The upper floor of Lady Yyvain’s manor was no more navigable than the rest of the place. The corridors still stretched out, long and unhelpful, without the slightest indication of where Isolde needed to go. Things could be worse, though. Miss Lucinda had, at the very least, held up her end of the bargain. The witch had even managed to undo most—some—of the changes her magic had inflicted upon Isolde. It wasn’t so bad, Isolde couldn’t complain about the extra curves Miss Lucinda had left her with. On the other hand, she wasn’t so enthusiastic about the way her mind kept wandering off into thoughts about thick, throbbing girlcocks erupting delicious, hot cum in her waiting mouth. Isolde wiped a bit of drool from her chin, and sighed. She had to be getting close now, just a little further and this would surely be over. 

As she approached the end of the hall, Isolde noticed a faint sound drifting down the corridor: music. Somewhere off in the distance, the high, sweet notes of a string instrument sang out. Something about the melody resonated with Isolde, called to her. At this point, Isolde couldn’t be bothered to muster suspicion. She went where the manor took her, and now it called her off toward that distant music. The hallway around her seemed to fall away as Isolde followed the sound, blurring, then fading into nothing. The air grew heavy with dry, stifling warmth, and as the music grew louder with each step, Isolde found her eyelids drooping. At the far end of the faded emptiness, Isolde found a door. It was all she could see in any direction, the rest of existence seeming to have slipped into a fuzzy void. Isolde shrugged, and tried the knob. Something warm, and soft embraced her. 

Isolde’s eyes fluttered open. She must have drifted off. With a sleepy groan, she sat up; she was lounging upon a sofa in a cozy parlor. She was also naked, with her clothes nowhere to be seen. Such matters could wait, though. Isolde focused instead on her surroundings. Something about the place was familiar, but Isolde couldn’t say why or how. Perched upon a small end-table beside the sofa was a small picture frame. As Isolde squinted at the photograph within her heart skipped a beat; hardly believing her eyes, she reached out and snatched the frame, holding it up for a closer look. 

It was unmistakable: within the frame was a photograph of Isolde. Not just Isolde, though, beside her was a boyishly pretty woman, her hair cropped short and a charming grin on her face. Both Isolde and this mystery woman wore radiant smiles, and Isolde had her head resting on the stranger’s shoulder. Despite being quite certain Isolde had never seen this woman in her life, a rush of giddy familiarity welled up inside her. Just seeing that twinkling smile made Isolde’s heart skip a beat as her mind tried, and failed to call up some non existent memory. Left in its place, Isolde felt only warring feelings of confusion and warm, tingly nostalgia. 

Frustration won out in the end. This place was trying to play tricks on her. Whoever that dashing, kind, wonderful seeming woman was, Isolde had more important matters to attend to. She seemed to be in the parlor of a modest, but comfortable home. Across the room Isolde saw a foyer containing what appeared to be the front door. She started toward the door, only to stop short before it. A blush crossed her cheeks. Naked, she was naked! Had she really considered going out like this? What was she thinking? On the other hand, what was she to do? Her clothes were nowhere to be found, and this place seemed… suspicious. Isolde paused in thought, only to catch herself chewing on a chapped patch of her lower lip, which brought her to an abrupt halt. She shuddered, such an unbecoming habit. Waiting around trying to puzzle this out wouldn’t get her anywhere; she heaved a sigh, and decided to explore the rest of the house. Perhaps she might find something to cover herself. 

Down the hall from the foyer, she found the kitchen. It—along with the whole house, really—was spotless. The appliances were state of the art, the countertops spacious, the tile flooring uniform and polished. Across the room, a frilly white apron hung from a wall-mounted hook. A low groan built up in Isolde’s throat. Was she really going to stoop to that? A sudden gust of chill air curled up around Isolde’s body; she shivered. Fine. She crossed the room, and donned the apron. As the soft, lacy fabric came to rest upon the nape of her neck, against her breasts, around her hips, a whisper of tingly delight tiptoed across her flesh. 

