You remember falling. Forever falling, down into a black void. There was no ground visible, nor walls, nor anything else to anchor your sense of location. The terror of free fall had given way to apathy and boredom, before anything about the freezing air streaming past you changed. 

It gets warmer, first imperceptibly slowly, then faster. When it gets up to room temperature, contours start to emerge from the inky blackness. Harsh, ashen cliffs peel themselves from the void; the endless chasm you were hurdling down grows narrower and narrower as you plummet. 

You look down, and where there was nothing but emptiness before, ground is coming towards you; a rocky surface, devoid of color, but full of sharp edges. Screaming would be a natural response to that sight, but when the novelty of free-fall had worn off, an unnatural stillness had come over you. This is the end, you realize. Not just the tristesse below you, the whole fall feels final, absolute; there would be no after these moments, and there would be no going back to normal. 

At the last possible moment, you turn onto your back. You don’t want to slam into the ground face first, at least. And then, you impact with a resounding thud. It drives the air out of your lungs with force; fills your vision with unreal flashing lights. The pain hits a few seconds later; your nervous system takes its time to make sense of the situation you’re in. 

You gasp for air, writhing in the dust, while the pain fades. To your surprise, your body seems undamaged from the impact. You can move your arms and legs, wiggle your fingers and toes. Eventually, you manage to get into a sitting position, and, painfully slowly, onto your feet. You wobble and sway, but then you stand. You attempt to brush the dust from your clothes, only to realize that you aren’t wearing any. Didn’t you start the fall clothed?

The stillness that kept you from panicking when you saw the ground rushing towards you floods over you again. There is nothing you can do about your exposed form, you have to push on. 

The chasm is wider than it had felt when its walls were rushing past you. You slowly spin around, looking for any break in the uniformly craggy walls surrounding you in an uneven circle about a hundred steps wide. At first, you don’t see one. On a second, even more meticulous sweep, you see pale yellow light stream out from a particularly deep crack. Its color is so muted you’d class it as white under other circumstances, but the general absence of color makes it stand out. 

As you close in on the crack, you notice a passage behind it. It’s a good bit higher than you are tall, and wide enough for you to fit through it without much effort. You step into it without hesitation, there is nothing for you in the place you landed, wherever this passage leads you can only be an improvement. It leads you around a bend and suddenly expands into a gigantic grotto, large enough that you can’t see its ceiling. The strangest sight in this place stands tall a few minutes walk into this place. 

A house. With lit windows, a weathered looking shingle roof, and a row of well manicured flower pots lining a path to the front door; completely out of place underground. You finally conclude that you must be dreaming, that is the only plausible explanation you have for what is going on, even if it doesn’t feel quite true.

With new-found ease, you approach the house. This is a dream, nothing can hurt you in a dream. You walk up to the door, and don’t find a doorbell. You decide to knock. Before your hand touches the wood, the door opens. Behind it stands a person. A woman.

She is tall, much taller than you, even though you aren’t exactly short, and she doesn’t appear quite human. Her skin is dark with a purple undertone, not a skin color you had ever seen on anyone - definitely not one you could imagine stemming from melanin. Snow-white curls frame a face that looks completely ageless. Her eyes shimmer in golds and silvers, but don’t have discernible features like irises or pupils. Still, you feel her gaze wander over you as you take her sight in. Unlike you, she is wearing clothes, even if they seem as outlandish as the whole situation you’re in. A light chemise plays over her form, it’s wispy cut doing little to hide either her curves or her well toned muscles. Its hem falling barely low enough on her thighs to consider her being decent. Unbelievably, where you would expect cloth, it appears to be made from the starry night sky. 

You shake your head in disbelief, you must have been reading too many fantasy stories if visions like this follow you into your dreams. As unreal as she looks, you have to admit to yourself that she is incredibly attractive. 

“Come in, I have been expecting you.” Her voice is smooth silk running through your fingers, her pronunciation perfectly polished and formal. 

