CW: forcefem, medfet, nonconsensual surgery, r*pe, amputation, transformation, limb replacement, blood, gore, mindbreak, impregnation,, induction in story, incest kink BE WARNED THIS STORY IS VERY, VERY, VERY EXTREME. GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF SURGICAL PROCEDURES ARE BELOW. THERE IS A CENSORED VERSION HERE. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
story commissioned by [Anonymous].
Soft sunlight warms patches on your face as you push your way along the winding path. The leaves overhead blow gently in the wind, little pebbles kicked aside playfully. You haven’t ever been this way before, but it seems pleasant enough, warm, alone, away from the bustle of town. Turning a corner, you stop, a huge fallen tree blocking the path beaten before you. The thing is a microcosm of death and life, fungi growing and bugs crawling. Best not to disturb it.
Pushing through brambles to the side is easy enough, branches bite at your skin but ultimately give way, allowing you to stumble though to the other side.
You feel the wetness before you see it. Peering back, you see sharp thorns hidden like a trap behind bushy leaves. The cut is only surface level, but the blood… Fuck. Damn fear of blood and cuts has always been able to knock you flat. Dizzy, lightheaded. You drop to your knees to avoid fainting, fog in your vision fighting against the attempt to stabilize yourself.
You are just managing to clear your head when a strike to the shoulder knocks you flat. Hands grab your wrists tight, binding them together with rough cloth. Another loop is wrapped around your eyes, only letting little hints of light through. Your scream is muffled, and your head spins as you are dragged across the ground. The stinging, swaying feeling takes your stance again as you bump against a doorframe and fall to the floor.
“Careful, little one.” It's a feminine voice, tones somehow maternal and sinister, a threat hidden underneath warmth. You can’t stop thinking about the blood, head swimming and disoriented even as you feel yourself slammed against a sloped surface. You hear her hum cheerfully as you are strapped to the wood. It feels like you're coming up for air as you finally gain stability- just in time to feel hands rip your dress open, feeling razor nails and soft skin against your body, unclothing you completely. You feel your body go cold as you realize you have been taken by the Toymaker witch.
Her hands slip between your legs, squeezing and prodding at you. A weak mewl escapes your lips as she squeezes your balls. Your cheeks burn in a blush, made worse when she lets out an unimpressed snort.
“Hardly much to work with here is there? Cute little decorative thing.”
The humiliation and shame of her words and invasive touch make you shiver. Finally, she pulls back, rummaging for something. Sweat runs down your chest as you feel her return, fingertips pressing your arm flat. You feel a light scraping on skin, some kind of marker. What is she drawing, you can’t tell. Dots running on a line. The marker feels sticky and waxy on your skin. You whimper as she does the same on your other arm. You still can’t figure out what she is doing, as the Witch makes another set of marks in a line down your abdomen, then another on each thigh. It’s almost sensual, if you werent so fucking terrified youd even enjoy the sensation-
“Perfect. Let’s get that blindfold off.”
Her fingernails brush against your cheek as she pulls the cloth away. You are immediately drawn to the reflected image of yourself in a mirror hanging above the operating table you are strapped to.
You have never known fear like you feel as you look at yourself and what she has done to your body. You scream and shriek for help without thought like a trapped animal, shredding your voice with a fevered sound you have never heard your body produce before. The reason for the straps being so tight is so obvious now, your body barely even shifting as you desperately throw your whole weight into escaping.
The dotted lines are clear in purpose now, she has drawn guides across your shoulder, waist and abdomen, carefully tracing around the exact contour of your joints as a butcher would prepare an animal.
The sound of begging for mercy bouncing off the walls of the dim basement is like someone else’s voice. You don't hear the words, only the terror, words slurring as you go dizzy realizing that the slight dampness of the stains on your slab are oxidized red. The fear of the contents of your own body takes your coherence once more.
You are able to see the space you're trapped in for the first time, but cannot wrench your focus away from the sight of your captor sorting an array of knives and saws for more than scant seconds. Long enough to notice the four gleaming porcelain replacement limbs hanging ready nearby before panic takes anything resembling reason from you.