It hung a little loose, but still managed to hug her curves just enough. Isolde couldn’t help but picture what she must’ve looked like, naked save an apron that clung to her body, every inch of its fabric hinting at the sensual delights just beneath. Despite how inconvenient and impractical the piece of clothing was, Isolde couldn’t help but feel sexy. For some reason, that wasn’t enough though. Fantasy played across her mind; Isolde imagined herself thicker, curvier, supple flesh straining against the apron, her jiggling breasts threatening to spill out every time she so much as took a step. She imagined a pair of strong arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her in for a tight hug from behind. She imagined grinding her pillowy rear against her lover’s groin, feeling her lover’s member stiffen against her. Isolde shuddered at the thought of eyes drinking her in, ogling her luscious curves. Deep satisfaction, mixed with simmering lust stirred within Isolde. She felt so warm and melted. And who could blame her? It was one of her many duties, after all, to be pretty to look at. And when the time was right, her lover would tear off her apron and ravish her. 

A loud buzzer stole Isolde out of her reverie. The timer! she’d set the timer and she—Isolde shook her head, and blinked hard. What was doing? Standing in the middle of the kitchen, running her hands all up and down her body, teasing herself at the thought of—oh Goddess—she’d been thinking about that woman from the photo. Isolde set her jaw, clenched her fist, grit her teeth, the works. She needed to focus. If she didn’t then—her eyes fell on the countertop. Had that bag always been there? Inside was an assortment of groceries, many of them perishables. That would not do, not at all. Her predicament could wait, besides, Isolde needed to think over what to do, she might as well keep busy. A spring in her step, Isolde set about putting the groceries away. Everything had its place, and Isolde knew them instinctively. It was hardly even a chore at that point, how could making things neat and orderly and in their proper place be anything but ever so satisfying? A small smile crept over Isolde’s face as she worked, and before she knew it, she’d emptied the bag. 

Isolde sighed, and reflected on a job well done. Her eyes gave the kitchen a last once-over and—wait a moment—she’d set some of the groceries on the counter beside the cutting board and knives. A giggle bubbled from Isolde’s lips, of course she had! She had to make dinner, didn’t she? Goodness, she could be such a ditz sometimes. Isolde hummed to herself as set about cutting up veggies and heating the oil. Tonight would be stew, her darling’s favorite; Isolde breathed a dreamy sigh, the mere thought of her was enough to set Isolde’s heart aflutter. Smiling all the wider, Isolde continued her work—if it could be called that at all. Everything Isolde did in service of her love felt like bliss. 

Once everything was underway with dinner, Isolde set the oven to preheat. She had a lovely apple-pie waiting in the fridge which was sure to please her dearest—not to mention herself. Isolde giggled, she couldn’t deny her own sweet tooth, nor her love of baking. That was a dangerous combination which had certainly played no small part in her plump tummy and ample curves, not that she minded. Isolde loved her ripe, plush body nearly as much as her darling did. With the oven preheating, the stew simmering, and her timers set, Isolde found herself without a task. Her mind spun out for a few moments, sputtering and skipping as she tried, and failed, to find something to do. 

Satisfied that she had accomplished everything she needed to for the time being, Isolde felt fluffy, heavy clouds creep in around the edges of her mind, dampening her thoughts and casting her mind in a blanket of warm, fuzzy love and contentment. She was doing so well, fulfilling all her duties to her Beloved. She didn’t need to think anymore. She could let her mind dissolve into a little puddle of loving domestic bliss. Arousal pooled in her belly, so warm and sticky and hazy. Isolde’s expression froze into a distant smile; drool trickled from her her parted lips while her eyes gazed into nothing. She was being so good. Her Beloved would be so pleased with her. 

