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You still remember the stories they told you in the academy, the ones of the cruel king who lived in far-off times. Obsessed with wealth and relics, he pilfered cursed treasures from the East which rose to life as personifications of malice and envy, laying low his palace and the kingdom.
But those aren’t the only fables of that time. The legends also speak of a species of tricksy, malevolent pokemon, little ghosts who obsess over wealth. They hoard coins in their chests, and the stories say the king of old made a bargain with the creatures, allowing them to safeguard his treasures for a share. And the containers that they used for these riches? Not containers at all, but people—a courtier who laughed out of turn, a soldier who deserted, a concubine who fell from favor. Each was given to the ghouls and transformed into repositories for gold.
The stories say the humans were possessed by the pokemon, and changed into something else: living vaults, bulbous and swollen with jewels and money. They jingled as they walked and tiny rhinestones dribbled from their mouths as they moaned with dismay. Their skin took on a silvery sheen, their hair became gold wire, and no matter how tightly they were packed with riches, they remained swollen and intact: grotesque, miserable dolls reduced to nothing more than secure storage for the kingdom’s riches.
Of course, you dismissed such fanciful tales as nothing more than dark legends. Why wouldn’t you? It was senseless to think that such things could actually happen.
The tales are long out of mind when you find it.
A lone, old-fashioned treasure chest neatly tucked away in some far-flung ruins in the remote corners of Paldea. The lid is slightly cracked, and a shining, yellow glimmer entices you from within. Throwing caution aside, you reach for it, greed shining in your eyes and in your heart.
And when you throw back the lid, all hell breaks loose.
A cackling, impish voice echoes from the recesses and the coins spill aside to reveal a Gimmighoul. But this isn’t one of the small roamers you see across Paldea, holding one or two coins and easily spooked away. This is one far stronger.
Lashes of shadow spool from within the chest. You wail and gasp in fright, trying to fight them off, but Gimmighoul just laughs and lassos its tendrils tighter around you. Mist from the shadows acts as some sort of weird acid, eating away your clothes while leaving your body untouched, and within seconds you’re naked and vulnerable.
“Help!” you cry out, though no one is around for miles. “Helppmgghlffm—”
One of Gimmighoul’s tendrils has taken advantage of your open mouth to plunge in; your eyes widen as it forces its way down your throat. You gulp, despite yourself, and squeeze it lower, and the pokemon trills out an excited laugh. The shadow turns to mist inside you; it seeps into your flesh, your very cells…
And then, suddenly, there is another presence inside of you. A second intelligence. It’s crafty and clever, but also foreign—no, more than that. Utterly alien. You don’t pick up on words or concrete thoughts, only moods… and the mood that is coming to you now conveys you are a fine catch, and that it’s going to have a lot of fun with you.
You’re Gimmighoul’s, now.
As the Ghost-type’s intelligence seeps into you, it bids you remain still. You immediately, obediently quiet down. You shudder with what little self-control remains as more of Gimmighoul’s changes wash over your body. Your bronzed, healthy skin takes on an artificial, pallid grey that sweeps uniformly over you. The color quickly develops into a gleaming sheen that feels and even smells metallic. Your body is wafting off a scent like a freshly-washed nickel. The two curved, black lines encircling Gimmighoul’s lower body have manifested in your own, running parallel on either side of your navel, and you can feel small antennae poke out of your mop of hair.
The remainder of Gimmighoul’s shadow tendrils wrangle you into the treasure chest. It’s a deceptively roomy box; though it appears the size of a normal chest, Gimmighoul’s ghost powers have layered the interior with shadows, creating a sort of hammerspace. You’re sucked in up to your navel, your feet and legs suspended in a shadowy void.
Trilling with satisfaction—in your voice nonetheless!—Gimmighoul summons more tendrils to gather up the spilled coinage. There must be over a hundred of the things. With your own body—its newest catch, its treasure—occupying the box, you wonder where it will put them all.
