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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "New Friends for Old"  The urge is strong, it almost like a swelling nausea in your chest: A bunch of Blake's friends took your boyfriend out to the school for a beating, Sydney, you could tell her. And David Kirkham is also threatening him. Also, his friends all now hate him! But those are the problems of someone else now. It's why you wanted to slough off your old life for a new one. You've got a pedisequos now, let him worry about it! Besides, if you told Sydney what was going on, she'd probably want to do something about it, which would get in the way of her (and your) plans for this coven. So ... "No, I think I got you all caught up before I came out here," you tell your girlfriend with a smile. "I mean," you correct yourself, "Reagan did. God!" "Are you okay?" Sydney is looking at you so closely that her eyes are in danger of crossing. "I'm fine, Sydney," you assure her with a giggle. "It's just a little overwhelming is all. She is kind of like an avalanche, isn't she? Reagan, I mean?" You look down at your breasts, then cup and hold them up. They wobble heavily in your hands. "Speaking of things like rockslides—" "Her clothes are over there." Sydney points and withdraws, but still watches you closely. You toss your hair and pretend not to notice. Reagan doesn't dress up much, but she was extra dressed down for this afternoon: just the minimums. You pull on panties and a bra that is more like a double catapult than a double slingshot, then floppy shorts and t-shirt that hangs like a waterfall off your breasts. You fall back heavily onto the sofa so you can pull canvas sneakers onto your bare feet. Once done, you sprawl and smile up at Sydney. "So," you say after the silence has grown just the teensiest bit awkward, "we're making a coven. And we need to find you a spot on the volleyball team." "Shouldn't be hard, should it?" she asks between frozen lips. "Oh, no. Easiest thing in the world. We're all such friends!" You tease out a long strand of hair, examine it for split ends, and roll it between your fingertips. "I almost wish we were turning the whole squad into our Brotherhood!" "We could do that," Sydney says. "Except then there'd be so many other girls we couldn't recruit. No, I think our original plan is best. We just have to make sure we pick the right girls." Sydney's eyes dart about. "Is Reagan one of the right girls?" "Well, dur!" You laugh out loud. "Actually, there probably aren't any wrong choices for us. But I don't think that means we need to just rush in." "That's fine," Sydney says. "That's good, that's probably the way to go." "Sure." You ogle her with an open-mouthed smile. "We don't even have to find you a place right away. I mean, you're friends with me already, it's not like—" "Are you trying to come onto me, Will?" You're rocked by a hard spasm, and feel momentarily ashamed. But then you are lifted by a surge of Reagan's abundant self-confidence. "Well, sure. Don't you want me flirting with you, Sydney?" "Reagan worships dick, Will." Oh God! * * * * * "Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh sweet Jesus!" you gasp and moan as Matthew McElroy hammers his penis into you. It's like an iron spike, and he's trying to split rocks with it. You sink your nails into his bare back, and he almost doubles the thrusting pace. When you cum, it's like a volcanic caldera has opened within you, and a roaring heat engulfs you. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ "Nrnh. Nrnh. Nrnh!" You sink your teeth deeper into Austin Dougherty's shoulder muscles, and clamp your legs more tightly around his waist. His cock sinks another inch into your hot, loamy flesh. "Nrnh!" There's a spot down inside you, way down deep, that itches and quivers like a burning ember has lighted on it. If Austin can just find it with his dick, if he can just touch it with the tip— He thrusts and comes within a millimeter of it. "Nrnh!" you plead, and bite deeper. He chokes a little, pushes again, his feet kicking against the mattress, and— A great flume erupts within you. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ "Oh, it's precious," you moan as you delicately stroke Sebastian Clarke's upthrusting member with your fingertips. He is bent back upon the motel bed like a bow being pulled taut. Taut with fear and lust. He was shy and unwilling, and you more or less had to bully him into coming out with you. "And it's big!" It is one of the largest you've seen, and well-proportioned. Beautiful, too, like it was gently sculpted from blushing marble shot through with royal-purple veins. The skin is silky, and your lids fall shut as you stroke your cheek against it. Then there's a mushy-sounding squirt, and something warm splats against your ear. * * * * * "Oh, fuck you, Sydney!" You cover your face with your hands. "Now how am I supposed to get this stuff out of my head now?" you cry. She laughs unfeelingly. "Good, now I know it's really you, Will." She puts out a hand. "On your feet." You try pulling her down onto you, but she plants her feet and grits her teeth, and with a rolling sigh you give in and get up. "I've got something to show you," she says as she leads you out of the study. "I could show you the thing in here, but I'd have to get it from my room anyway, so we might as well move in there. Besides, my mom's less likely to bust in on us in there." "What is it?" "A tool the Brotherhood uses." She says no more until she's led you into an ivory-colored bedroom whose tall, clear windows overlook the driveway. She shuts the door behind you. You glance around at the room as she goes to a closet. It's furnished with a four-poster bed and a blonde oak desk whisked clean of clutter. There's also an armoire and a vanity table with mirror; two dressers; and some cabinetry built into the wall. But the room is spacious enough that it doesn't feel cluttered, and under the high roof it even has an airy feel. Sydney has an old Candyland board game box in her hands when she emerges again from her closet. She sets it on her bed and opens it. "I started making these things after you said you were okay with making a Brotherhood," she says as she extracts two rods of polished, blonde wood from the box. They are about a foot long, with a carved grip at one end and a knob at the other. It strikes you with a note of shock—and more than a little excitement—that they have the length, shape and heft of a dildo. "They're meditation wands," Sydney continues. "You hold them like this." She demonstrates by gripping the hilt in her right hand and cupping the shaft in her left. She closes her eyes. "Then you concentrate." "What on?" "Whatever needs concentrating on. For a start, though—" She bites her lip and looks a little furtive. "You have to train yourself to find the, uh, the plane where—" She turns a little pink. "The plane where Baphomet dwells. That's just a figure of speech," she hurriedly adds, though you didn't say anything. "That's the way it's described in the notes my dad left behind. The official notes. But it's just a psychological technique, really." "A technique to do what?" It surprises you a little to feel yourself so completely unfazed by what Sydney is saying. Maybe it's Reagan, you think. She's got a big-bottom, maybe it's hard to knock her over. "To get yourself in the right frame of mind. That's what all this is about, you know. Unlocking hidden potentialities. It's a matter of self-confidence. People don't have the confidence to do a tenth—not even a thousandth—of what they really can do, so they have to invent a god or something that can do it for them." "I don't feel like I'm exactly lacking in self-confidence, Sydney," you declare. (And it gives you an icy thrill, like a slap in the face by a sharp, refreshing wind, to say something like that.) You snatch up the other wand and heft it thoughtfully—it is heavier than you were expecting. "But whatever." You slide the thing in and out of your cupped hand. "I can think of some fun I can have with it." Sydney grabs your wrist to make you stop. "Yeah, well, you joke," she says, "but that's an advanced technique." You feel your mouth curl up with mirth. "Oh, God, really! That's awesome!" you laugh. "Well, you just do what I tell you to do with it. This stuff is dangerous—" "I thought it was just a 'psychological trick'." You hook some quotation marks in the air. "You want to be careful about what you let out. There's things inside you that—" She's interrupted by a chime from her phone. She takes it out to check. "It's your pedisequos," she says. "He's got the last of the stuff I sent him out for." Next: "Like a Boss" |
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