The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: Trick Or Trope: Chapter Two, The Invitations (Part 4)

Abstract: Every few decades every imaginable trope of All Hallows’ Eve gather at a special haunted house for one and only one mysterious purpose.

PART FOUR

Wicky entered the library and saw the raven ballerina spin on point in her bare feet. Her feet, long legs, some portions of her shoulders and head we bare skin. It was the rest of her body that was covered in feathers setting the ballet theme. It was interesting how the feathers formed a tutu, bodice and flightless wings. Wicky reminisced, thinking how she had tapped one of these types of girls eons ago. They were too hoity-toity to enjoy – except when there was someway to break their little arrogant hearts.

Wicky tightened her crossed arms hugging herself tighter with a satisfying freezing shiver. She was about to have fun with this girl.

Furries and animals in general were just not as good fucks like costume-cursed creatures. The problem for Wicky and her finicky witch gown was running out of original ideas. There were so few new costumes left to sexually consume. Maybe she would need to switch back to furries for a while. There were other options, but object sex was boring. Who wants to screw a statue or a mannequin or a love doll? Even if it contained a person screaming silently for help on the inside, it was still an inanimate object: ho-hum. And she already tried the obvious vibrating dildo category of imprisoned souls. Everyone always suggests the damn possessed vibrator option. That too was so-so.

It was the two-player sport of sex that made it work. Pinocchia’s nose sex was fun. Now the witch’s gown craved more but it couldn’t be the same. No repeats, so Pinocchia was out – until her next transformation anyway. What other ideas hadn’t been explored yet? Hopefully after All Hallows’ Eve she’d have some more playmate ideas to choose from. If things went well, Pinocchia was going to have another few decades of transformations.

Raven stopped spinning. “Oh, Wicky, I did not see you there. I bring another message from the furries.”

“Oh goodie.”

“They want younger humans, not seniors from some lame casino trip.”

“I don’t know who you have been talking to. Yes, there is a bus of seniors. Some cursed creatures prefer them because they don’t run as fast. But I do understand that some find it easier to get off rubbing against a nice firm young body. Some curses are hard to exchange, so younger can be easier. But we did have a deal in place. This should have been brought-up before.”

“If you want the help on Halloween, they’ll want some college kids.”

“Everyone wants students this time. It’s this century’s fad. Sure, why not? I’ll get you girls some college students.”

The ballerina looked a little surprised at how easy it was. She gave a curtsy and began to head for the door.

“But,” said Wicky, “there is one thing.”

“Yes?” The raven reacted to a spritz of water across her shoulders.

It was a potion. One that Wicky had so badly been wanting to try out.

“What was that?” asked the Raven trying to wipe it off.

Wicky calmly put away her atomizer. “Magical Mange.”

The ballerina felt dizzy, her feathers began to fall off. “No! What did you do?”

“It makes furry animals go bald. It works on feathers too.”

The raven fell to the floor. Her tutu had fallen into a pile of feathers. Her bodice feathers began to fall through her fingers. “Why?” She sat on her knees sifting through her loose feathers.

“I don’t like these last minute changes. Here put this on.” Wicky threw over a rubber suit.

Raven, now naked on the floor, looked the suit over. It had bat ears. “No! I won’t.”

“Fine with me. In an hour, you’ll start growing a beak on those pretty little lips. You know what that means.”

“I’ll go native. I’ll be trapped!”

“Yes. Your sexy little body will be lost to your birdie instincts. You’ll take a back seat to your own body as you watch it move about trying to be a bird – maybe even eating worms. That has to taste pretty bad. And, if you transform into a featherless bird, your body won’t know how to change back to human form. It won’t care. Who knows, maybe your body will try to build a nest. Tell me, what did you love most about being a raven.”

“The flying. The freedom in the air.”

“Well, put on the bat suit and you’ll have that.”

“It’s not the same. Latex bats can’t see or speak or…” The girl sobbed.

This wasn’t a fair choice and Wicky loved it. “It’ll take you a while to stretch into that suit, so make-up your mind before that beak grows in. Because then, it’s all over for you.”

“I’m just the messenger!”

“And you’ll send a very clear message indeed when you fly back. Of course as a costumed bat, they’ll reject you, but I know you’ll try. Former furries always find it so hard.”

The raven began too push her legs into the rubber suit. It was tight. She looked at the clock. There wasn’t much time to don the suit.

“Some girls take a half-hour to get into that thing,” warned the witch. “Better hurry and zip-up.”

“I’ll kill you for this.”

“No you won’t. You’ll be way too obedient. After all, it’s a slave costume.”