She leans in close to your ear, shushing like a mother might a crying child. Your voice goes silent, like a string has been pulled taut in your throat. All you can do is open your mouth in silence and drool as she lines up a gleaming saw with your shoulder, the cold points plucking at your skin. The overwhelming reaction to the sight of your own blood crashes over you, straining even against the magic silencing you. She hasn’t even made the first cut.
Unknown runes faintly hum on the handle of the instrument in her hand. Your grip on reality smears like melting paint as the first slice. Whatever magic is in the saw makes it cleaner than it would be under a typical surgeon, but it does little to abate the unrelenting pain, nerves set afire as the metal cleaves through your flesh. You don't know how long its been. You lose count on how many times the witch has pulled back for another cut at ten. You don't know why you’re trying to count. Something to focus on instead of the sensation, instead of the blood that leaks like a faucet past whatever magical cauterization the sawblade leaves in its wake.
The blood… so much blood, smearing the blade as she moves to your other arm. You can’t focus, can’t even cling to these last moments where you still have one arm left. You try not to look at the person you see above you in the mirror. When your eyes can no longer resist the tug to the horrifying spectacle that is your body, you imagine you are observing someone else, some victim of a cruel Witch, as she saws away. The Toymaker evens your shoulders out with a final thunk of the blade hitting wood and a second severed limb landing with a sickening, splattered thud on the floor.
You're trying to clench your fingers on both hands. The version of your body in your mind obliges, but nothing happens. The map is mismatched, and you try to grab at the witch with phantom limbs that do not exist as she lines up a larger saw to cleanly cut both thighs at once. You feel so helpless, so disoriented, so off balance.
Your feet hit the floor of the operating room with barely any ceremony. You are beyond pain. A sort of dissociated euphoria takes you, feeling like you float as the straps around your neck and torso hold you up. The feeling fades, as she tilts the table to be level with the floor.
You watch her carry all four of your discarded limbs to a sort of forge, in a state of complete shock. Spell-fueled flames reduce what was once half your body into a sort of molten orange liquid that she pours into a mold and leaves to cool.
You feel the wetness against your neck as blood that was previously drained downward simply pools. Some part of your mind, entirely in denial of the reality of the situation, wonders if the spell that took your voice is also preventing you from gagging in revulsion.
“Time to get rid of those useless little things and fix you up to be used properly.”
You see the scalpel in your captor’s hands as she grabs between your- between where your thighs used to be. Phantom limbs try to kick her off, a silenced voice tries to scream for help, and absolutely none of it makes any difference as she slices. Exactly in the place where you used to touch yourself and imagine it was a pussy, split wide and bleeding. This knife has no sealing magic. You feel every drop gush out of you as she reaches in and yanks your balls out with a wrenching motion that proves she has indeed suppressed your body’s ability to throw up.
She goes to work excitedly, you feel her breath roll over exposed nerves, delicately sewing you into a new shape with golden threads that feel like an angel’s touch. The needle puncturing and pulling at shreds of skin is almost peaceful now.
A foolish thought of course, as she makes another vertical slash up your abdomen, reaching inside you to continue her work internally. Each stroke of thread shapes your flesh obediently under her direction, betraying you as wholly as that damned reaction to a bush’s thorns doomed you to this fate.
She reaches out of view and returns with what looks like a beautiful vessel. You realize only moments before she spreads your torso wide that it is a vessel blown from the purified essence of your own bones, cooled into the shape of a womb. The sensation of it linking up to structures and vessels inside your body is a shameful sort of near orgasmic pleasure, cut with the pain of her violation.
“Feels so much better to be made whole, doesn’t it?”
You don't know why the tears welling up now feel different from those shed before. You feel an odd yearning as she stands again, no longer touching you. The sight of your body is as horrifying as ever, but through the fog of your own reaction to the red splatters across the torso that is currently your entire body, you feel a certain sense of beauty at the sight.
It is not to last. She returns from above you, pressing your head down flat under an instrument of some kind. The glowing circles of magical light are the last thing your human eyes ever see, before being removed by three sharp petal pincers that pluck and pull faster than you can react. This, finally, draws a scream of horror and pain strong enough to break the spell keeping your voice silent, and you hear her chuckle darkly as you simply breathe, a mangled ruin of a human body. Reduced to a torso and a blind head and pitiful whimpers.