You needn’t have worried. The ghost joyriding in your body bids you to open your mouth and you do, sticking your tongue out with a long “Ahh” sound. The stories of old hit you: you’re going to be this thing’s living coinpurse.
Oh, swell, you have time to think before it gets to work.
Immediately the coins drop into your waiting mouth. At Gimmighoul’s bidding, you swallow. The first one slides all cold and flat down your throat to plop unceremoniously, almost modestly, into your stomach. The coin feels thin, truth be told; if there were only one, or even a few, you probably could have ignored them. But of course, it was more than just a few that piqued your greed and got you into this mess.
Gimmighoul slips more coins into your eagerly open mouth and you gulp and gulp and gulp. Down they go, one after another, to plop into your stomach. They quickly start piling up. A few becomes a dozen becomes several dozen, and what was once ignorable quickly becomes anything but. Your stomach, forced to shepherd the coinage, balloons out as if you’ve had an especially indulgent meal. The stretch makes you groan—since Gimmighoul is in the pilot’s seat for your body, all you can manage is a soft, almost pouty “nnnnnmmmggghhh…” as coin after coin clinks down inside of you.
They feel hard and obtrusive, cold and pebbly. It’s one thing to be stuffed so full, but it’s another to be stuffed like this, with something so artificial. You’re being force-fed something that was never meant to go inside of humans, and it shows.
After what feels like ages, the coins are all in and you’re left with a plump, artificially-swollen tummy that’s poking over the rim of the Ghost-type’s chest as if you have a muffin top. You’re sweating from exertion and heaving for breath; and then Gimmighoul relinquishes control of your body back to you, if only for a moment, and it really hits you.
“Guh—uh, uhhhnnnnn…” you moan, swaying from the exertion of containing so much money. You brace yourself with your two hands against the chest rim and try to raise yourself out, but the hammerspace interior has a suction-like hold that refuses to release. Instead, the exertion just leaves you feeling exhausted.
All the motion leaves the coins inside of you tumbling and tinkling against each other. Your tummy makes a noise like rain striking a tin roof. Your breath smells of zinc and copper; the pressure makes you queasy. Leaning against the rim of the box for support, you cough weakly a few times, the sound chime-like—and inadvertently cough out a few coins.
The response is immediate. Gimmighoul’s tendrils furiously stuff them back down your gullet, this time without even possessing you first. You can only offer a few notes of weak protest before having them shoved back in. When that’s over and done with, you’re left dizzy and delirious. The suction of the box swallows you and you fall into a deep slumber…
---
When you wake, any thoughts that this was an especially bizarre dream are immediately dashed when you yawn and then flinch from the still-foreign sensations of the coins tumbling around within you. Down in Gimmighoul’s hammerspace world, there’s little to do but to poke and prod at your body. Your stomach dimples slightly, with a sense of discomfort from how taut it’s stretched.
There’s more than that, too, that’s changed. Your fingernails—were they always gleaming gold like that? You test experimentally and it’s not just the nails. The very beds of them have become shiny and metallic, like Gimmighoul’s eyes. You wouldn’t be surprised if your eyes were gilded, too. You stick your tongue out as far as you can and see a glimmer of gold from the bottom of your vision. Almost dreading what you find, you gather your stomach in your hands to examine your loins. Your foreskin and the head inside are also gleaming gold. You’ve been well and truly changed.
You don’t have long to ponder, however, before your new pokemon master summons you. Yanked up and out of the box, your torso muffin-topping out like yesterday, Gimmighoul grabs control, leaving you little more than a passenger watching a movie through your own eyes.
Gimmighoul takes you meandering through the countryside, and has a truly unreal sense for sniffing out coinage. Every tuft of grass, every gnarled tree root or crumbling pile of stones has at least one treasure to offer, it seems, and they all go straight down your gullet. Under the ghost’s command, you must act eager and accepting of these even as you internally chafe; your tongue sticks out eagerly like a dog for each new trinket, and you gulp down one after another. They tink-tink-tink their way into your gullet, settling against the others.