Wicky left the ravengirl alone in the library.

In this world, Wicky learned from her mentor, Witch Martha, to take a hard position or the world would walk all over you. She remembered how Martha hired a naughty librarian. What happened there was done too harshly. There must be a balance and Wicky vowed to only punish in a just manner. Of course, she had to be the judge.

The deal with the librarian was made over a hundred years ago. It was the day Snuggles had just entered the old spell room wearing her new catsuit. Even under all that rubber, the girl looked a little dazed.

Wicky remembered being an apprentice then, a blood slave on probation given a chance to prove herself. Until she did so, the slave dress was to stay on. Maybe that was Martha’s way to motivate her and Olive, the other candidate. Olive was already falling out of favor. Wicky was the one chosen to stay and watch the librarian at work.

“Come and sit here Snuggles,” said Martha pointing the girl to a large open book on a table. “Yes, sit right on the book. Don’t be shy.”

“So this is the volunteer,” said a woman in a stylish Victorian rear-bustled dress with a pair of pearl-chained spectacles. She reached her hand out to shake Snuggles’s hand, “Pleased to meet you I’m sure. I’m your naughty librarian, Miss Brown, but you may address me as Fiction, for informal brevity.” She paused showing a realization that Snuggles had no way of talking and was too skittish to greet anyone. She lowered her hand and then tried to do a quick cough to change the subject.

Wicky remembered being pulled over to the side by Martha, who then whispered, “Don’t mention this to anyone. Our lives depend on the vampires not finding that spell book.”

Snuggles repositioned herself unknowingly on top of the spell book. To her it could have been any large atlas.

“Let’s begin,” said Fiction. “Any special conditions or requests I should be made aware? You are, of course, the customer and I am here to serve.”

“Yes,” said Martha, “Just before Snuggles falls into the book. Pull the stitching thread free.”

The librarian examined Snuggles like a horse on sale and noted the tight string closing the rubber suit from the face down to the crotch. “I will need access to her nether regions to get her promotions running.”

“Of course,” said Martha. “Wicky, hand me the solution. This should loosen it.”

Wicky handed over a bottle of purple glowing liquid.

“Oh my,” said Fiction. “I have rarely seen this. Exciting. In fact, it has been a long time. This will be easy.”

The librarian popped the bottle lid and dripped the purple glow onto Snuggles. The liquid seemed to throw Snuggles into a frenzy of pleasure as the librarian positioned herself between the catgirl’s legs and slipped her fingers through the stitching at the crotch. She then gave the catgirl a long kiss against the rubber-hooded face. Tugging at the thread and pulling more and more of it out, the librarian guided Snuggles towards orgasm.

The catgirl reacted helplessly thrashing about in pleasure over the open atlas sized book. The white stitching began to move from the nose to the chin sealing the slit left behind into a perfect smooth finish. The librarian continued to finger the catgirl and periodically tug the threading so it moved down the neck, down between the breasts and down the belly. A smooth shiny surface formed.

“Very impressive suit,” said Fiction. “I assume she’ll be imprisoned in it.”

Snuggles reacted to hearing that but only for a second. The purple potion was too much to fight against. She returned to her silent sexual squirming.

“I like to tease them a bit,” said Fiction looking at the witch and apprentice.

Snuggles hips gyrated more violently. Her butt lifted up and then slapped down several times against the ancient parchment.

The librarian pulled the rest of the thread out as she removed her finger leaving Snuggles in a liquid shiny prison with a sexual fit going crazy.

The costume at the crotch had no seams. Her sex throbbed nearing orgasm, but the girl couldn’t touch it. Her hands felt helplessly between her legs finding only a smooth crotch as her body experienced a series of orgasmic convulsions. The book she writhed over began to glow. The catgirl’s smokey colored eyelids opened starring into the librarian’s eyeglasses. A trance connection existed between Snuggles and the eyeglasses, which was the real source of the librarian’s power. A miniature hurricane formed beneath the catgirl. It swirled in a storm around the latex body. Suddenly the cat fell into the book. She was gone. The glow, the storm and the rustling of pages stopped.

“Done!” said Fiction smiling at Martha and Wicky.

“Beautiful,” said Martha who approached the book and closed it. Snuggles pushed out from the closed leather cover as the book disappeared. “Perfect!” exclaimed the witch.

The catgirl searched the room.

“Leave us,” said Martha to the catgirl. “Go on.”

Snuggles jumped down from the table, stumbled back into a cabinet and turned to correct some bottles. Her long latex tail wagged as she darted to a crouching position to defensively confront everyone. She looked surprised as she shrank and became a black cat.