You follow her inside, worried about your improper nudeness, even though she didn’t seem to mind. 

“As you may have guessed, we have been waiting for you.” She says, stepping around a large desk that stands directly behind the door. You chose to accept this bit of odd dream architecture without much effort, it is by far less strange than everything else. 

“We? Who are you? Who is ‘we’? Why were you expecting me?” You ask, the questions piling up before you manage to formulate them. 

“One thing at a time, my little anima. Of course you were expected. It’s the whole reason why we are here.” she says, sitting down.

Dream logic; if this is a dream she is right, everything is here because you’re hallucinating it, you think to yourself. 

“Of course,” you concede, “but who are you? Why am I dreaming of you?” That question is very forward by your standards, but this is your dream, what do you have to lose. 

“As cliché as it might sound, I have gone by many names over the millennia. Hermes, Anubis, Azrael…” 

“Aren’t those all guy names? You… don’t look like a guy.” 

“I look however you want me to, darling. That most religious texts give me masculine names says more about their authors than me.” 

She rummages around on the desk, and lays out a scroll of parchment and a quill, a moment later, a short knife with an elaborately carved handle follows.   You really should stop playing fantasy RPGs with your discord friends late at night. It’s not a great habit to have, but they are spread all over the globe, and midweek and at ungodly hours in the morning was the only time that at least somewhat worked for everyone.

You look at her quizzically for a moment. This is an awfully high concept dream. Then it suddenly hits you. 

“Aren’t those all names for death?” 

“‘Death’ really is my least favorite name, yes. I am a psychopomp, I have very little to do with death. I just collect the souls of the recently deceased, purify them, and guide them to the afterlife, or the great cycle, or hell, or whatever you want to believe in - I’m not going to spoil the surprise for you just yet.” She is rattling this off in a well-practiced manner, like she has given this speech hundreds or thousands of times. 

“Does that mean that I am…?” You trail off, unable to get yourself to say it.

“Dead, yes. Deceased. Past tense.” She looks up at you, with an oddly encouraging smile. 

“But how? Why? I–” 

“It’s a bit late to worry about that, isn’t it, young one?” She interrupts, and picks up the knife. You get a sinking feeling in your stomach that something is, indeed, very wrong. The unnatural stillness from earlier has left you. 

“No, it’s not too late, I… I need to go. I need to go back!” Now you’re shouting at her, which she takes without acknowledging it. She seems used to this kind of reaction. 

You’re still standing, she’s sitting. Maybe you can just book it. You decide to try your luck, there could be another way out of the crater you landed in. As you make a step towards the door, it gets blocked. 

Two figures fill the door frame, both just as unsettling as your hostess. Both of them frail and thin, but tall enough to fill it entirely. Even compared the self-described psychopomp, they wear very little to hide their emaciated forms, only off-white rags barely covering their breasts and private parts. From their chests, through their bloodless skin, radiates a pale glow from intricate patterns of scars in the exact color of the light you followed through the crack. Their faces, covered by expressionless white masks, don’t help to alleviate their grim appearance. They close in on you, your escape route cut off. 

“Your hand, please.” The psychopomp says, still holding the knife. 

You back away from her into the room, but then the other two have caught up to you. They encircle you way too close for comfort, neither of them hesitating your personal space. An attempt to shove them away ends with each of them catching one of your arms. 

They drag you back to the desk, unfazed by your protests. The one holding your right arm offers your hand to the psychopomp. She gently takes your hand, caresses your clenched fist open. You let it happen, her touch feels cool, dry, and soft and not at all unpleasant. Then a sudden pain pierces your hand. She has cut a bright red line into your palm, a thin trickle of blood oozing out. 

“Ouch! Fuck! What was that for?” You try to clench your hand again, but she holds it open. The pain makes you consider that this might be more than a dream for the first time since landing. There is a gnawing feeling in the back of your mind, a memory that you aren’t quite ready to relive.

“Language, please.” She chides without answering your question. “Now, why don’t you give me your name?”

