Swamp Shoot 1

by Tannen Scheer

It's been really great reading the messages lately, but I especially enjoy accessing the great stories on the Medusa Realm home page and the KHOLM archive. I miss seeing new stories on the Message Board, so instead of just complaining, I've decided to put pen to paper (so to speak).

My favorite stories are those involving distressed damsels in pantyhose. Paul Jutras' lastest, Miss Southern Belle, was very entertaining. I have also enjoyed many of Magnus' stories, and I think Basilisk's VTTBOTS series was top notch.

I am doing my story in bits and pieces, and have only finished a couple of short chapters. I still don't have an introduction, but the setup is this. Six pantyhose models - Arietta, Bonnie, Christi, Donna Jo, Emiliu, and sometimes Franny - have been sent out by the sponsor of their website for a remote shoot in, as he calls it, "nature's beautiful hinterland." That turns out to be longhand for "swamp," and the girls pull up to a creepy looking house in the midst of the swamp. After they park and get out to examine their surroundings, they discover that their van is sinking in quicksand. They have no choice but to go into the house, where they are greeted by an old woman in a long black gown. She tells them she is expecting them, and invites them to come to the studio in the basement. The girls reluctantly follow, but when they descend to the earthen cellar, they see no sign of any photography equipment. They threaten to leave, but the old woman laughs heartily, and tells them they will never leave. She takes a deep breath, and exhales a pinkish mist, that envelops the girls. The models soon realize that the mist is dissolving their clothing, except for their pantyhose.

The story is tentatively titled "Swamp Shoot." I hope you like it. Please tell me if you think its worth sharing future parts. And most of all, I hope this spurs others to write their own statue stories.



 
Part One: Arietta on the Amphora


There was a stunned silence among the six models. They stood speechless in the old woman's basement, each of them naked to the waist as the result of the pinkish mist that now dissipated into the dank, stale air. It was Bonnie who first noticed how extensive the magic mist had been, as she saw the untanned bikini lines under Donna Jo's pantyhose. She then saw that her own black thong had been dissolved. Throughout the room, the models saw bare bottoms and fronts under their nylon leg wear. Shock was soon replaced by fear.

"Now ladies, the real fun begins," the old woman said, and started toward them. The girls screamed and headed for the stairs. The first four made it up quickly, but Emiliu's nylon feet slipped, and delayed the final girl in line, Arietta. Emiliu finally scampered up the stairs, but as Arietta's foot landed on the bottom stair, the tall, leggy brunette felt a bony hand grab her calf.

"Not so fast, my pretty. I have work to do in the cellar." The old woman's grip was strong, and despite her screams and struggles, Arietta was lifted off her feet. She called for her friends to return to help, but the witch waved her hand slamming the basement door shut and latched.

"Stop that yelling, girl. I have to concentrate when I'm about to create art," the old woman said as she carried the pantyhosed captive to a room at the far end of the cellar. "You see, I told you I had a studio down here," the witch laughed, recalling her luring promise to the girls earlier.

As she continued to struggle, Arietta looked around the large room. There were several small knick knacks on shelves around the walls, and misshapen lumps of clay on the floor. A large metal fixture that looked like a furnace sat against the wall. And finally she saw a familiar object in the center of the room. A potter's wheel, and sitting upon it was a very large, wet, and muddy container.

"How do you like my amphora, my dear?" Seeing the puzzled look on Arietta's face, the hag continued. An amphora is like a jar or urn, with long curved handles on each side. It still needs some work, of course, but before I finalize its shape, I need to add a decorative design." With that, she pulled Arietta's lovely face inches from her own. "And that would be you, my leggy beauty!"

Before Arietta could even respond with a scream, the swamp witch carried her to the large urn, and set her down hard beside it. The model felt the soft reddish clay at the base grab hold of her stockinged feet, and seep between her nylon toes. The witch quickly leaned the girl back against the wet side of the urn, and now the model felt the wet clay stick to her back, from ponytail to heels. When the witch finally let go, the model tried to pull away and run. But she was stuck fast to the amphora.

The swamp witch sat on a stool beside the urn, and put her foot on the wheel's pedal. The amphora, and Arietta, began to slowly turn.

"Please," Arietta cried, "let me loose from this."

"Hush girl," the witch scolded, then added water to Arietta's clay covered feet and rubbed them smooth. "Perfection takes concentration." The wheel stopped for a moment, but only to allow the witch to add generous helpings of wet, slimy clay to the beautiful model's body, up her nylon sheathed legs, her midsection and breasts, up her nect, and carefully over her face and hair.

The clay was already starting to constrict as Arietta felt the wheel begin to turn once more. The witch's hands started to rub the length of the model's body, moving, smoothing, and working the clay in. Clay from the amphora was added to exposed patches of Arietta's skin. And excess clay was moved from parts of the model's body onto the urn. Each was becoming a part of the other.

"Wait!" the witch cried out, and the wheel stopped. "Something is missing." She walked over to a tape player on a nearby shelf, and put in a cassette. As she returned to her stool, the sound of the Righteous Brothers singing "Unchained Melody" echoed through the room. "That's better," said the old hag, and starting pedaling and rubbing once more.

Arietta's struggles were nearly over. Partly due to exhaustion and resignation, but partly due to the anesthesizing effect of the clay and the swamp witch's massage. The process was even somewhat pleasurable, especially when the witch spent several moments shaping the model's ample breasts, seeking to retain the illusion of size of voluptuousness, without adding two additional protuberants to the front of urn.

The witch knew her craft well. Just as the Righteous Brothers sang "God speed your love to me," for the last time, Arietta was one with the amphora.

The witch returned to the tape player. "Time for a change," she said, as she replaced the tape. Now a faster and high pitched violin solo burst forth, and the witch returned to the stool, this time depressing the wheel pedal hard and repeatedly.

The wheel began to rotate faster and faster, and the large urn with Amphora posed on its front spun faster as well. And the faster the amphora spun, the smaller it became. With what little conscious thought she had remaining, Arietta could sense herself drawing up, constricting, shrinking.

The amphora, once nearly six feet high, was now just over three feet. And the tall, leggy pantyhose model was still leggy, but only about two and a half feet in height. Finally, the clay piece came to a stop.

"Beautiful," the witch pronounced, running her fingers up Arietta's legs, over a thin raised line near her midsection that had been the upper seam of her pantyhose, then over her slightly raised breasts. The shrunken figure shuddered slightly, making the clay pot come alive for a moment.

"Oh, how intriguing," the witch drew back in mock surprise. "But, if you ever find your way to a craft bazaar, we can't have any of that." She cackled, and walked over to the furnace-like contraption. She opened the front door, and pulled out a long tray. Then the witch carefully placed the still wet amphora, with the still wet Arietta posed on its side, onto the tray, and slid it inside the kiln. After closing the door, the witch pulled a lever, which began to increase the temperature in the oven. She then set a giant hourglass on a nearby table, and turned it upside down.

"Once this sand runs out, you should be nice and stiff and permanent, my clay beauty." The witch cackled loudly now as she heard flames ignite in the bottom of the kiln.

"I wish I could stay, but I have other fish to fry, or should I say bake?" Her laughter was even louder this time, as she walked out of the studio and headed for the stairs. It was time to show some swamp witch hospitality to the lovely Arietta's pantyhosed friends.
 
 
 

-To Be Continued?-
    You decide.



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