(MF, fantasy, rom, enem, nosex)

The author (intpasstr@yahoo.com) would appreciate any and all feedback
on this, his very first story! Copyright 2003 intpasstr@yahoo.com.
Permission granted to appear on asstr.org; all other rights reserved.

Subatomic particles are rarely in one fixed location. Instead they
vary in location. There is a finite, very small, chance they will some
of their time in... StrangeLand I. Sought

At the top of Mount Crag, among the highest peaks, in an ancient cave
that existed long before recorded time, there lives an almost equally
ancient Wizard. It is rumored that once per year, during the shortest
day of the year, if an earnest seeker climbs to the top of this
mountain, he or she may find the wizard, and the wizard shall grant
him or her One True Wish...

"I feel sick."

"If you throw up, me throw down...you," replied Gartandyl, the Troll
on whose neck I perched. I've always found that, despite the limited
breadth of their vocabularies, Troll speech was extremely persuasive.
Especially when the speaker is carrying you, and down is thousands of
feet below.

"Be still my beating stomach," I thought to myself. Three years in
preparation, and all my inheritance bribing the Troll to serve as
carriage, and we were nearly there. If the ancient map were correct,
we were less than a hundred feet below the entrance to the wizard's
lair. And thence my days of being "Runt" and "Shorty" and "Get lost
you little creep!" would be forever behind me.

Meanwhile, inside the lair, the wizard, whose name even he had long
forgotten, wearily continued his work. "The burden of science," he
thought to himself.

There had long been a debate amongst scientific magickal practitioners
as to the difference in efficacy between using the left or the right
eye of newt when called for amongst different classes of spells. The
wizard had long held, as did most of his distinguished colleagues,
that there was no difference, that one eye was as good as another in
all cases. This was not true for certain boisterous juvenile members
of the profession, however, who claimed that the left eye was superior
for all forms of darker incantations, whereas the right eye was best
preserved for more positive forms of spellcraft. The debaters rangled
endlessly, both in peer-reviewed journals such as The Journal of
Spellcraft, as well as Yhoo inter dimensional mailing lists. Even the
prestigious Magick! had letters at least once per year in its column.
Dgo knows how many more had been submitted they didn't bother to
print.

So the wizard determined to settle the issue once and for all. His
first attempt failed. Separating the eyes and using identical spells
under identical circumstances hadn't been enough to silence the
critics. They'd claimed that his awareness of which eye he was using
overrode the "inherent energetic laterality" of the eyes, rendering
the experiment moot. So, he'd carefully divided up 1000 newt eyes,
placing them in identical containers, with 10 left or right eyes per
container. He then summoned an appropriate demon and had it label each
container in a script visible only to the demon. After the laborious
process of casting spells using the eyes from each container and
carefully noting the results, he summoned the demon again to reveal
the letters, only to find the demon had labeled all the containers the
same. Ten thousand years roasting on power level nine convinced the
demon of the errors of its ways; new containers were forged and
correctly labeled; the experiment was underway again.

So the wizard wearily continued casting the same spell, the same way,
over and over again. To avoid side-effects, he'd chosen a Stupidity
spell and aimed it across the universe. Its target turned out to be
the President of some unknown country on some queer world on the other
side of wherever. The wizard doubted that the country noticed the
spell's effects, but to the wizard they were both obvious and
consistent, meeting the requirements of the task at hand.

Still, the task was tedious. So, he greeting the interruption at his
gate with some enthusiasm.

"Who dares enter the portal of the mighty Wizard..." (Damn, now what
did I call myself again?)

"It is I, Jonathan Smith, who calls upon you to honor my wish on this,
the shortest day of the year!" cried the odd little man atop a rather
splendid example of Nordicus mythodela, the common Troll.

"Is it that time already? Oh, my. Well, hurry up, then, tell me your
wish. I'm in the midst of an important experiment and cannot be
bothered with your mortal trifles more than necessary. But say, you
didn't bring any chicken wings with you, by any chance? I've always
liked them, especially the really hot ones."

"Uh...no..."

"Oh, well, then. Speak your wish."

"I wish to be the strongest man alive, a hero unable to be defeated by
any opponent in battle, whose might appeals to all women, and makes
men grovel in fear!"

"You climbed all the way to wish for that? Your species is even more
tedious than I remembered. Very well."

The human weakling leapt from the Troll's shoulders as the wizard
gestured. Without seconds he grew, his frame lengthening, his muscles
growing broad and bulging as his clothing magickally grew to
accommodate his new body.