The two parallel lines that circle your stomach are stretching further and further apart. As your ghostly master stuffs you full of coinage, your stomach paunches out. Once only a handful of inches separated, now the lines have been pushed almost a foot apart, and their smooth course has been distorted by the coin-swollen tummy between them.
After a day of hijacking your body and making you gulp down coins, Gimmighoul likes to emerge from you, its body wisping out as grey mist before coalescing into its typical small form. With Gimmighoul out, you’re left a rare moment of autonomy; but you invariably spend it slumped or draped sideways, moaning with overstimulation, as Gimmighoul hops up on your coin-heavy tummy like a beanbag. The little gremlin sometimes reclines on the expanse, sighing happily and patting your skin with its stubby arms; other times it’s excitable, rolling around or even hopping up and down. In these cases, the movement makes the coins clink together inside of you.
You pass quite a few days like this; hopping along under Gimmighoul’s control, swallowing whatever treasures it sees fit to stuff down your gullet. It quickly becomes routine—or at least, as routine as such an insane state-of-being could be. You’ll never grow quite accustomed to jingling around with a belly full of coins, feeling stretched and bloated and perpetually sleepy as this pokemon turns you into its personal piggy bank.
At first you wonder whether Gimmighoul will feed you, but it seems the pokemon’s possession of you has changed other things as well. Your appetite never once rears its head, and indeed you find yourself feeling perpetually bloated, as if you’ve just finished a good meal. Thirst never becomes a problem either. You’re not sure if ghost pokemon need to eat and drink; if not, it seems Gimmighoul’s possession has passed that quality over to you. Small favors.
After about a week of hopping around with Gimmighoul—a week in which the pokemon has almost doubled the amount of coins in your possession, leaving your stomach sprawled like a great silvery apron—it grows chill at night. You shiver but despite your nakedness and your metallic new body, you think you can weather it. Gimmighoul, however, is another story. The pokemon shivers against the cool night air, and eventually decides that curling up on your big stomach just won’t cut it this time. Instead, the pokemon goes for a warmer, more intimate refuge.
“H-hey!” you protest as it wriggles past your hip into the spacious interior of the treasure box. (Your hips and face, like the rest of you, have grown soft, almost flabby, during your time in Gimmighoul’s care. You aren’t digesting the coins, but you’re still turning chubbier with every day.)
Inside the chest, Gimmighoul swims through the darkness. You can’t see it, but you feel its tiny head poke against your ass.
“W-whoa!” You squeal at the sudden pressure against your tight anus. “H-hey, come on now!” But Gimmighoul isn’t listening. It needs someplace warm and secure to ride out the cold night, and it’s found it.
The pokemon wriggles inside of you.
Immediately, your tongue lolls from your mouth of its own accord. Ah, ah fuck—this was unexpected, but Gimmighoul’s body is smooth enough and its stature small enough that the sharpness of penetration quickly gives way to a throbbing pleasure. Your body smells of arousal, a scent underlaced with the undeniable aroma of tangy metal, and your cock starts to stiffen up into, for lack of a better term, a steel rod.
Gimmighoul nudges even deeper into your butt and you gasp as it pushes against your prostate. You groan as you fire off a messy spray of cum, the white fluid gleaming faintly silver; so the changes have run that deep. Flushed from post-orgasm, you half-slump over the box, panting, as Gimmighoul finds a spot it likes. It nestles down in your gut to go to sleep and you also find yourself lulled into slumber by post-orgasmic weariness. Who could have expected you’d cum from this?
---
A few days after that, the first true wrinkle in your new existence arises. The daily rite of hopping around in the chest, gulping down anything you find, doesn’t seem to satisfy your spectral captor anymore. And so, Gimmighoul devises a new way to get tons of coin.
It all happens when an Arcanine approaches you one day. You feel a needle of fear spiking through you, but Gimmighoul quickly takes control. Your tongue and voice babble nonsense words; you have no clue what you’re saying, but Gimmighoul and the Arcanine apparently use this to come to an arrangement. The dog pokemon takes off, and Gimmighoul parks you under the shade of a partially-collapsed wall to wait. What for? You have no idea.
