A request for Not My Real Name over on Patreon. Hopefully the text isn't too squashed!

“Apprentice. These clothing is in need of washing. They need to learn their place. Oh. And put out an invitation for more apprentices, won’t you. You’re the only one left.”

A shiver runs through me. The druidess, Bryona, passes me the wicker basket impatient before returning to her tower. It is filled to the brim with laundry. Most of it is inert. Some of the panties are still moving, wriggling, trying to squirm away, as if that will do them any good. I stare at my transformed peers.

When people think of druids, they get the wrong impression. They think they’re gentle, that it’s all bunny rabbits and dewdrops. Perhaps that’s what motivates so many to come to study at Bryona’s feet. Certainly she’s unbelievably powerful, and so are many of the spellcasters that have graduated from the ranks of her apprentices.

But there’s a survivorship bias there. Only the strongest of the apprentices survive. Even then, their chances are slim.

As a druid, she has power over life. It's not as sweet as it sounds. The first time I saw her removing the life from a man is a memory that will be with me forever. He’d displeased her about some trivial matter, so she extracted everything he was, and left him as nothing. Other spellcasters might have made him a newt. She prefers cotton. It is technically organic, and therefore within the domain of her druid powers. The mass of humanoid-shaped cotton was still moving as she shrank, twisted, wove and moulded him down into a nondescript pair of panties.

I have a knife. I polish it every day, obsessively, such that it practically gleams. It won’t do me any good, of course, if I draw her ire, but having it under my pillow at night is the only way I sleep.

I set to work cleaning the ex-apprentices, soaping their squirming, pantified forms and dunking them in the river to rinse them. The reality is starting to sink in for them, I feel, some of them turning limp in my hands as if truly defeated, in mind as well as body. Some she has turned into small fruits. I wonder if it would be kinder to leave them to float downstream, to grant them quick destruction at the beaks of birds, rather than leave them to rot. Truly, I pity the contents of her wardrobe. It’s not even as if old age will ever claim her. She’s hundreds of years old, fed well on their drained life force, and many of the panties she wears were the promising spellcasters of bygone ages, doomed to adorn their tormentor forevermore.

“Apprentice?” calls Bryona’s innocent-sounding voice. I freeze. “I expected you to have my clothing ready by now.”

“O-of course, mistress. Not much longer.”

“I. Said. Now.” She sighs. "How disappointing these apprentices are..."

The druidic energy gathers around her fingertips as she prepares to render me her eternal possession. I draw the knife as she flings her spell, knowing it will do me no good, but at least I die fighting.

I had, indeed, polished the blade to a mirror shine in my paranoia. As, flinching pathetically, I hold the knife before me, her magic strikes the shining surface and rebounds from it, wreathing her form in green light. She screams. Her flesh turns fibrous, splitting apart into strands of cotton, crunching down. As she unravels, a core of light within her leaks out, moving like a living entity seeking a new host. Panties, after all, are too crude a vessel to contain what she once was.

Her fleeing power flows into me. My lanky teenage physique swells with it, sprouts breasts, hips. Energy crackles along my fingertips. Her face, younger, perhaps less cruel, stares back at me as I examine myself in the knife’s reflection.

She is trying to squirm away as much as her panty body allows. I step over her, pinning her down with one toe. Slowly I strip, stretch her out, and draw her with agonising slowness up my legs, nestling her into place against my pussy. I tuck the basket of squirming apprentices across my soft chest.

I know I could turn them back. It would be so easy with her power. But then… what would I wear?