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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Sunday Dress Up"  Oh God! He's so heavy. So thick and hard and rigid and heavy. Your son's penis heaves inside you, wedging you open for the flood to come. It has the weight of bone and the power of hard-packed muscle behind it. You groan and throw your head back and close your eyes as Alec forces himself deeper into the tender tissues out of which he and his brothers blossomed. You dig your fingernails into his sinewy back and pull him tightly to yourself. His hot breath billows off your face. But even as you buckle beneath him, and twist to take him in deeper, and guide him to those spots where your membranes itch and buzz and spark with unspent electricity, in the back of your mind you can't help comparing him to his father. For rare is the weekend that doesn't open with Victor and Heather Brown prying each other open and pouring themselves into each other. He's trying to impress me, you can't help thinking. He's the young stud, the young buck, and he's trying to impress me, to show me he's the only one who can satisfy me, that I shouldn't even look to anyone else. And he's trying to mark me too, trying to grind the shape of his member and the stink of his discharge so deep into me that any other male whose penis comes sniffing around will snap back in fear and awe of him who came before. Oh God, he's about to cum. Oh he's got the body for the job, as if you ever doubted your boys would lack that, oh no, Heather girl, you never doubted and now you know he's got the girth and the depth and the stamina and power and—Nngghhnnn!—the presence, oh yes, he's got the presence. His daddy was a wiry one, like a spring-loaded stallion, but Alec—Mmph!—and Eric, too, they've got my grandpappy's genes. Oh, he was a bear of a man, and Alec thinks being a bear is enough. Maybe every boy thinks that, thinks it's enough to let the spirit animal out and rampant, his daddy thought so too, first time we met, first time I let him, he came at me like a starving wolf after a little lamb. Oh sweet Lord, those nights in that dirty little motel just off the beach, those nights and afternoons when we staggered back, sunburned and salty, and tore each other raw on those awful, scratchy sheets. But Victor learned finesse, and now— Oh! he conducts me like a maestro! Call and response, call and response, he calls and I respond, I call and he— Oh! Ohhh! A deep breath, Heather, a deep breath, gather it up, gather into you all he's spending and—! You bite hard into the tense muscles that join Alec neck to his back and shoulders, to keep from screaming aloud as a blazing singularity opens in your loins. To blazes with call and response. Sometimes you just want the kind of hard fuck that hammers you into jelly. * * * * * "So how many girls at school have you done that with?" you ask him afterward. You're standing in the hallway, in the three-way junction where Alec's, the twins', and their parents' bedroom doors face each other. You didn't linger in bed after you and he were finished. He pulled out almost immediately, and rose, and smirked in your face as he showed you his dripping hog before turning away and padding out to cross the hallway into the bathroom. With a creaking hips and stiff legs you'd risen to follow, snatching up the sweatpants and underwear that you'd torn off in your hurry to get his hairy cock up and into you. In the master bathroom you rinsed yourself out and off until you were cool (but warmly satisfied) throughout, then removed your make up and washed your face all over with a wet cloth so there'd be no obvious flush of sexual satisfaction showing. The clothes you dumped in the hamper (where they mingle with clothes that have Victor's musk on them) and you changed into fresh ones. When you reemerged from the bedroom, you found Alec loitering at the junction, balancing bashfully on the sides of his feet with a secret smile tweaking his lips and a mischievous glint in his eye. But he flinches and rolls his eyes at your question. "Aah, Jesus," he mutters, "you're not going to—" "Alec Jacob," you warn him. "Shut up, Mom," he retorts. "I'm not gonna go eat any soap for saying that, not after what we just did." The smirk flares anew on his lips. "That help you out any, Will, help get you out of character?" "I'm not trying to get out of character, hon," you correct him. "If I wanted to do that I could just—" You let out a short, sharp sigh. "I thought we wanted to change our characters. Convert them. Leave them the same but change them to be—" You step up close to him, until you can sigh hotly into his face, the way he had sighed hotly atop you in his bedroom. "The kind of bad people who'd dedicate themselves to Baphomet," you tell him. He grins, and takes your lower lip between his teeth. "Mmph. 'At's right." You chortle a little, then pull away. "Well, I'd call that a start. Now, how about you show me those magic wands again. I think I can handle one now without wetting myself." He touches the side of your breast with a fingertip, and turns back to his room. You follow, sniffing at the tang that floats in the air, and as he takes the box down from his closet you roll a window open to let in a cool, fresh breeze. "Get you some freshener in here before anyone gets back," you warn. "Don't you forget, now." "Yes'm." He takes out one of the wands. "Here you are." You take it without hesitating, grabbing it by the shaft. It's solid but not heavy—not as heavy as Alec was, surely—and you slide it over the palm of your hand, and rub and squeeze it. "How does it work?" "It's not a machine. It doesn't 'work'. You do the work. It just gives you something to concentrate on while you do it." "So what kind of thing do you do with it?" "Just about anything, I think." He pulls at his nose. "The two main things we need to do with it first are, to open up some portals, and to meditate on them." "Portals?" you ask him sharply. "What kind of portals?" "You're not going to freak out on me again, are you?" You answer by waggling the dildo in his face. "A portal for Baphomet. It's not like opening a doorway into Hell," he hastens to add, "or into another dimension. It's no physical door. Like I told you, it's all psychological. People think in physical terms," he continues, and it sounds like he's quoting something. "So to imagine Baphomet making himself manifest in your living space, it helps to imagine, and to make, a door for him to come through." "And he comes through?" Despite yourself, you feel a cold twinge of misgivings. Alec gives you a look. "I told you, it's psychological. There's no thing to come through. It's just a visualization to help the manifestation of the inner powers that, um—" His brow furrows. "You are seeking to express." You feel your eyebrows go up. "Sounds to me like someone needs to do a little more close study of his devil-church readings." Alec makes a face back at you. * * * * * He talks a little bit more about how to use the wand to make a door, and he shows you the spot in the closet where (he says) he has already drawn one, but he suggests waiting until the entire household is securely yours before making any more. He also describes a meditation ritual, which involves gripping and caressing the wand, that is supposed to firmly fix in the adherent's mind that the door is real and that something real is coming through it. That too, he thinks, should wait. And when will the next move come? It doesn't, until some hours later. The twins have returned, but only briefly before running out again to meet up with friends. Eric you've not seen, but he prefers to keep to himself in the spare room over the garage. You're curled up on the couch in living room with Victor's arm around your shoulder as you watch a travel show on the TV. You glance over as Alec goes padding through the room; a moment later, you hear the side door shut. A few minutes later, your ringtone goes off in the other room. "Oh, peanuts," you sigh, and heave yourself onto your feet. "Don't stop it," you tell your husband as he reaches for the remote. "I wanted to make myself some nachos anyway," he replies. Your phone is in the study, and you frown at the name over the text: It's Alec. What's he texting you for instead of—? A little light goes off over your head. "Take your time with the nachos, sweetheart," you tell Victor as you pass the kitchen on your way out. "Make them good and deluxe for us. Somebody stained something in Eric's room, and I have to go take a look at it." He gives you a wry smile. The side door in the dining room leads into the side yard, where a wooden staircase rises up the side of the house to the spare room over the garage. You mount it and tap at the door; it flies open and Alec, looking flushed and excited, hauls you inside. His brother is splayed out on the bed, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Your second-born son, it looks like, has been prepped to join the Brotherhood. "What do you think, Will?" Alec asks you. "You want him, or leave him to me?" Next: "Developmental Psychology" |
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