Another buzzer, as abrupt and irritating as the last, once again called Isolde back to reality. She gasped, and stumbled backward. No no no no, she was losing herself again. She needed to get out of here. She didn’t have much time. Isolde wasn’t sure what that meant or how she knew it. But she knew it. If she didn’t get out soon she might not ever. Isolde steeled herself; every instinct in her body was telling her to check on dinner right now, but she was strong. She would resist. Her whole body tensing and straining, Isolde tore herself away from the stove, and turned her back on the kitchen. Isolde breathed a sigh of relief. That had to have been the hardest part, but she’d done it. She allowed herself a small smile, and took a step, then another. She could see the front door, now; salvation was at hand. 

Then she heard a click. The door handle turned. The door swung open. A familiar woman stepped through, and a cold, sharp gasp caught itself in Isolde’s throat. She took a half-step back, wide eyed. Her breaths came in heaving pants, her eyes darted from place to place, seeking any other means of escape. The woman closed the door behind her, and removed her shoes, humming a cheerful tune to herself. She began to oh-so-carefully place her shoes upon the shoe rack. And goddess, she was so gorgeous. The photograph had only shown her face, but her body was a marvel: tall, brimming with toned muscle, but with no shortage of curves, and sizable breasts. In the crotch of her pants, Isolde saw a clear, pronounced bulge. She suppressed a coo, which instead came out as a soft whine. Hearing the sound, the woman rose. No no no, Isolde needed to leave. She needed to run now. The woman turned. Her eyes fell upon Isolde. A wide, loving smile bloomed upon her face. “There’s my beautiful wife,” she beamed. Isolde swooned. Her legs grew weak, but she managed to steady herself on the wall. 

“W-what did you just call me?” Isolde panted.

The woman raised an eyebrow, then smiled. She took a step toward Isolde. “I called you my wife, silly.” She took another step. “My beautiful,” another step, “beloved,” another. The pair were an arms length apart now. “Wife,” she punctuated the last word with an affectionate tap on Isolde’s nose. Isolde blushed a deep, rosy red, staring down at the floor and shuddering. She needed to resist. She needed to fight. She couldn’t let this woman enchant her. 

“I’m n-not,” was the only meager defense Isolde could muster. 

“Oh?” She said, a teasing lilt to her voice. “If you weren’t my precious little wife then could I do this?” Her soft hand rose to lift Isolde’s chin, tipping her gaze up to look her in the eye. She was smiling. Warm and loving and mischievous and hungry and—Isolde nearly collapsed, her breath hitching in her throat. Then, without warning, she leaned in to kiss Isolde, pressing her against the wall. Her tongue parted Isolde’s lips with ease, gently caressing Isolde’s. A throaty moan escaped Isolde’s lips as her eyes rolled into the back of her head and fluttered. It was too much. Isolde fell forward, only to be easily caught by her Beloved. And goodness, it was too much. She was so tall and strong and dashing and Isolde loved her so much. It was all she could do just to muster the strength to kiss back, and not just melt into a contented little wife puddle. That was right. Wife. She was kissing her wife. Isolde’s eyes fluttered open. She gazed with fond nostalgia at the photos mounted on the wall. Their wedding photos. 

The day she’d married her darling Ari had been the happiest day of her life, and each day since then had been just as wonderful. Isolde loved being a devoted, docile little housewife for her Beloved. Overwhelmed by domestic bliss, Isolde went limp in her Ari’s arms. Ari chuckled, then scooped Isolde up. Isolde may have had the plump, rich curves and soft belly of a fertility goddess, but Ari still had no trouble holding her up in a princess carry. The two shared a long look. “So?” Ari said. “Any more ‘lapses’ in your memory, my dearest Emily?” Emily. That was right. Her name was Emily. Emily smiled, and shook her head. 

“No, my love,” she beamed. 