“So cute, now go,” said Martha.

The cat ran off.

“So I appreciate the business,” said the naughty librarian. “I received the payment this morning at the bank in town, so that concludes our deal. I’ll ride back now. Let me know if you need anymore editions.”

“There is one issue,” said Martha. “I need you to forget everything you saw here.”

“Sorry, I don’t go for brain washing. You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Not good enough.”

“Oh, it is I’m afraid. I’ve dealt with witches before. My dresses and perfumes are hexed. Your sprays and herbs won’t work, so don’t approach. Of course, I was in hopes that we could work together again. I see that is clearly not the situation.” Fiction backed out passed the cauldron and the cabinets getting closer to the cellar staircase.

“Don’t move,” said Martha pointing a wand.

Fiction laughed. “A wand! Witches do not possess wands.”

“Brooms are actually a wooden wand. Just movement. This one has transformation.”

“On the contrary, only warlocks long gone could ever zap a transformation. You’re delusional.” The librarian pulled some vials from a pocket and continued to back step to the exit. She held the vials ready. The glass test tubes were her loaded and cocked revolvers.

Martha zapped the librarian’s dress. The witch held the gnarly stick like a novice. A child shooting off a popgun would have taken the recoil better. But this was the first time anyone had seen such energy in centuries. Who knew the power it had. A glowing energy settled into the librarian’s full skirt. A second later, the dress sprouted tree roots holding it down to the floor.

“Impossible. I’m protected. I’m hexed to the hilt.” She tugged at her skirts as more roots grew around her.

“I have enough power to zap you into something horrible. Or you can stuff this hay down your dress. You’ll become a dormant scarecrow. You’ll have to voluntarily stuff yourself to get around all your hexes. It’s not that bad. Scarecrow curses help people forget things. That’s all. I promise to let you go after you forget what happened here. Just a few years. Done.”

“Beg your pardon, by fuck off,” said Fiction throwing a powder from one of the vials.

Martha waved her wand blowing the dust away. “It does motion too just like a broom.”

The growing roots reached up to the librarian’s arms.

“We had an agreement,” said Fiction.

“This is about survival. I’m offering you a way out. You need to voluntarily stuff your clothes with hay. Hurry, you don’t have much time. I also have a sack here for your head.”

Fiction pulled the cork of another vial, poured some in her mouth and spit.

The witch’s wand deflected that potion too.

“Maybe you can move things. Maybe you have an herb that grows these roots, but you can’t do anything to me. This is just a waste of time. I insist that you stop this now.”

“So be it.” Martha pointed the wand shooting a lightning bolt into the bramble of roots that now engulfed the librarian. The roots turned to powder, the dress fell empty to the floor, and something under the pile of clothes began to move around.

“Did you kill her?” asked Wicky.

“No. We had a deal. I just transformed her.”

“Is that legal?”

“Hush girl.” Martha kneeled and sorted through the clothes.

Wicky could only stand there in her hard shelled hobble dress watching as her mentor pulled a white octopus from the clothes and dropped the creature into a tank of water.

“There we go Fiction,” said Martha. “We should probably call her something else. We don’t want anyone to figure out who she is.”

The glow of the cauldron suddenly dimmed.

Martha stuffed the wand down the front of her dress. “That’s the problem. It takes a long while for the cauldron to build enough energy. Herbs are more reliable.

“Can you change her back?” asked Wicky.

“No actually. This is a strong curse and can only be undone in a certain moon light. Our spell book should be safe for a very long time.”

Martha picked-up the pearl chained eyeglasses and discarded them into the cauldron. The glow increased a bit as it absorbed the eyeglasses’ transformational powers.

Wicky understood that they needed to hide the spell book from the vampires. It wasn’t right though to modify a contract so capriciously. She looked at the white octopus moving around the tank. Poor Fiction.

“I know what we should call her,” said Martha.

* * *

Marcy was glad to be out of the pine box. Fog surrounded the house, but she didn’t care about the cold wind. She was lost listening to Danior lecture about he manor and its history. She really didn’t listen though. Watching his lips move occupied her mind as they approached a tunnel going under the house. She ignored the witch leading the way. What a strange outfit she had on. Marcy felt her heart pitter-patter as she crashed wonderfully into a deep high school-like crush. She realized Danior was still saying something. It was something about an ‘oubliette.’

“But I don’t know what an oubliette is?” said Marcy.

The vampire winked and said, “Just step inside.”

The girl smiled. She was overwhelmed by her trance as she entered the stone walled dungeon and waited as Danior helped Wicky down a few steps.