You feel her hands on your body again, pressing your abdomen down flat. Your heart beats faster as you realize what fresh violation she is about to commit. You don’t need to see to know what she’s rubbing between where your legs once were. Your broken voice cracks in one last desperate plea as she pushes her dick into the bleeding hole, still forming into the shape of a labia where your balls once were. You hear the magic stitches holding your abdomen shut snap from the force of her assault, her cock splitting your body wide around it.
Your mind crumbles further in shame at the sheer pleasure you are subjected to as she rapes you, fucking a gash barely resembling the pussy it was supposed to be. Pressure wells in your face, tear ducts clogged with no release as she defiles you. You feel her weight shift, and another scalpel slashes across your chest, followed by her impossibly strong hand plunging into you. Magic or not, every heartbeat circulates what little blood remains in you, running down between cauterized and gaping wounds alike. You realize, in your greatest of humiliations, that she is using the very blood that embodies your fear to lubricate her thrusts into your body. You feel her hands close around your heart and know this is the end. Pleasure floods your mind, and you can do nothing now but bathe in what will be your final experience in this life. As if she knew the exact moment you truly broke, she slams hard into you with a triumphant snarl, pouring herself into the womb she placed. You know from the way your torso aches that something is taking hold, corrupted before ever being holy.
The dizziness is overwhelming. Past the threshold of sanity, past reality itself, identity peeling from your mind like dead skin. You feel calm spreading through you. Sensations of acceptance, washing over your mind and what remains of your broken body.
Satisfied, she shifts and reaches her other hand behind the operating slab. You feel heat against the side of your face, then some warm tube brushes against it. You feel her squeeze your barely beating heart and attach something to it- You feel a strange warm stickiness spreading through your shattered form…
“The key to a good vessel is having just the right ratio of magic when you mix its glass.”
She’s talking more to herself now as she stitches your chest shut again. You aren’t really thinking anymore. What your heart now pumps through the ruined wreckage of your body makes thinking seem unimportant. It doesn't feel surprising as you feel cold ceramic press against your left shoulder joint. You feel the glassblood filling your veins pool and slip into tubes that jam into your open flesh, solidifying and sealing the connection points with a tingle of finely crafted spellwork. The other arm presses needletubes deep into your torso.
You gently flex and stretch your new fingers as her body presses down on you again, her needle puncturing your skin again as she sews around where she cut you open, linking parts together in a perfect seal. Her touch feels pleasant as she connects your legs with the same method. You briefly experiment by wiggling your new toes, and the ceramic digits make a pleasant clicking sound as you do.
“Let’s get those new eyes set, then…”
Her fingertips find your temple again, and two cold orbs press into your face- immediately filling with the warm glassblood that swirls through your body. You feel a few droplets of it overflow, running down your cheeks like tears, before solidifying in place. Your vision fades back slowly, adjusting to a new kind of seeing. The first thing to greet you is the sight of those two dark red droplets of glass that now adorn your new face.
You take in your body fully for the first time. Bruised and bloody human tissue connected to perfection. The porcelain limbs were made of interlocking plates, and between them you could faintly see the flow of molten red glass. Around the cracks, it flickered and hardened like volcanic material turned solid as it touches air. Each beat of your heart circulates it more, pushing away any remnants of who you once were.
“Welcome, my beautiful Daughter. You are such a perfect doll.”
You feel the red tears well up again, as you feel the rush of an unbreakable bond forging to your Mother. She created you, gave you this body, and you will serve her in blissful gratitude forever. Her arms embrace you, pulling you up, your face wincing as soreness and aches persist from the injuries of your rebirth. Mother senses the stiffness in your motion, and begins to unbutton her dress.
“Come here, little one. Let Mommy feed you, soothe the pains.”
Magic runes swirl in rings around her breasts as she guides your mouth to suck. Each drop blanks you further, binds you to your creator, erases every last clinging wisp of the person you were before she rescued you.