"Yes!" the now heroically physiqued man exclaimed. He strutted and
posed in front of a mirror strategically placed nearby, as the wizard
thought, "I should really put that way." Without shame, the man groped
himself, checking if all his anatomy had been equally been expanded.
"Yes!" he repeated. "I shall rule the world!"

"Not another one," the wizard thought. "I must honor his request...but
I can augment it a bit." A small gesture amended the man's situation.

"You should be aware of one caveat. Your strength holds only so long
as you hold your wind. Should you break, it will depart, and you will
return to your previous form for a time."

"You mean if I..."

"Yes. But don't try it here. Leave."

"Thank you, O mighty Wizard! Now, Troll, depart, for I need you not.
But know within one year's time I shall return to you to collect my
family's treasure. Even you posses not the strength to resist me.
Return it to me unharmed and I shall leave you intact."

"Big body, big head...big dick," muttered the Troll, wishing he'd
never taken a contract position as he departed.

So the now mighty Jonathan Smith repelled down Mount Crag, laughing as
he clenched his gluteal cleavage. II. Fought

"Ya!" screamed the band of warriors as they advanced on their enemy.

Wielding a hardened metal staff as thick as a man's thigh (swords kept
snapping) Lord Smith did not bother replying as he swung, bashing a
dozen of his opponents on the first blow. Two swings, three, and the
pack of Iqari ran, at least those not already cleaved atwain.

"Another successful liberation," Lord Smith later exclaimed, posing
with his mighty staff for the artists and journalists who followed,
part of the embedded Facts Network News team. "See how all the people
welcome us!" The journalists nodded, ignoring the terrified farmers
hiding in what remained of their toppled houses and poisoned land.

"Now you'll excuse me. I must offer thanks to Dgo for appointing me as
His divine leader." Lord Smith strutted off, staff in hand, as the
journalists conferred with his generals as to what the facts of the
battle should be.

A quarter mile away, safely hidden behind a hill, Smith allowed
himself to relax. "Ahhh," he expressed, releasing the foul wind that
so vexed his lower tract while giving him strength. His armor skirt
safely on the ground (he remembered what happened the first time he'd
forgotten to remove it), his arms akimbo, the force of his venting
shook him whole until his stature was reduced by half.

"No more beans before battle!" he reminded himself, picking up his
now-heavy armor as he slowly walked about, tooting with each step.
He'd trained his retinue well. No one would miss his presence, or
question his absence, until he appeared at court a few days hence. As
much as relished his strength, the strain became too much at times. He
actually looked forward to these times when he could walk about
unknown, although he seldom released enough to return completely to
his prior appearance.

But as he rounded the hill, he spied Her. Her form unmistakable: tall,
blond, musculature enviable on most men, appropriate only given her
other extraordinary endowments. He'd often seen her from afar, heard
of her taunts. Never did he expect to stumble upon her so.

Poets praised her hair: golden; the very sun, shaped and pulled to
crown the perfect maiden face; a light extraordinary; the perfect
crown, with waves the ocean envies. It so complemented her darker
brows. Others were entranced by her facial features, her high
cheekbones covered with flawless skin. Her eyes entranced many, the
grey orbs that arrested all see-er's vision in their perfection. Her
throat garnered praise as well, both for its length and strength. And
no man, however silent he might be in court, would fail to notice her
the sheer incredible size and gravity-defying appearance of her torso.
Her waist was enviably slender; her legs, heavenly pillars. But her
asset that most filled Smith to his length, were the globes so
perfectly displayed as she bent over to fetch another cup of water
from the stream in front of her.

"Omydgo! What an ass!" He checked himself, hoping not to have uttered
the words that appeared in his mind. He had to have her, and stealth
was essential.

All the world knew of Cafren's beauty. And her prowess in battle.
She'd vowed never to be taken by any man who could not pursue and
catch her, then defeat her in unarmed combat. Any man who failed
became her slave. She had lots of slaves; an army worth. Smith had
sought Cafren's aid in the war against the Iqari. "I've naught with
you, ignorant cow herder." was her official reply. While she'd not
aided his enemy directly, her presence her was worrying.

But now...less than 100 feet away. He'd follow her, and when his
strength was fully restored, take her. He drifted back to his steed,
determined to find the will to track her without having his manhood at
full staff the entire way.

She was not easy to follow. She doubled back twice. Once, he saw her
walk her horse sideways in a manner he thought impossible. Perhaps the
other rumors were true as well, that she was a sorceress as well as a
warrior princess. No matter. Filled again with his power, albeit
uncomfortably so, he was ready for her. And it showed.