It was amazing to see a powerful witch crippled by a dress. Marcy watched the hobbled movements performed to navigate the random heights of the stone floor not meant for such fetish outfits and heels.

“Perhaps I should carry you,” said Danior.

“Fine,” said the witch giving her hands a little frustrated spasm stopping short of just throwing her hands up in the air.

Danior wrapped an arm just under the witch’s butt, lifted her and leaned her stomach against his right shoulder so her hat was angled enough to avoid the low ceiling arches.

Marcy eagerly followed behind facing Wicky, who looked awkward trying to find a comfortable place to rest her arms against Danior’s back. The witch’s dress was so stiff that her waist did not even bend. Being thrown over a shoulder like that, you would expect her body to hang down more like in the movies when a monster from the deep lagoon or a mummy carried off a poor damsel. It was like the witch was wrapped in a stiff tube. Marcy looked away since the witch seemed a little agitated. Maybe she didn’t appreciate Danior placing both hands on her ass. He was so cocky and hot. Marcy wondered if these two ever had a fling? The look of hatred in Wicky’s eyes said otherwise.

Marcy listened to Danior lecture more about the oubliette surrounding them and how it dated to Roman times. Wow. Maybe he built it. Vampires were so hot.

“Marcy,” said Wicky still uncomfortably riding Danior’s shoulder. “You might as well take your clothes off. Just discard them as we walk.”

The college student began to unbutton and unzip. She tossed her glasses to the ground, let her hair fall loose and returned to stripping down. It was an order and had to be obeyed. She kicked off her shoes, left her pants on the dirt floor and then ran a few steps to catch up. She pulled off her blouse and then popped the hooks of her bra.

“This is us,” said Danior lowering his shoulders enough to get safe clearance through the doorway for Wicky’s head.

Marcy threw her bra to the side. She wanted him to notice her now. Look, I’m topless. Just like you asked. She wished the witch didn’t hog all of Danior’s time with her silly fetish dress. As the student waited bare-foot naked in the dirt hallway, something creeping in the corner caught her eye. A small octopus with a spoon dug its way out of a hole throwing pebbles each way like a boroughing badger. It quickly grabbed Marcy’s discarded glasses, flashed several colors, and put them on. The stare it gave back at Marcy could have been either a question or a declaration of new ownership. Marcy didn’t care. Danior would notice her face better without them.

“Come-in girl,” said Danior.

The white blob with a stigmatism grabbed its spoon and fled.

“Now hurry,” said Wicky. “Up on the table, Marcy.”

The wood table could have been from Roman times – or maybe medieval. Marcy laid her bare body down and submissively waited while Wicky stirred a mixture of liquids and powders. The time allowed Marcy to gaze at Danior.

“Why am I here?” asked Marcy.

“We’re going to help you remember what happened to your family,” said the vampire.

Marcy suddenly felt anxious. Their mysterious murders always elicited some emotions her series of psychologists and psychiatrists tried many times to get her to share.

“I know it was horrible,” said the witch, “but what if we could show you who really killed them?”

“What? The police never solved that.”

“Don’t worry. It will all become clear,” said the vampire.

Marcy felt a wet mop slapping a cold liquid goo over her skin. Wicky dipped the mop into a bucket and sloshed more goo onto Marcy.

As this was done, the vampire held up an oil painting. It was a portrait of a woman. Looking closely through the Mona Lisa cracks and the layers of aging, Marcy saw a memory.

“That’s her!” said Marcy. The memories flooded in. Or was she being fed these memories? They seemed real. And the painting—that was her! The vampire.

Movement became even harder. She wanted to sit-up and point and scream. Silence and rigidity were all her body gave back. She felt Wicky pulling her wrists above her head and placing them into metal cuffs. The witch’s cinched legs worked furiously to walk the length of the table. The rapid steps gave her body the illusion of floating along the tableside. Marcy just watched. She still couldn’t move except to lift her head enough to see her ankles being put in to shackles.

The witch glided back. “You’re going to take your revenge deer Marcy,” said the witch touching the helpless girls forehead.

For Marcy, the touch was like a rush of knowledge drilling into her mind. She knew martial arts now, sword fighting, and different ways to kill. It seemed proper to think about killing the vampire that destroyed her family. There was nothing morally wrong about that. Just kill her: the monster who had left her there to be tormented with nightmares of blood and mayhem. Yes, she would kill that bitch. It seemed so logical.

She was rolled to her side. More wet brushing strokes went up and down her back and in between her thighs. Green goo was applied, layer after layer. Her muscles were numb, but her skin tingled and itched.