But you find out soon enough. The Arcanine returns a few hours later with a hefty sack clasped in his jaws—a big payout of coins of all sorts. Gimmighoul trills with delight using your mouth as internally, your eyes almost bug from your head. That’s about as many coins as Gimmighoul stuffed into you on the first day! Are you really expected to swallow all of that?
It seems that you are; with Arcanine looking on eagerly, Gimmighoul grabs the sack with your hands and bids you open your mouth and, welp, down it goes.
The coins just pour into you, one after another after another, and it’s all you can do to stop from gagging as they shovel their way down. You can feel your throat working as it bulges around the near-grotesque hugeness of the coins in your gullet, the metal clink-clanking over itself as the coins spill into you. They slap into your tummy with a solid, uncompromising weight, and you rock from the duality of dizziness and fullness. You hiccup and feel them jangle within.
But now it’s time to learn what Arcanine paid all those coins for. Gimmighoul takes full command and repositions your body inside the hammerspace of its chest. You’d protest had you the ability; as-is, you can only ponder what it’s up to from the confines of your own mind, feeling stuffed and dizzy from all the recent coinage.
And then, as Gimmighoul sticks your head and upper torso down into the shadowy hammerspace and wriggles your ass out of the box’s lid, puckered hole on display, you realize that you’re being pimped out to wild pokemon.
There is the rough touch of a paw as Arcanine mounts you. You fight as much as you can against Gimmighoul’s control and manage a few soft wiggles, but that’s it. Nothing else. And as the beast puts its heft to good use, squishing your pillowy ass against the box lid, you feel its big canine cock line up—
And then you’re being absolutely plowed.
Arcanine ravages your asshole with a ferocity the likes of which no human could have survived. He’s huge, and uncompromising, and plundering your butt like there’s no tomorrow. But Ghost-type possession has its quirks, and your orifice is stretching and expanding far beyond what should be normal for a person. And every stretch and strain absolutely floods you with rapture.
Arcanine plows you and your voice hoots with pleasure; but it’s not you speaking this, not you at all. It’s Gimmighoul in the pilot seat, and just as the little goblin of a Ghost-type babbles incoherently when it hijacks your body, so does it hoot and holler cadences completely foreign to you.
When Arcanine ravages you, your body shakes and the coins inside you shake too. You can feel them knocking around, tumbling inside your packed-tight gut. They shower against your inner lining, a million metallic clinks going off like pop-rocks in your belly. You feel extraordinarily tight and yet there’s still somehow room for your bounty to slosh around inside. And the noise you make—oh god the noise you make. An ungodly cacophony of shifting, pattering metal that never stops sounding out. It’s a miracle they fit…
Arcanine surges in and plunders your hole again and again and you’re stretching around its cock and its knot; Gimmighoul is crowing wildly and you are in thrall to the utter bliss of the sexual thrill. Before long the canine cock spreads you so wide you can’t help but cum—and not long after Arcanine is cumming too—
And then, with an ass full of pokemon cum, you’re left panting in the box as Arcanine trots away and Gimmighoul luxuriates smugly in the coin it just made.
But as the tide of orgasm ebbs away, your body loses its euphoria—and the woozy, packed-tight feeling of all those coins remains. Even with Gimmighoul working its magic on your flesh, the human body can only contain so much…
Perhaps sensing trouble, Gimmighoul rotates you to again be face-up out of the chest, your ass leaking cum down into the void. You start hiccupping and coughing, feeling the coins mix within you, and then the motion has you cough up some of the bounty—first a few, but then more. Before long, a few dozen are scattered in the grass.
Normally Gimmighoul just stuffs them back when you cough them up, but this is too many. The tricky Ghost-type apparently decides that drastic measures are in order. If your mouth is overburdened, it’s time to use other deposit slots!
Little shadow tendrils sweep up the coins and quickly make for your ass. You moan as the coins are tucked snugly inside. They’re nothing compared to Gimmighoul itself, but you still shudder as they slip deeper into your gut to join the massive hoard.