“Well then,” Ari replied. “I’m sure my darling wife has had a long day taking care of the house. How about I take her over to the couch and ravish her?” Emily couldn’t really form words, so instead she simply nodded. “Good,” Ari purred. Next thing Emily knew, Ari was laying her on the couch, and climbing atop her. “As lovely as this is, I don’t think we’ll be needing it.” Ari grinned as, with a single swipe, she tore Emily’s apron to shreds, leaving her ripe, voluptuous body on display. Ari’s pointed teeth glimmered in the light as she ran her long tongue across them, her eyes reflecting both lustful hunger, and endless devotion. “Now,” she began, her voice low and husky. “Why don’t you think good little housewife thoughts while I take you?”

An empty, plastic smile spread across Emily’s face. That warm, fuzzy, fluffy feeling began to spread inward from the edges of her mind. She was a good housewife. She did such a good job pleasing her Beloved Ari. Her Darling Wife. Somewhere far away, Ari hovered above her, growing closer and closer until all Emily could see was her Wife’s face. With a sudden lurch, Ari darted forward and sank her teeth into spot Emily’s shoulder met her neck. Emily watched it in slow motion, drifting dizzy and happy in lazy currents of domestic bliss. And as her Wife’s teeth sank into her flesh, Emily’s happiness erupted. It felt like adoration. Ari adored her; she was pleasing Ari so much. She was such a good little housewife. She loved thinking good little housewife thoughts. Docile, domestic, obedient, meek, submissive, lovestruck, happy, pampered, desired, beautiful, adored, pliant, kept, so many pretty words to describe such a pretty thing for Ari to enjoy. And Ari loved her so much. And she loved Ari so much. 

Somewhere, someone was moaning. A woman was moaning. She was moaning and panting and mewling in time with a persistent, rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh. It sort of sounded like Emily’s voice. It was Emily’s voice. Ari was inside her, her length gliding in and out of Emily as Emily writhed and moaned in pleasure. Emily could feel it now. For her it built slow and gradual, rolling over her and weaving itself into the hazy bliss of thinking good little housewife thoughts. She was so full. Filled in ways a good housewife needs. Full of love and purpose and contentment and submission and her perfect Wife’s perfect dick. Ari was thrusting faster now, more intense, more eager, more greedy. She needed Emily; Emily was so grateful to be needed. 

Through slow, sticky thoughts, Emily realized Ari must be nearing climax. It was in the look on her face and in the way her girlcock twitched. That meant she was close to climax, too. After all, a good little housewife always came when her lover did. Ari moaned, she shuddered, tensed, and released a hot load into Emily. Orgasm rolled over Emily slowly, entwining itself with all the blissful feelings of being a good, thoughtless little housewife for her Beloved. It lingered, tracing a lethargic path all up and down her twitching, gasping body, then took her with it, dragging Emily’s consciousness out with the tide of pleasure, until she faded completely into unconsciousness. 

Emily dreamed of something comfy and fluffy and fuzzy. Fingers were running through her hair. She heard music. Her head rested against soft flesh as she rhythmically suckled something small and hard. A nipple—Emily was suckling on a nipple. Warm, creamy milk trickled into Emily’s mouth and down her throat. Delicious. This was a good dream. Emily nestled in closer. As she did, a woman began to speak, “that’s it,” she crooned, “be a good little housewife for your Ari.” Emily smiled. She was a good little housewife for Ari. But who was speaking? That wasn’t her beloved’s voice. “Let yourself fall away, make her dreams come true, little pet.” That sounded nice. At the same time, Emily couldn’t help but be curious. Her eyes fluttered open, and she pulled away from the nipple. Emily looked up to see an angel. 

At least, she was pretty enough to be one. She had a serene beauty to her. She also had ram horns, probably not an angel. Just as pretty, though. And soft. Across her body were patches of fluffy wool. One just above her breasts, two more patches spread outward from each of her elbows, stopping about halfway up toward her shoulders, and down toward her forearms. Similarly, patches of wool extended from just below her knees, up to her middle thighs. And even where there was no wool, every part of her looked soft. She looked down upon Emily with a calm, loving and… disappointed? smile. “Oh,” she sighed.

“I—who—what’s going on?” Emily asked, her thoughts still slow, but picking up steam. 