“Are you up for it Marcy?” asked Wicky.

Marcy took a deep breath and tried to talk. She then tried again and whispered, “I’ll kill the monster.”

Wicky smiled. “We’re going to change the way you look, so Vamps won’t recognize you. Unfortunately my little friend, I can’t just use my wand. You have to stay human, so we have to use herbs.”

“So I just wait for this to dry?” said Marcy so softly it was barely audible.

“Actually, I need to make your body rebuild itself. I’ll need to rip apart ever fiber. It’s going to hurt.”

“What? That’s crazy.”

Marcy felt her shackles tighten. She lifted her head. She wasn’t on a table, she was on a medieval torture rack. She watched Wicky insert a large lever into a fulcrum wheel to the left of the rack. The witch laughed using leverage to turn the wheel. She removed the lever and reinserted into another angled hole.

“First, we’re going to pull on you just a bit, actually a lot. What do the nurses like to say? Oh yes, this is going to pinch.”

“Wait! Wait!”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” said Danior.

The witch disregarded the vampire’s departure as she glided along the side of the table taking the long lever with her. She guessed the wimp knew he couldn’t hold back if there was blood. Vampires were so weak. She then removed the wood handle, repositioned yet again and started cranking it increasingly harder.

Marcy pleaded as her body stretched out and lifted off the table. The tension grew forcing her to scream.

“Oh,” said Wicky ratcheting the wheel some more provoking louder screams, “despite all the crap and people’s constant whining and blasted opinions, this is going to be a the best All Hallows’ Eve ever.”

* * *

Pinocchia nocked on the Head Maid’s door this time. She didn’t want to be rude. Instead she thought it would be playful to knock. She knocked again. It had been a full day and it was late, but she had been looking forward to spending time with her Frenchy friend.

Francette opened the door a crack. She wasn’t in her uniform – very naughty. Things were finally looking-up.

“Pinocchia?” said the maid.

“Hi.” She smiled back expecting the door to open more. Why was the maid being so reserved? They both knew why she was there. Let’s have some fun. And a second later it became clear that the moment was somehow awkward.

“Pinocchia, I spend the time with the boy friend. No?”

“Oh, um, yeah, sorry.” The puppet girl took a few steps back. “Sorry. You have fun.”

Of course the maid had the whole boyfriend thing going. Why assume otherwise? Of course, this boyfriend just happened to disappear right after the threesome in the tub and NOW he wants all of Frenchy’s time. It would have been nice, just once, after a day of talking with perverts, monsters, and criminals; to be with someone – someone like her. It wasn’t that much to ask for. Other people got that in life.

She muttered all this while thinking and pacing about the manor.

Along the way she saw slithering across the floor from the master bedroom, Octopussy dragging a pearl necklace. Pinocchia discounted seeing the creature and continued to pace. But was the octopus actually wearing glasses?

Downstairs, Pinocchia realized she lost track of where she was and that she had wandered into the trophy room where she had slept the first night. Dead animal heads decorated the walls and in the corners, stuffed creatures stood in a growling poses with their dead glass eyes. It was all creepy. Regardless, she found it actually relaxing and pleasing. Plus there was a couch to sleep on.

She curled-up all alone on the couch thinking how badly she wanted someone for herself, someone kind, like Francette. She would even consider someone a bit mischievous, like the mermaid.

The puppet girl could always sense kindness if a person had it. She wanted to share that warm feeling with someone. Fate, on the hand, always made it unavailable.

* * *

It was the day before the party and inside the new spell room’s fish tank, the mermaid’s body stretched-out across the coral floor. Several starfish strategically covered her sexual spots and one covered her mouth like an implantation victim in the movie “Alien.” Her body convulsed as if a starfish gang banging perpetrated the scene.

Wicky ignored the nonsense intended to provoke her. If there were time, she’d figure out a new way to punish the girl and stop the screwing around. Mermaids would do anything for attention.

As the witch patrolled the room gathering some ingredients, she found one invite she had forgotten to give Pinocchia. The address directed it to the woman the furries insisted, at the last minute, be put on the list; the woman who they said beat ponygirls. Hmmm, it seemed odd, because the woman, named Shelley, was so gentle with them. Wicky would have sent more girls her way if she knew they would be beaten.

Overlooking this invite angered Wicky. She pulled hard on a sash to ring the servant’s bell.

Forte entered the room.