But Gimmighoul has more than that in mind. After a few deposits in your ass, the ghost maneuvers you in such a way that you’re bent in an awkward horseshoe shape, almost as if you were trying to suck off your own cock. The great swell of your tummy gets in the way, but you can still see your cock, half-flaccid and glistening with silver-white ‘dew’. And more hands are making for the tip.
“Whuh—h-hey!” you manage to squeak in protest. But there’s little left to say before the coins start slipping in.
This is another hurdle entirely, and your body rocks as the first coin slides in. It trickles down your cock, stinging yet delightful in its own way, and despite yourself you quickly grow hard again. This only compounds your troubles, as the stiff flesh of your cock presses even harder against the coin, making it fight all the more to slip down.
It finally drops into your sack with a plink and before you have time to react… there’s more.
Coin after coin is slotted inside and you pant and whine from stimulation. How can a sensation feel so uncomfortable and yet so good at the same time? More and more coins plink in and finally you’re left with two oversized, pebbly ballsacks that are tender and swollen with bounty. When the last slips in, Gimmighoul chirps using your mouth and then leans you back. You sweat, groaning; your pouch feels tender, so tender. You reach one gold-nailed hand down to poke at its shimmering tightness and wince from feedback. The sensation instantly leaves you cumming, despite everything, and your back arches and you keen out. Your cock feels stiff and hard like there’s a roll of quarters in it, and as you orgasm, some of those coins spray out to shimmer in the grass, gleaming with cum.
As you pant, Gimmighoul grows impatient from having to clean up after you a second time. Your body seizes up as it takes command and it sweeps up more of the coins, plopping them into your mouth and ass.
Your cum helps them go down easy.
---
Now that Gimmighoul has discovered that you can be traded to pokemon who want some ‘alone time’, the profit the little ghost turns ends up growing exponentially. Many of the pokemon want to fuck your ass, and your loose ghost-hole ends up near-perpetually painted with pokemon cum as species big and small take their turns with you. It becomes common for Gimmighoul to accept payment after the deed, and sometimes the pokemon deposit their coins right in your sloppy, aching hole the moment they’re finished.
Other creatures want nothing more than to investigate your cock. There’re the feminine types like Gardevoir and Sylveon, of course, who take it the ‘normal’ way; but there are also pokemon who just want to fondle and play with it. Your cock is near-perpetually hard thanks to the coins squatting in its shaft, and the wild pokemon love nuzzling and rubbing it. The motion sometimes draws little clinks from inside your flesh, making them coo with delight.
All your life is a series of little clinks, it seems. You’re packed so full of wealth that you can hardly so much as blink without some bit of metal being disturbed somewhere. The curl of a finger, the crack of a knuckle, the jiggle of a roll, all those and more cause a pepperpot of clinks to resound from your flesh as coins roll against each other. Your testicles have become overly swollen moneysacks, like the kind you see robbers making away with in old movies, and on the rare occasions when Gimmighoul pilots your body completely out of the chest, they drag on the ground as you walk.
On one occasion a few weeks after your capture, Gimmighoul again dozes away tucked inside your ass as you are left muffin-topping out of the chest. It’s a cool night with a bright moon, and there’s a stream nearby.
Shifting your ponderous weight—so much coinage adds up fast—you turn to study your reflection in the stream. What stares back looks like a parody of a person—gargantuanly swollen with coins, rolls upon rolls swallowing up your sides and your chest. Your skin is sleek silver, accentuated by bright gold; your eyes, your lips, your tongue, your nipples, your nails. The two stripes of Gimmighoul that have manifested on your body have been all but swallowed up by your girth. Your cock looks to have swelled to at least three times its old size, matching your new balls, and is perpetually erect. The tiny bit of cum oozing out the tip looks like quicksilver.
Leaning back with a sigh, you reflect that any chance of escape long since passed. Even if you did, what would you do with a body like this? Where would you go? No, it’s better to just accept your life as Gimmighoul’s newest vessel, its servant… its personal piggy bank.