A strange question, given what she has told you before. “My name? Didn’t you say you were waiting for me? How come you don’t know?” 

“I know your name, but I need you to give it to me anyway. Soul purification, remember?” 

You don’t, but arguing with the knife-wielding apparition seems pointless. You tell her your name. She dips the quill into your blood collecting on your palm and scratches a few crimson lines into the parchment. 

“There there, don’t you feel so much lighter already?” 

You look at her confused. What does she mean lighter? You try to read what she has written down – years of playing collectable TCGs have made you proficient in reading upside-down text – only to find that you can’t decipher it. It probably is your name, that would make sense, only you realize that you don’t remember your own name. 

“What?” You ask, too confused to panic. 

“You carry so much of the world still with you, it is time we rid you of that.” She states, as if that made any sense. 

You feel bile rise inside you. You have found a name, your name, only that it doesn’t fit you. It tastes foul and wrong. You’d recoil in horror, but the two figures are still holding you captive. 

“The dead name, too, please. I know it’s an unpleasant thing to remember, but it is still anchoring you. Just think how good forgetting it will feel - getting rid of it will make things so much easier.” 

Without a second thought, you say it. She is right, fully getting rid of that sounds good. It feels like a curse as it leaves your mouth, possibly for the last time. She writes it down, and suddenly, you’re free from it.

“Thank you?” Your intonation makes it sound more like a question, but the sentiment is real. Getting rid of that part of your past makes you feel a lot lighter. 

“You’re welcome, my little lamb. Now, getting rid of the less tangible baggage you’re still holding on to will be a little more involved. Don’t be scared, I’ll make it feel good – no more blood. Unless you’d like that?” She asks with lingering hope in her voice. 

You consider that for a moment. Would you? With the right partner, and under the right circumstances, a bit of pain could be exhilarating, even if you never got into anything that could break skin. The fear of infection had always kept you from blades and needles; now you wonder if you have been missing out. But with a stranger, under these circumstances? It was too much, tempting as it was. 

“Yes please.” You answer, more self-assured than you had planned. 

“Wonderful. You wouldn’t believe what a rare treat you offer me, mortal souls can be so squeamish.” She claps her hands excitedly. 

Why did I admit that? You wonder. This was so far beyond the pale, and you had hardly hesitated. 

“You can not lie to me, even if you try. It’s the rules. Otherwise, how could I cleanse you? Oh, and yes, I can hear your thoughts. Makes translating a lot easier, not even I could remember every human language ever spoken, written, or signed otherwise communicated.”

You can feel yourself turning beet red, judging by the heat you can feel rise in your cheeks, had she– 

“Yes I have. I’m glad you find my form pleasing to the eye, it makes what is to come a lot less objectionable to you.” 

With a motion of her hand, she signals to the two figures holding you. They nod in unison, and force you back into the room until your back touches something hard and wooden. You glance over your shoulder, and recognize that they have brought you to a St. Andrew’s cross, freely standing in the room. 

Sure, you haven’t been a prude in life – what an odd thing to think, you’re still not ready to accept their claims about the nature of this – but this feels way out of your comfort zone. When they secure your wrists to the cross with two heavy shackles, it suddenly feels a lot more real than any dream you recall. 

The psychopomp had followed you, knife still in hand, and stands so close to you that you wonder if she’s about to lean in for a kiss. The part of you that admitted to wanting pain would not mind, even if the more rational part of you is scared of her. 

“Now, young soul, tell me what burdens you?” 

“Is this, like, a confession or something?” 

“Or something, yes. Earthly religions sometimes get glimpses into our world, even if they are only fragments devoid of context. I will rid you of the things that still anchor you to the land of the living, so you can pass on unhindered.” As she speaks, she lets her knife trail over your exposed skin – too lightly to do damage, but you feel the path it takes with bone chilling clarity. Your lack of clothes is suddenly a lot more present in your thoughts again. 

“Why? Why are you doing any of this?” 