After a time she came to a clearing and dismounted to stretch. He was
ready for her, and broke from the woods without further attempts to
hide.

As her arms returned to her sides, she turned and addressed him. "So,
you appear at last. No more skulking. Are you ready to kneel and
worship me for the rest of time?"

"I'm ready...to take you," Smith flatly stated, his body aflame, as if
each breath inhaled some potent elixir that ignited all his members.
He dismounted and did not try to hide his excitement.

"At least you're proportional. Doesn't that chafe with the armor?"

"You're right; there's no need." With a twist of his wrist, he
disconnected his armored skirt from his breastplate. It hung,
suspended for a moment, until he removed it, discarding it in front of
him. Her turn to be entranced; the wizard knew his business. A few
moments later, and the rest of his armor joined it. Clad only in a
tunic, he extended his arms as he stepped toward her.

She removed the small dagger at her side. She wore no armor. She wore
hardly anything: what looked like a loincloth, though it was somehow
connected between her legs, and a simple top that must have stayed
atop her by magick alone. She also extended her arms, widened her
legs, and stepped forward crouching slightly; a wrestler's pose.

They touched. It felt like lightning when their hands grasped each
other's arms, both slightly damp from the exertion of riding. Her
strength was impressive; an easy match for any man. Any other man. He
let her push one arm back, as if to pin him, before stepping forward
and shifting positions, bringing both arms behind her. In a moment it
was over; he had her. His chest pressed against her breasts, almost
nipple to nipple as her height matched his. With a pull he grabbed her
wrists and eliminated the space between the two of them, a stiff
reminder of his intention poking her in the belly. She was astonished
at his strength; it was obvious that she could struggle but she would
not be moved.

She'd never met a man this strong. This tall. This handsome. Who
radiated this much power, vitality, and ugh! Her inner reservoirs
opened, a tiny tide before the coming flood.

With one hand he firmly grasped her wrists. With the other he enclosed
one perfect buttock. A press forward and their tongues touched, then
lips, then whole bodies. A battle of tongues, but even there the
victor was obvious. She relaxed in his grip; one hand left her, and
with a sudden toss he yanked her loincloth from her throwing it to the
ground. His other hand released her as his arms encircled her, pulling
her to him tightly. She moaned and she pressed her mouth against his
with a strength that would have snapped the neck of most men.

Fuck foreplay. He reached down to lift her up and onto him when he
felt something slip. There was a moment's pause as she shuddered with
the force. He couldn't help himself. With a blast as loud as a
trumpet, his inner wind came out, filling the air with a strangely
sweet stench. (Damn raisins!)

But in that moment after her shock, she reacted. Reaching up, she
pressed down on his shoulders. His strength gone, he collapsed to his
knees, head in front of the temple he so badly wanted to worship in.
Perhaps...

His momentary masculine thought perished as she continued to press him
down, stepping back as he hit the ground.

"Oh! Gdodam!" The pain consumed him.

Her laughter equally possessed her. One foot planted firmly on his
back, she nevertheless rocked with it, as if she might collapse. This
continued for some minutes as he continued to vent uncontrollably
while he fell to half mast and less.

Empty, shrunken, again a weakling under the foot of the most beautiful
woman on the planet. His humiliation seemed complete...but had only
begun.

Hours of reflection later had not made it easier. Manacled, his hands
and neck embraced by iron and joined together in a giant yoke with
other slaves to make an even dozen, he served as a beast of burden.
Smaller than his fellow slaves, he was practically dragged at times,
scrambling to keep up with them. Worse: she'd found a way to preserve
his weakness.

Had she known all along of his secret? She retrieved a brass cylinder
of fiendish design: an almost pointed tip flared into a wider ring
that quickly narrowed. She'd shown it to him for a second before
making some other preparations. At least she'd done something to
reduce the friction. A thought of how lengthened him a bit more.

She'd pulled him up on his knees and with a forceful twisting inserted
the object into him. At first the pain was extraordinary. Then, well
it pressed on some interesting places. Especially when he walked.
That, and the occasional breeze carrying her scent kept him strangely
stimulated. But most fiendish: the device had a small tube running its
length. Any gas that built up escaped with an embarrassing whistle.

Walking with this thing, in irons, whistling...it should have humbled
him. Yet he found himself oddly exhilarated, still aroused. Magick, no
doubt.

They reached her camp and the yolk opened, allowing him to fall to his
knees in exhaustion, though still chained.

"Come, slaves, gather round. Witness the birth of your new brother!"

He was too exhausted to move, to care what happened next. Soon he was
the center of a large circle of men, all dressed in loincloths with
gold bands circling their neck. How many, he could not say; he could
not turn his neck. But the count in front of him reached the hundreds.