“Forte, I need you to deliver an invitation. Pinocchia is out for the rest of the day.“ The witch used her wand to zap a candlestick. “Here’s your secret passage.” She then grabbed a random object. She didn’t care what. The prep-work tired her. Screw the themes. A wrench was handy and it would have to do. She zapped it too. “Here’s your key back.” She then handed over the fancy envelope and watched her Amazonian ponygirl leave.

It was time to get back to the Bunny costume. She was going to need to chop up some more sunflowers.

* * *

Forte was not used to doing these invitations. She simply obeyed.

Once through the secret passage, she found herself on the other side climbing out of an empty barrel and entering a large barn.

A petite jockey sized woman brushing a horse stood just outside in the sun.

“Don’t be shy girl,” said the woman directly to Forte and not the horse. “My name is Shelley. I’ve been expecting you. Come. I’ll take the invitation.”

“How did you know?” said Forte suspiciously handing over the letter. At least this errand would be easy.

“Oh, yes,” said Shelley looking at the scripted name. “Please, do me one thing. Add a plus-one to this.” She handed the envelope back. “No name. Just a plus-one or plus a guest. I’ve got some people in mind that Wicky would just love. I’ll choose one person extra special. I promise.”

“I can’t do that,” said Forte. “Only Wicky can invite people.”

“But you’ve been adding people left and right all week to these. So many plus one’s have been done.”

“Pinocchia’s been doing the invites, not me.” Forte thought about it. Pinocchia was probably given more discretion, but there was no way to add anyone without Wicky’s permission and she wasn’t willing to find out what punishment would await her if she did. “Sorry, I can’t.” Forte wished she had been given a cock ring or some other device, but this was just one guest, who cared if she attended or not. She started back into the barn wondering how a pipe wrench could be used to open a passage.

“Damn it. Where is the other girl? I want the girl who’s been handling the invites.”

“Show or don’t show,” said Forte. “I don’t’ care.”

The ponygirl watched as the woman thought something through followed by taking the reins off the horse being brushed. Shelley angrily approached. Forte got ready with the wrench. If this little shorty tried to whip or beat her, there was going to be some pain coming back.

“Don’t worry Forte,” said Shelley raising a hand to Forte’s face.

How did this woman know her name anyway? How did she make things seem so calm? Forte felt relaxed and tranquil. Too relaxed in fact. The reins clicked onto her bridle straps. No one had ever done that before and it wasn’t just any leather strap, it communicated to her latex costume. It was a set of reins from a real ponygirl costume. Forte felt helpless and submissive. She dropped the wrench.

“So you can’t do a simple plus one for cute little me?”

“It won’t work. Only people invited can come and I can’t add to the list.”

“Can you get the other girl here?”

“The passage only works once. Wicky’s too busy to make another.”

Forte tried to breath and calm her towering body. Her tail slapped around her legs. Her tall horse ears twitched.

“You don’t get it do you Forte.” Who is your mistress at this very moment? Remember I have your reins in my hands. You didn’t expect that did you?”

“No – I mean you control me right now of course, but how did you get those?”

“Thought so. Wicky didn’t tell you. She is selling you to me after Halloween. She’s tired of you I guess. Open your mouth. Let me see your teeth like a good horsey.”

Could this actually be true? Only a witch could make reins that did this. How did a human get these? Was Wicky selling her to this bitch the deergirls thought beat ponygirls to death?

Forte let the woman examine her latex covered body.

“Now I’m ordering you to add a “+1” to this.”

“I, I, can’t. Honest. I’m not allowed to. Only Pinocchia can do that I guess.”

“Fine! Go back home. I’m buying you though, but consider yourself already sold.”

“Yes, mistress,” said Forte amazed that she felt the need to obey. She sensed that the jockey girl wanted to give more orders, but somehow knew to hold back for some reason. Something wasn’t right here, but what choice was there? Forte couldn’t believe that she was actually agreeing to subdue herself on Halloween, the one night with monsters wandering the house.

Shelley pulled the reins off. “Just go.”

Forte felt defeated. Was this really her fate? Wicky betrayed her. The Amazonian ponygirl wanted to make a run for it, but she had to obediently go back. There were two masters now. She took the wrench. How did this work with conflicting orders? She wanted to smash things right now.

A garden hose line attached to a brass valve mounted against the barn. She applied the wrench to the coupling, searched a few red herrings and looked back at Shelley.

“Call me master from now on,” said the horse rider returning to grooming her thoroughbred.

Forte gave a twist to the wrench causing the spigot to leak water. Some boards in the wall opened. The ponygirl crawled through the opening.