“Do you believe in ghosts?” She asks, apparently switching the topic all of a sudden. 

“No, all that supernatural stuff is clearly made up.” You had been so sure of that, but as you stand in chained to a cross in this odd in between world, it seems less and less obvious to dismiss claims of the paranormal. 

Her musical laugh doesn’t surprise you. You wonder if you should feel hurt by the obvious condescension it carries. “No, you shouldn’t. I like how sure you are – or were. That must mean we do a good job, only so few souls lost, wandering among their past and disturbing the peace, that it’s not even a bother anymore. This is great, I take it as a five-star review, to use the trappings of your time.”

“So, you have to do… whatever you do, so I don’t become a ghost?” 

“That’s right, so let us begin.”

“What do you… we… do?”  You’re not getting out of this, you might as well play along. Besides, it’s not like getting tied up and threatened with a knife by a strange woman isn’t turning you on. 

“It’s simple, for you at least. Just let me guide you. Follow my voice, and everything will fall into place. Can you do that for me, precious?” 

You nod your head with hesitation, suddenly all this is feeling much too real for your liking. 

“Let us start simple. Breathe for me. In,” she demonstrates by audibly drawing in air, “and out,” she exhales. She repeats her instructions until you follow along, breathing with her without thinking about it. It would be a lot easier to relax into this if you were lying down, you realize. That is when you realize that you’ve started to tilt backwards. 

“Keep breathing with me, in and out, in and out.” She demands as you fall over in slow motion. You want to take your eyes off her to see what is happening to the beams you’re attached to, but she stops you by holding your chin still with a hand. “You don’t have to worry about that, everything is going precisely to plan.” 

Her voice doesn’t leave room for disagreement, and you find yourself lying on something at about her hip height, your arms still bound by the same shackles her lackeys had bound you with. You manage to catch a glance down, past her standing over you – instead of in front of you, as she had just a moment ago. 

A wooden table has materialized under you. Just as you look, the two figures step into your field of view to fix your legs to the table with similar shackles to the ones holding your arms. Instinctively, you consider kicking at them, but you manage to stop yourself from that attempt. 

“Keep breathing, just follow my lead,” the psychopomp’s voice brings you back to her, and your breaths sync up again. You feel yourself getting calmer as you breathe, her slow, considered tempo bringing you down with her. 

“Close your eyes. No matter what you feel, you will not open them until I allow you to.” You nod without thinking about it. Following her orders feels good, even if you can’t place why that is. Her voice is so soothing, and it’s self-evident that it’s the thing you want to do most. You close your eyes, making her and your rhythmic breathing so much more present in by the sound alone. 

In and out.

In and out.

In and out. 

“I want you to be still for me.” 

You nod again, you had promised you’d follow her, and you would. 

“Your legs go still for me,” she intones, and you consider that it is a silly order for a moment. You hadn’t moved since she had started. 

In and out.

“Your arms go still for me,” she says, and so it is. They lie limp and still next to your head, the restraints mere decoration on them. 

In and out.

“Your body goes still for me.” And you feel the tension you were holding in your core leave you. 

In and out. 

“Your mind goes still for me.” And, simply as that, you can’t worry anymore. 

In and out.

In and out.

In and out. 

Then she speaks again, “I want you to go back. Back to the first time that binds you to the world, the first time that hurt you, the first time you knew that you were different.” 

In your altered state, it feels easy to talk about it. Easier than with any therapist, or friend, or lover, easier than it ever has with anybody. You tell her about a childhood memory, about you growing more distant from other girls because you weren’t allowed to be like them, about the pain it caused you, and about the empathic but not understanding words your mother used to soothe your pain. About the way her misunderstanding had made things so much worse. 

You feel a sharp pain on the skin above your collarbone. A cut, maybe a few finger-width long. Had the psychopomp cut you? In this vulnerable state? That was so mean of her. Somehow, this didn’t stop you from following her breathing. She hadn’t allowed you to stop following it, and so you couldn’t – even if you don’t know why that was. 