"See: the great Lord Smith. Champion of the Su. Undefeated
warrior...until now. He has come to make a decision: to stay as my
slave, or go as a free man. What shall he decide?"

The crowd laughed. What had she planned?

"If I choose freedom...?"

"Ah, but there is just one thing you must do to be free. You, of all
men, will appreciate this. Show him the flask!"

In front of him, one of the slaves held a large flask, perhaps five
nolgals in volume with a long tube emerging from the bottom.

"Empty this, and you shall be freed."

"You want me to drink all of that?"

"Drink? Not quite." She laughed as the slave moved behind him
and...connected it.

A sudden rush of warmth filled him and he understood. Leaning forward,
until his elbows dug into the ground, he hoped for the best. And
honestly, at first it really didn't feel bad at all. Kind of relaxing.
Then the cramps started. She gestured and the flow paused.

With a finger under his chin, she raised his head until he looked into
her. Her eyes...grey, no silver, eerie. Kneeling there, exposed,
humiliated, facing something dreadful...yet looking in her eyes he
felt utterly at peace, accepted, encouraged. As if she wanted him to
take on this last labor, as if she hoped he'd win his freedom. In that
moment, he'd do anything for her. She nodded. The flow continued.

For how long, he didn't know. He lay on the ground, doubled over,
stretched out, no position was comfortable. Nauseated, shaking, he
could not take any more. "No...no...no more."

"I understand," was all she said. Then, someone on each side of him
lifted him up and carried him to the side of a large latrine. With a
twist and a yank, somehow the slave pulled whatever was in him out.
He'd never felt so relieved as in that moment.

Time passed. In spurts. He was finally emptied. Other slaves poured
bucket after bucket of water over him until they were satisfied. Still
exhausted, he was no longer thirsty, no longer aroused. Sore. Weak.
They'd won, for now. They put him in a cage this time. His neck was
freed, but long chains bound him to the cage. His feet were tightly
manacled. His waist was tied to the top of the cage. He could not move
around, and could only lift his arms to neck height.

"I give you one more hour. Place the band around your neck when you
are ready. I will come for you in an hour. Do not disappoint me."

Her words were flat as she handed him a ring of gold, his collar, and
walked away. She'd won; after the day, there was no way he could
gather his strength in an hour. He was defeated.

He stood there, holding the band, for some time, staring at the ground
in front of him. His mind was blank when someone's feet came into his
view. He looked up.

In front of him was the only female slave he'd seen. He presumed she
was a slave; she was dressed as such, although he could not see any
collar. In her hands was a pitcher of water.

She had long, dark brown hair, dull and straight. Her face was plain,
with a few blemishes. She was short, the same height as I in my
current condition. A little overweight, little muscle tone, small
breasts, even a slight paunch. She was perhaps the same age as me,
perhaps even a bit older. Her hips flared out nicely, although there
was too much padding there for her frame. Her eyes, like her hair,
were brown: common. But her face expressed concern. I looked in her
eyes and felt a strange mixture of compassion, interest, and oddly
enough fear coming from them.

"Thirsty?"

I nodded. I leaned my head back and opened my mouth as she gingerly
poured the water into my mouth, soaking me in the process. I didn't
care.

"Enough? Good." She looked at me for a long time, then asked. "What
will you do?"

"Do I have a choice? When my time is up, I'll be her slave, whether I
want to or not."

"And if you had a choice? If you could flee here, leave your powers
behind...could you leave her?"

I looked at her for an equal time. "Yes," I said.

"I could...we could...I know how to get out. But understand: this is a
dangerous and uncertain path. It is a way past magick. The only
certainty is that you'll never see her again, and you'll never know
the strength you once had. You'd have to trust me. We'd have to leave
together, now, before she returns. Could you do that?"

I looked in her plain brown eyes. "Yes."

"Will do you this?"

With nothing: no strength, no magick, no resources...no clothes!
Naked, weak, helpless, with only the strength to look her in the eye.
"Yes." III. Granted

In the cave, the breath of the Troll behind me...

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go. She's out there somewhere. Find
her."

"Huh...what happened? I didn't...what happened?"

"Foolish man, do not tire my patience. On this, the shortest day of
the year, I grant One True Wish to any man with the courage to seek
me. You now have yours. Go! I have an experiment to finish."

Dazed and confused, I turned to leave. The Troll, sensing my
confusion, picked me up and returned me to his shoulder, a full fair
having been paid.

I pondered my fortune as we descended.
