But today will be different! she surely thought, I just haven't found my specialty yet! Maybe I'm not a flyer, or a conjurer, or a gnomish ambassador, but today is Potion's Class! I could be a brewer, or an alchemist!

Bell slipped effortlessly into her new uniform. It hugged her new curves like only the finest silks and leathers can. Far more forgiving than the moldy old tunic and cold, cumbersome armor she used to wear. Sure, it left a lot more of her exposed to the elements than she was used to, and left a lot less to the imagination, but that suited her just fine.

"Today is going to be AMAZING," she hummed to herself as she pulled on her hat, snatched her broomstick, and strode out the door.


The day was not amazing. It wasn't even "just fine."

It was a total disaster.

Did you know that toadstool and toad's stool were two different things?

Bell sure as hell didn't.

And when her simple healing potion literally exploded in her face, she was sent crashing into the cupboards, where several more potions doused her with unknown spells and incantations.

Mistress Mallock and the other girls were understanding, but had to vacate the room lest they also be enchanted by the fumes. They'd left to find her aunt, who would surely be able to undo the strange cocktail of spells her niece had been drenched in.

There Bell sat, defeated, as three different transmogrification potions fought for control of her body. First, she turned into a catfolk, her ears and teeth pointing and a tail ripping through her skirt. Then, she became half rabbit, two long, velvety ears shooting out from under her hat. Finally, her fur molted into feathers as the potion of bird-kind took what was left of her under its wings.

And if that wasn't mortifying enough, she felt the animalistic estrus of each of the creatures inside of her, overpowering her better nature. Thank Gods the class had given her the room. She ran a bulbous paw pad across the wet lips of her new womanhood. Her weighty hips rocked as she carefully flicked a hard, obsidian claw against her clitorus. The sounds she made were very "unlady-like" to say the least. She honked, yowled, and chirped as she plunged two furry fingers deep inside herself. She dragged them in and out of herself, twisted them, flicked and flexed them. She lost herself for a few minutes in the sublime sensation of it all, massaging the back of her head against the bookshelf while the rest of her rocked in an ever escalating cadance.

Finally, mercifully, she came. A deluge of pleasure rocketed through her body, and she was left, twitching and panting on the cold cobbles.

A few minutes later, after the afterglow, she fully realized what she'd done.

She curled up inside herself, wanting to take up as little room as possible, as if her mere existence were a burden, an insult.

What if he was right about me? What if I really am twisted and perverse...? She thought to herself, stomach dropping in horror.

The tears came next, making the fur around her eyes matted and sticky.

She thought she would finally belong here, finally be GOOD at something.

But what if she didn't belong here, either?

What if she didn't belong anywhere...?


"Bell? Bella? Shhhh, it's okay, darling, it's okay..."

At some point, Bell couldn't tell which, her aunt had come into the room.

"I'm sorry Aunt Camille... I... I'm a failure of a witch, aren't I... and a failure of a woman..." Bell sobbed into her aunt's shoulder.

Aunt Camille chuckled to herself.

"You're not a failure at either, sweetheart. In fact, you take after your auntie. I remember my first potion's class. I think it was... a horse, a lion, and a bear... yes, those were the potions I'd been doused in my first time."

Bell sniffed. "What? Really? This has happened before?"

Camille laughed now, full bellied and beautiful.

"Oh yes, little Bell. I was so hopped up on animal instincts I... RELIEVED myself in broad daylight. I was mortified of course. Almost up and left the school. But Mistress Morgan told me something I'll never forget..."

Bell leaned in, expectantly.

"The clumsiest witches grow up to become the wisest, for they've made and learned from far more mistakes than anyone else," Camille whispered soothingly, patting her niece on the head.

"Now then, it seems you've invented a whole new animal here. Although that is certainly FASCINATING, let's get started on changing you back to normal... unless you prefer yourself this way?" Camille winked.

Bell pondered it for a second, then shook her head. "As novel as that'd be, Auntie, I think I'd much rather just... be me."



From the desk of

Mira Alcott

Head-Mistress of Transformations

(Special thanks to BlackCat1989 for the suggestion, to my Test Readers, and to all of you for your support!)