“Shhh, shhh, everything is how it has to be, everything is fine.” She soothes, and you believe her. Another sharp pain pierces into you, directly next to the first one. A wince that isn’t meant to come vibrates through you, but you keep still. You wonder why she had you chained, you couldn’t move if you wanted to. 

In and out.

In and out.

In and out. 

“Continue where you left off.” She orders, and you have a hard time knowing where that was. What had you just told her? You don’t remember, you only remember a heaviness where there was nothing but weightlessness now. 

“You were about to tell me about the first time something hurt you deeply.” She reminds you. Of course, that is what you were telling her.

There had been that girl, or rather young woman at that point. You had both been, what? Twenty or so. It was in university, and she had been your first serious relationship. You had been so open with each other, and one night you had opened yourself to her. You had told her that you needed to be like her, that you couldn’t live as what you were anymore. 

She had screamed and cursed at you and at the world; called you unspeakable things, all of which you repeat to the one holding you under her spell. That had been the last serious relationship you had been in. You had fooled around afterward, but you hadn’t dared to open yourself to any of them like you had opened yourself to her. Consequently, all of those relationships died swiftly and sometimes painfully because none of them knew you. 

Pain stabs into you again. In the same spot on the opposite side of your body. Another cut, more pain, but you manage to remain still for her. 

In and out.

In and out.

In and out. 

“Continue where you left off.” You don’t remember what you were telling her. But you remember her ordering you to tell her the first time something deeply hurt you, so you do. 

You hadn’t spoken much to your family, not since you had started being yourself, finally. Yet, one evening you called your parents, to tell them about your new self, and that you finally were happy with whom you were. They didn’t understand, but wanted to know more.

You met your father in a nicer restaurant than you’d usually spring for, you talked and talked. Unfortunately, mother couldn’t make it, she had come down with something terrible. He seemed to attempt to understand, and, full of hope, you had agreed to join him on his ride back home, to visit your mother so she could meet her daughter. He pulled over on a dark stretch of road, and pulled something out of his pocket. You recognized his old service pistol, you had never seen it outside the locked steel safe it always sat in. He shouted something at you, something cruel that you need several attempts to retell, even in your detached state. 

You tell her how you died.

Her blade cuts you again, by now you were expecting it. A complicated pattern, down your sternum, between your breasts. You feel light, euphoric. Something has been lifted from you, even if you can’t remember what it was.  

“I sense that your mind is pure, but your body is still weighing you down.”  You hear her say. Weren’t you telling her something? She sounds satisfied, it must have been all she wanted to hear, even if you can’t remember starting to tell her. 

Something soft touches your lips. It’s her, it’s her lips! She kisses you, like you suspected she wanted to when you were being bound at the start of this. You kiss her back, she tastes wonderful, and she is so gentle with you. You wish that kiss could last eternity, and she lets you enjoy it. Her tongue caresses you, her lips cradle you, you feel closer to heaven than any time you can recall. 

She explores your mouth with more patience and care than you have ever felt from a partner. Her kiss lights you up in a way you didn’t know you’ve missed your entire life, and you let it carry you.

Eventually, it has to end, and she hesitantly, regretfully breaks from you. 

“You may open your eyes. If you enjoyed this, you will love purifying your body even more.” 

You do as she tells you, and look down at the damage she’s done. You strain your neck to see the scarlet lines cut into your skin; perfectly symmetrical, written in a script you can’t understand but obviously carries meaning. The only thing that holds meaning to you is a beautiful series of stylized moon phases running down between your breasts. You remember her cutting those, you remember telling her something, but the content of your confession has disappeared from your memory like it has never been there.

As she undoes the restraints holding your legs, you realize that you’re breathing at your own pace again. It feels wrong, and you try to slow yourself down to her pace again. She notices, and beams at you. She is incredibly pleased by your attempt to still yourself for her again. 

