Eyes gaze down at hands then being but the cloven hoofs of some soon bestial self you know the witch is making plans you would dare not wish to admit were oddly becoming an exciting new thrill.
A strange and pungent odor envelopes you, the smell is strong and rather nasty.
Heat or a want is building from your groin. The pressure builds, desires fly, lust wells into a wave of blinding passion, you know what excites you then, it is the want for feeling your new self laid over and humping a sow for all you are worth.
"Time to leave my humble cottage, go now, lie with those who will find your new attributes as something exciting and well able to quell their passions and needs!" The witch make her final verbal demand, as you stagger from her small home, waddling onward as toes change to cloven trotters too.
Snorting, and an anxious squeal of a maturing boar feels the way his maleness and groin is larger, and ready to assume the duties of what a Boar is for!
Nasty to the breech, the witch trips you, forcing her changing new boar to fall forward and splat into the mire crappy mud of the sty.
A wondering and anxious moment as you strain to turn your piggish big boar head and give a questioning eye to the witch who has made of you a brute beast.
A booting foot strikes to your posterior, slapping your huge piggy boar balls, and sending into the sty a squealing boar wishing to feel enough good pleasure as it takes him to forget his degraded new self.
Then from within your smaller world a smell tickles your new nose, sending suggestive patterns of reaction to a mind become piggish and foggy of human rationale.
"Sows," screams the one basic thought in your faltering brain, you rush toward a big round rump of one sow. She knows you are coming toward her, and stands ready to allow and accept that corkscrew shaped shaft into her hot and needy depths.
One sow, two sows, three and four, the day slips past as from one new conquest the pig boar moves on to his next and more until the loss of daylight signals the proper time for all to sleep, regain strength and potency for yet another day as being pigs.
The witch laughs at you, she setting on her rear porch to that small house. She watches with unrelenting interest, as if trying to gain some sense of empathy as to what a man feels when being a boar pig, he in rut and lusting evermore for the next leathery set of sow lips.
Aroused and excited from watching as you seem to find your bestial lifestyle exciting and more than enough to be worth the degrading; the witch sets there eying you as she massages away the urge to leap the sty fence and learn firsthand that bestial sense of joy.