The worst mistake of his life
…was buxom, mud-spattered, and smelled faintly of mildew.
When he saw the gloriously green-haired Swamp Witch hunting turtles, he was struck dumb by instant lust. He wanted to peel off her dirty leather skirt and take her in the mud among the frogs and reeds. And, oh, the cleavage! He fervently hoped she would bare her bosom for a genuine Sorcerer Prince.
He was disappointed when she laughed at his advances, but not very. He just moved onto Plan B, which involved a certain spell he’d perfected over the summer. It was a little something he used on reluctant women. It helped them shed their inhibitions and surrender to desires they never knew they had.
At first, it worked beautifully. The Witch’s expression shifted from knowing to pliant. Her eyes softened. Her posture loosened. She trod through the mud, gazing into his eyes like a moon drunk girl. She cupped his face in her cool, damp hands and gave him a single, soft-mouthed kiss.
He stepped back, grinning, and waited for her to disrobe. He hoped her areolas would be large, dark, and green like her hair. But something seemed off. She wasn’t fiddling with the ties on her ugly leather bodice or gazing at him with sweet solicitude. No, she was peering at him through acidulous eyes. Her lips were a hard, unyielding line. And green sparks crackled from her fingertips.
“Do you do that often?” Her voice held a quiet resonance that turned his legs to aspic. He bit the inside of his cheek and told himself to hold it together. She’s just a Swamp Witch. She can’t do anything to me.
“What are you talking about?”
“The spell,” she said flatly.
“Oh, that,” he sputtered. “I was just trying to loosen you up a little, so we could have some fun.”
When he saw the green ball of magical energy form in her hands, he paused. Maybe he should pay her a compliment. She probably doesn’t get much attention out here in the Great Swamp. “You know, you have a beautiful face. You should try smiling — ”
The energy ball exploded with the force of a lightning bolt, but he didn’t notice, because every bone in his body was breaking and reknitting. His organs liquefied and reformed. His thoughts flowed into a green river of pain that smashed him against jagged-edged rocks and left him panting on a hazy, yellowish shore.
Somehow, the Swamp Witch was now as tall as a tower. She looked down at him like a wrathful goddess. He opened his mouth to speak, but an enormously long tongue fell out and landed in the mud with a gentle splat.
The Swamp Witch chuckled. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”
Her voice boomed and echoed in his ears. He choked out a single, tongue-torqued question. “What did you do to me?”
The Swamp Witch smiled. “Cursed you good. You will remain a frog until you can get a woman to kiss you with her full and enthusiastic consent. And no misusing magic.”
The Sorcerer Prince, now the Frog Prince, hopped frantically in protest of his plight. But the Swamp Witch only laughed and said, “I’m thinking that’s going to take a very, very long time.”