Her hands run over your legs, sending electric shivers over your skin. Her touch feels addictive, and you can’t stop yourself from moaning lightly. Now you also realize that your body hair seems to have disappeared the same way your clothes have, suddenly and without a trace. You can’t remember shaving your legs in… a while. Yet, all her fingers touch is perfect, smooth skin. 

“Up,” she commands, and pushes your legs apart and forward. You spread them open for her. Opening yourself like that feels scary until she meets your searching eyes with hers. In them, you find peace, some of the stillness you had felt when she had cut you, and you relax. 

“You love following orders, young one.” 

You nod, sheepishly. You had always wanted to be submissive in bed, but you can’t remember ever trusting someone enough to do so.

She pulls up her chemise, revealing what lies behind the swirling constellations decorating it. She is like you in a way you had not seen coming, you learn as she bares herself to you. Her penis – something you really didn’t expect to think today, though it’s a welcome surprise – already half erect with anticipation.

“Oh,” escapes you. 

“Everything here is shaped to your experience, it says more about you than me,” she smirks down at you, “though I’m definitely not complaining. This form is excellent for my purposes – much better than a hooded skeleton or something similarly morbid.”  

“Wait, what are you going to do?” Your voice shakes as you ask; you have a good premonition about what she intends to do, and the part of you that wanted her before is enthusiastic about it.

“I am going to cleanse you of your body, of course,” she says, like it is the most obvious thing she could possibly do to you in your exposed position. She leans over you, reaches down to caress your face again. The skin of her hand feels so soft against you, you melt into her touch a little bit more than you would have liked to admit to yourself.  

“I am going to fuck the remnants of your past out of you, and you will love it.” The sudden crassness in her language shocks you, it’s a tonal shift you hadn’t expected from her. Her ethereal appearance and your unreal surroundings had blinded you to it, but her otherworldly eyes are burning with passion and hunger, and you are helplessly exposed to her. 

She grabs one of your ankles with each hand and forces your legs up and over further until your ankles almost rest next to your ears, your butt fully exposed to her. She positions herself over you, pressing against your rear with her tip.

“Ready?” 

You shake your head no, she must be joking. She can’t just do it like that, butt-stuff needed so much more planning than this. This time she disregards your answer and pushes. 

To your surprise, your body accommodates her without resistance or pain. This is very unlike you in the real world, where even the most gentle penetration had taken careful preparation and minutes of warm up.  

She slams into you again, already at full depth after the second thrust. Her hips slap against your thighs, sending a shockwave through you.

“Enjoying yourself so far?” She asks, the glint in her eyes not giving the impression she’d stop if you didn’t. You do, however, and the no-lying rule is still in effect, so you moan your approval, much to her entertainment. She increases her tempo, pushing into you faster and faster. You haven’t been filled out like this in a long time, and it feels incredible. 

At some point, she withdraws one of her hands, trusting you to hold your legs back on your own, even though you feel weak in your knees. She needs it for a more important purpose. Her fingers cradle your most private parts, and her thumb presses into you, right below your balls. You have stopped recognizing the needy noises coming from you as your own voice by now; otherwise you might be embarrassed by what is coming out of your mouth by now.

She keeps her pace up, rhythmically slapping against you, now with the added sensation of her thumb drawing slow, measured circles on your skin at that very sensitive spot. You feel a climax building in you, even though she is barely touching your shaft, only gently holding it down with the free finger of the hand she’s using to rub against you. 

“Oh god,” you pant even though you’re not sure if that exclamation might be deeply offensive to her, “I think I’m about to cum.” 

She doesn’t seem to mind, just giggling a bit between her own panting while speeding up more. “Then cum for me, precious.”

You throw your head back and scream out the best climax you had felt with a partner in your entire life. Your muscles contract, your legs shake in a way you had thought was purely a figment of some smut writer’s overzealous imagination. Stars dance before your eyes as she keeps pumping into you, keeps rubbing her fingers over you at the spot she found so accurately. It feels like you can’t stop anymore, your climax keeps going until you feel completely spent of any reserve you were holding on to. 