When the boards closed, Shelley yelled, “Damn it! I needed that invite. I’ll get you somehow Wicky.” The jockey girl’s body turned ghostly ending an illusion in favor of Witch Griselda hiding underneath. Her angry look set the envelope on fire. It was useless to her anyway. The witched talked to the horse, who also went through a ghostly change revealing a bound, muffled and agitated woman: the real Shelley.

“So Shelley, would you like being a ponygirl or a real animal? If I had gotten a plus one, I would have ridden you to the party. Now I’m still stuck outside that barrier Wicky puts up around that house.”

The woman moaned against her ball gag.

“I know. I know. Actually I don’t. I don’t even care.” Griselda spritzed something onto the woman. “I’m certain someone will come to the ranch and find you grazing about. You’re rather isolated here of course, so it might be a few days. Imagine the police finding all those ponygirls tied up in that large barn. You should have beaten them. What’s the fun of a slave if there isn’t suffering. Volunteer subs. You’re sick.”

“Mmm,” said Shelley into her gag while twisting her shoulders against the ropes.

“Oh, the scandal when the town finds out. Police will be looking for you. Don’t worry. They’ll never find you – that is, know that they found you.”

The rope, gag and her clothes disintegrated leaving Shelley nude and falling to her knees. She tried to crawl to the barn. Maybe she was trying to get away.

Griselda thought it pathetic, a woman of means crawling like that. At least the rich woman’s look of panic entertained. It looked like the crawling gal began to realize her fate as her hands and feet turned to hooves and a brown and white splotchy pattern of fur grew across her skin. She must have realized the cow pattern forming when she screamed, “No!”

It was so yummy.

The witch, a perfect Miss Universe contestant, except wearing a cone hat and black gown; cackled with glee as she sat sidesaddle on her horizontally floating broom and flew away. She had a back-up plan and if she hurried, she should make it in time.

* * *

Pinocchia climbed out of a hollow at the base of a large oak tree. She found herself at the top of a hill in farm country in the shade of a haunting canopy of complex curled branches bending and twisting so often the wood personified agony reaching up from the ground. She liked it.

She opened a bottle of fog and poured the contents over a log fence that guarded a precipitous cliff. As the puffs rolled over each other and filled a section of a valley with a lonely road, she looked over the invitation package. Why did Wicky supply both a fog bottle and sealed invite?

The valley stayed silent and empty of people and even cattle. The hill she looked down from stayed quiet. A farmhouse and barn stood behind her not too far away. Who was supposed to enter the fog? And who was, she read the invite, “Machete?” Not a great name to see when standing on a lonely farm. Hopefully, he was old and retired.

She decided to check around and when approaching the barn, she heard the periodic rumble of someone trying to start a chainsaw. The motor revving at high speed was a cue to get some of her potions out, but purple orgasm in a bottle just didn’t seem too useful. The motor sound rapidly moved around the barn. It had to be the Machete guy and sure enough there is he was. If you wanted to know what Jason looked like without the mask, Pinocchia now knew. She ran.

“I’m just leaving this invite off,” she yelled back. More gas motor gurgling and revving ran after her.

She pulled at a closed barn door and turned as a chainsaw blade rammed the wood. She took off around some trees always hearing the saw motor roaring up behind her. The fog was her best bet. Worst case, skipping any dismemberment scenarios, she would jump from the cliff and fall into tomorrow’s Halloween party. She would get in trouble for missing the set-up, but did that really matter right now? She continued to zigzag through the trees.

The Jason want-to-be followed and at the cliff surrounded by whiffs of fog, he searched around the large oak tree. Almost giving-up, he looked over the log-beamed fence down the cliff’s edge. Pinocchia ran out of the tree hollow’s secret passage and pushed him over. The fog took him and his loud gas motor noise stopped instantly. Peace reined.

“Why doesn’t Wicky warn me about these wackos? Enjoy the party, Machete! I should really check the names before I go to these things.”

A pitchfork stabbed the ground not too far from her.

“I’m Machete,” said a woman’s voice.

Pinocchia looked from the steel tongs stuck in the ground up a long wood handle, and further up to a Daisy Duke lookalike, except for one thing:

“Why do you have a pitchfork for a leg?” asked Pinocchia.

“I love him,” was her answer as if that explained it all. She held up a small triangular trowel that replaced her right hand. Sensing something, she took her one good hand and pulled out a large knife from behind. “What did you do to my husband?”

“If your name’s Machete, shouldn’t that be the attached implement? I mean what’s up with the trowel?”

A confused look was the only response.

Pinocchia turned and looked over the fenced cliff. She pointed down in a panic. “He’s hanging right here for dear life. Help him!”