“My name is Melody,” she said. “And you, of course, know Ari.” She nodded toward her other breast. Emily followed her gaze, and saw a familiar face, eyes closed and greedily suckling on Melody’s full breast. It was Ari, only different. She was smaller, instead of impressive muscles and a gorgeous figure, Ari was a waifish thing. Her arms were stringy, her breasts modest. Between her legs was a small, flaccid dick. She was attractive, for certain, but more in a cute, delicate way. Nothing about her was impressive. Confusion buzzed in Emily’s thoughts. Why was the woman she loved so… different? Come to think of it, though Emily could still feel the urge to love and worship Ari, its hold over her had slipped, now more a suggestion than a gripping command. She felt a fondness for Ari, but it was nothing compared to Aoife. At that Emily—Isolde?—felt more of the clouds part within her mind. 

“Explain,” Emily insisted. She knew Isolde was supposed to be her real name, but Emily felt more correct. 

“I’m a very special kind of fae, my dear,” Melody began. “I feed off dreams. Not in a callous or destructive way, mind you, more in the way a plant feeds off light.” She gave a knowing wink, and continued. “Sweet dreams are the best ones. And Ari here has a very lovely dream. She has a perfect little life in mind: her the tall, strong, devoted, loving provider who adores and cherishes her meek, submissive, voluptuous little housewife Emily. And so, with my lovely lullabies, I captured her mind, and wove a dream for her. Of course, in real life she’s this weak, needy little mewling thing in my arms. But she barely knows that.” Melody smiled, and stroked Ari’s hair. “I keep her in the dream most of the time, and when she’s awake she’s delirious with bliss.”

As Emily listened, she felt her eyelids begin to droop, and a longing begin to grow somewhere deep within her. But no, she couldn’t give in. Emily sat up, and glared at Melody. “So what? You needed someone else to be Emily so you just brainwashed me into being her?”

“Precisely!” Melody answered. “Well, sort of. I don’t need you for the dream to work. But it’s a lot easier—and more nourishing for me—if I have you two share a dream. Then the two of you could just dream together, instead of me having to make an Emily for her. Not to mention if I find a co-dreamer, that means I get two little pet playthings to feed off of and coddle. So I figured, what with you being human and all, you’d be an easy snag. The fact that you woke up fully at all though, tells me you’ve got something you’re holding on to that’s too important for me to keep you.” Again, she sounded rather disappointed. But brightened a little, grinning and shrugging. “Don’t worry, though,” Melody looked down upon Ari, and gave her another kiss. “I’ll find an Emily for her. A nice, malleable mind that I can lull into perpetual dreamy bliss. Ari won’t notice the difference.”

Emily wasn’t certain whether she found the woman endearing and sweet, or downright horrifying. Both, probably. She stood, slow and cautious, half worried that the sheep-woman would grab her and stuff her back into the dream, or eat her. Melody did no such thing, however, even helping Emily off her lap. It was only upon standing on two feet that Emily realized: her body had the same full, thick, plumpness in real life as she’d gained in the dream. Emily shot a glare toward Melody, but before she could speak, Melody gave a knowing smirk, and a shrug.

“Sorry, dear. Ari here is a fae, that makes her far less prone to change in this place. You’re human. You don’t belong here. Dream or no, reality is a fickle thing for you.” Melody stood. That was when Emily realized she only came up to the woman’s waist. Melody must have caught the shocked look in Emily’s eye, as she laughed. “No, dear. I’m just very tall.” She stood besides Emily, and began shepherding her toward the door. “Best of luck to you my dear. The further you get from me, the more your mind should… readjust. Though, I can’t imagine you’ll ever fully be back to normal. But I’m sure that’s a price you’ve come to accept more than once in this place.” She opened the door, and ushered Emily through. “Farewell little pet,” she said. “While you may not be mine, your journey is nearing its end, and I’m sure you’ll make whoever you really belong to quite happy.” At that, she turned her back. The door shut behind her, then vanished.