She collapses onto you, still buried in your backside. You had closed your eyes at some point, the sensory overload had just been too much. A precious few moments of quiet, just filled by both of your panting, pass before either of you have collected yourselves to continue. 

A hand grasps a handful of your hair, and she pulls you into a forceful kiss. This time is nothing like the first; not soft and gentle, but demanding and controlling. It’s even better than the first. When you break from her, you finally manage to look up at her again. She looks heated, too. A thin film of sweat coats her, she’s breathing heavily. 

“Not that I want to complain, but what exactly did that do for me except feel good?” You ask with new-found calm that came with the physical exertion. 

“This,” she answers and brushes her hand that had just pulled your hair down your body. The first change you notice is the pattern she has cut into you. It has not only stopped bleeding, it now looks like it had healed a while ago. The other changes are more subtle, but you notice them. Your body is more shapely, curvy, more feminine in proportion. 

“You have lost some of the physical baggage that was clinging to you from a life lived in a wrong body.” Her hand reaches between your legs, her touch feels different, more intimate than it had before. It lays flat against you, in a way that feels unfamiliar but right. 

Then her finger slips into you. 

You hold your breath. That is what had happened, her finger pressed into you, into a spot that hadn’t been there last you looked. She lets you enjoy the realization for a moment, but then a second finger joins the first in you. You can’t hold back the moans anymore, and after the sounds that she just fucked out of you, you’re not sure why you were trying in the first place. 

As your body changed, so did hers. Where she looked superficially similar to you before, she now sports a new configuration, too, but she had changed in the opposite way. Her modestly sized penis had disappeared, replaced by a new organ at least twice the size, with a large, bulbous growth near the base.

She smirks down on you. “This form going to be so, so much more fun.” She withdraws her finger from you; massages your wetness clinging to them into her new shaft. 

“Don’t you need to wash before doing that?”  

“Precious, you are dead, this isn’t the material world anymore. Sickness doesn’t exist here, it’s a weakness of the living. Besides, this is a brand-new organ, just for you. Just to finally take your virginity before you pass on.” 

“But I’ve had plenty of… well, some sex before. What do you mean virginity?” 

“You have never welcomed anyone into here, have you?” She punctuates the here by curling her fingers inside you. 

“No, no, I haven’t.” You press out between now audibly strained breaths. Her fingers idly exploring your insides send shivers through you until they are withdrawn. You immediately feel empty, you need her back inside you. 

“And would you like to change that?” She asks with a new playful undertone. 

“Please…” You can’t get yourself to ask for it. There’s something holding you back, an ingrained fear of shame holding you back.

“Please? Tell me what you want me to do to you, little lamb. I want to hear it in your own words this time.” 

“Please take my virginity,” you plead, this is your one chance to finally feel complete. You have to take it, even if you feel embarrassed asking for it, “I need to feel you inside me again. I feel so empty without you.” 

“You want to give your precious first and last time as yourself to me?” She asks, even though it isn’t a question anymore at this point. 

“Yes, please. I’ve never wanted anything as much as this, as much as you. Please fuck me, please fuck the body you have given me.” Admitting so is freeing. You want her, and now she knows just how much. She knows she doesn’t have to hold back, that you will gladly take whatever she wants to give you. 

“This will be the last step in cleaning that nasty baggage from you. After this, you will be free to pass to the great beyond.” She takes her time – she finally brushes the shoulder straps of her dress down, revealing her immaculate form to you. Her need to make this last just as strong as your need to feel her inside you.

She positions herself over you, she suddenly seems so much larger than before, her muscles trying to rip the light cloth still covering part of her by building under it. You swallow, this was it, the first and last time you would be fucked the way you had always wanted. 

She enters your new, magicked into existence, slit. If she had made you wait any longer, you might have imploded from sheer emptiness. It feels just as amazing as you had imagined, dreamed, that having this in the real world would have been. 

She quickly finds a comfortable rhythm, and she fills you with her new length in a way that feels absolute. Your body was made to take her, quite literally, she had just given it to you after all. 