“Oh no!” Machete dropped her knife and ran over with a series of fork, pull, fork, pull, fork, pull. “Honeydew, I’ll save you.” She bent over the wood rail reaching her trowel hand down to where she thought her husband clung waiting for rescue. “I can’t see you in this fog! Honeydew!”

Pinocchia’s nose grew as she checked out Machete’s great sexy ass on display as it posed over the fence. Great shape – that is, despite the pitchfork handle replacing a sexy leg that should have been sticking out of her Daisy Duke shorts’ left leg hole. Before Machete wised-up, which could have easily taken a while, the puppet girl grabbed the pitchfork and threw the walking Home Depot tool shop down into the fog to join her chainsaw maniac husband.

Hopefully Wicky had a plan for these two.

Pinocchia took a deep breath. The hillside was so peaceful. Maybe it seemed extra scenic since at this point, as she double-checked her notebook; she had served her last invitation. She was actually done. In a day, she would be free.

Off in the distance, she heard a fast moving vehicle approaching; probably a pick-up truck or tractor. Who knew what reprobate this might be. She was concerned that the fog should have dissipated by now if Machete was the intended guest. There was still the envelope addressed to Machete. She never gave it to the pitch fork girl. Was there one more invitee?

The vehicle rounded the curve of the country road unknowing of the thick fog awaiting them down the curvy road.

Shit! It was a yellow school bus. She ran along the wood fence heading down a hill while waving her arms. It was some kind of football college team with cheerleaders hanging out the windows. The driver and the ruckus of students inside were oblivious to the costumed supermodel running across the muddy field waving and yelling frantically to warn them. She could hear the clamor from the energetic cheerleaders and the arguing trash talking players.

“Stop! Stop!” she screamed as she finally reached the road just behind the speeding bus. She took off again continuing her yells. Her suspenders pulled off her shoulders leaving her nipples visible through her shear blouse. She dropped her notebook and ran harder in her high heels. If she could have kicked them off she would have.

“Stop!”

The driver didn’t see or hear. One student just gawked through the back window and tried to tell his friend. The bus made the turn and plowed into the fog. The rambunctious colleges kids inside continued their loud talking and fighting unaware of the open portal to Halloween.

The hillside area returned to perfect silence.

“Shit!”

A bunch of college kids were not supposed to be included at the party. But why hadn’t the fog gone away. At that instant, the fog disappeared. She yelled into the air,

“Wicky! What are you doing?”

Overhead, unknown to Pinocchia, Witch Griselda had flown overhead on her broom searching the many farm valleys for a thick fog bank. Her inside information was sketchy, but at least it got her a rough time and place. A woman wildly waving her arms below finally gave away the location. She put her broom into a nosedive, approached the small compact fog cloud just after a school bus disappeared inside. She cursed as she flew through the dissipating vapors. She was too late. She pulled out of her flying broom dive soared up a hill and rammed through tree branches.

Stuck in a tree, she tried to reach her torn witch hat. Her perfect Miss Universe hairdo was also ruined.

“Blast!” Now there was no way passed the barrier.

After retrieving her notebook, Pinocchia stomped back to the tree and got ready to jump down into the secret passage staircase. She was hot and sweaty. Her costumed quickly fixed that with a bath of electricity.

“Thanks a lot,” she said sarcastically. She felt her nose. She lucked out, no growing.

Tomorrow night the guests, including the football team and cheerleaders, would be arriving at the manor. Anger and frustration built inside her. She knew Wicky had planned this. All the talk about justice was bunk. Wicky didn’t focus on the criminal or vain or immoral. The witch probably just had more fun tormenting such people—as long as there was access to some innocents too. Maybe the football team was just an easy grab for more humans.

With the long week over, Pinocchia’s body was exhausted begging her to just sit for a moment. It was blue skies and cool weather as far as the eye could see. Taking a moment to relax at the base of the tree and looking up through the leaves, she realized that it wasn’t one of those gnarly live oak trees that topped the hills in the area. She gazed across the dried ground under the canopy. The tree had scattered this year’s harvest – shoot, and the dang things would probably stain her red shorts. She got up and checked her stockings and the rear of her shorts. She swiped her hands a few time to bush away any leaves or dirt.

Another muddled memory popped to the front of her mind as she stared at scattered fruit. The memory took her back to a point where she looked up through her hair falling over her face as she crawled on the floor someplace, somewhere. She couldn’t recall the details, but it was there where she got a glimpse of Wicky’s silhouette against a bright burning light.

“No one will ever say your real name ever, ever again,” said Wicky.