“Are you enjoying your new toy?” She asks, growls at you, clearly deeply taken with your lovemaking – no fucking – session. 

“Yes,” you moan back, “are you?” You might have winked, but that precise muscle control was beyond you, your eyelids having developed a mind of their own and flicker shut against your best efforts. 

“I am enjoying all of my toys.” Her hands wander to your breasts, massaging and pinching and getting you even more riled up than before; more than you had ever been. 

The bulge near the base of her shaft stays outside you, much to your chagrin. She seems to be holding herself back, and you are very much done with that. 

She goes faster and faster, panting and sweating. You feel something build in you; your toes want to curl, you want to let go of all the building tension in a glorious release. A bead of sweat rolls off her and drips down onto you. Even with all the sensations bearing down on you, you notice the cool splash on your tummy. 

Just her pace is not quite enough for you. You need her deeper in you. you wrap your legs around her, forcing her to take you fully, to finally push the bulge past your barriers. 

This time it's she who cries out for a higher being, that’s at least what you make of the incomprehensible word she uses to scream out her lust. “I’m about to cum,” she echoes your own needy words. 

“Then cum for me,” you order this time. 

You feel her spasming in you, swelling rhythmically in you, pumping you full of her essence, and the feeling pushes you into your first orgasm with your new genital configuration. Muscles that you had never used for their intended purpose clench around her, drawing her even closer, even deeper into you. This time it lasts longer than the first climax she brought you to. 

You lie in the afterglow of what she did to you. Fulfilled and blessed, you feel like you’re floating. You wish this moment could last, but you know that you’re ready to leave now. You look down, over your body. It had been changed by her, that much you know, but the form you shed is beyond your grasp.

The thin lines carved  by her hand, decorating the skin between your breasts,  glow with pale yellow light now. You’re gorgeous, you realize. How had you never seen that before? Though you don’t think you’re quite as pretty as the woman half laying and half standing over you. Her golden eyes shine like the sunlight down here, and you bask in her glory for a moment. 

“I wish I could stay here, at least for a while,” you say to her with a painful longing in your voice. She pets your head; her fingers running through your hair steal your thoughts for an eternity. 

She hesitates. “There is a way for you to stay, if you really want to… want me.” 

“Yes, please, I want to. I want to be with you.” You beg, you can’t recall ever begging for something, but it feels wonderful to do so. 

One of the figures that had made you stay suddenly appears at her side. She’s glowing, too. You had realized so earlier, but you hadn’t understood what it meant. Your eyes trace the intricate patterns of light carved into her skin, and you can’t help but wonder what they meant. It wasn’t for you to know, just like the meaning of the pattern on your skin was a burden that you didn’t need to carry any longer. 

“My time has come, she’s perfect,” she says. It’s the first time you heard her speak, her voice as clear and beautiful sunshine on a cold winter morning. How had you ever been scared of her? She reaches up to the mask covering her face, and as she lifts it, she glows even brighter. You can’t make out the details of her face, it is hazy and unreal, but you know that she’s smiling, at you, at her, maybe at a job well done. In a bright flash, she disappears. The psychopomp catches the mask as it falls.  

“Thank you,” she whispers to the mask, and turns to you. “She’s right, you are perfect.”

She undoes the remaining restraints on your arms. Your arms feel stiff, but  the feeling passes quickly as she offers the mask to you. With a shaking hand, you take it, run your fingers over its perfectly smooth surface until you get used to it. 

You sit up and lift it halfway to your face, studying an intricate pattern of lines running on its inside. 

“You’ve never told me your name,” you realize, and look up at her. 

“I was the first to give mine away,” she says, “that was how everything got started. But one thing after another. Welcome to eternity, my precious young soul.” She smiles at you again, and with that, you finally feel ready. 

You lift the mask further, the closer it gets, the more you know that it has been molded just for you. 

“Thank you for letting me stay,” you affix it to your face.