Mab About the Boy
By Captain Eazy
6
“Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts,Keep his brain fuming; Epicurean cooksSharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite.”
The phone rang, and Maeve took it on the second ring. “Hello?”
An urgent male voice: “Look, I’m driving over, okay? But we can’t go out.”
“Michael? Is that you?”
“You know it’s me! Listen, I’m just gonna stop in for a minute, see? I know I owe you an explanation and all, but I really can’t take you out tonight, because there’s something I’ve promised to do.”
“I know,” Maeve said in an angelic voice. “You’ve promised to take me out.”
“Maeve, please.” He sighed and it sounded as though he tried to make his tone deep and reasonable: “Look, you’re an adult. You know how things are. Let’s face it, some people appeal to other people, and some just don’t. It’s something you have to accept, that’s all. Now, don’t cry or anything, okay?”
“I’m not crying,” she responded sweetly. She glanced at the clock. “You have fifteen minutes to get here. Where are you?”
“Um, on Biscayne, heading south, near the park.”
“You should be able to make it, then. Shut up and drive.”
“But I really want to tell you–”
“Tell it to me when you get here.” Maeve thumbed the “end” button. She replaced the phone in hits charging cradle and frowned down at it for a minute. Then she went back into the bathroom and stared into the mirror. “You there, my Queen?”
“Yes.” The willow-clad form was almost completely transparent, barely a glimpse in the depths of the mirror.
“Look, I’m gonna need some help with Michael. I’d take the wand with me, but, you know–”
Mab laughed, a sound like distant silver bells. “But you don’t want to be conspicuous, and I agree it would be a very bad idea. At the best, people would think you’ve gone quite mad over the Harry Potter books. Very well, let’s arrange things so no wand is necessary. First, I am going to increase your . . . appeal. Ready?”
Wow. The power spilling out from the mirror hit her in the center of her chest, soaked right in, and made Maeve quiver from head to foot. She had never felt so alive, so much in control. She took a deep breath, and it was so sexy to do that she nearly came standing right there. She saw her reflection relax and give an indecently lascivious smile, and in the sultriness of her own curving red lips she saw that Michael wouldn’t have a chance. “Thank you,” she breathed, her breasts moving interestingly beneath the thin silk, their nipples clearly outlined.
Mab’s voice sounded even thinner, farther away, than it had: “Now, just for tonight, I shall grant you the power to do as you will, without the wand’s help. I cannot do this often, or for very long, mind: my world is short of power, and it is a terrible drain. But if things go well, if you do as I ask, we will absorb energy as you . . . play with Michael. This is an exchange, then. Use it as you will, but know that with the coming of the sun tomorrow morning you will lose the power, and then you must use the wand again if you wish things to change.”
“Okay. What do I do?”
“You will know. Just think of the way you would like things to be, and they will become so. And remember, you are carrying more than human glamour about you. That will be an immense help, but you do have limits. Don’t do anything too foolish or extravagant.”
“I won’t. I love you, my Queen.”
“I love you, my pet. And now that boy is just outside your house. You had better go to meet him.”
Right on cue, the doorbell rang.
“Holy shit!”
Michael stood on her doorstep, his jaw practically dragging on the welcome mat, his eyes bulging as he took her in, standing hipshot in the door, her left leg straight, her right knee bent. “Let’s go,” Maeve told him, stepping out, clutching her tiny purse, deliberately letting her body brush against him so he could tell by touch what his eyes had already taken in: that underneath the gorgeous thin white silken dress there was only her. “Come on, I’m hungry.”
He had swivelled in place, but hadn’t made a step toward the car. He floundered, waving his hands in the air. “Baw—beebaw—buh, but I just came to tell you I’m buh, busy—”
“Michael, please,” she said, pausing impatiently by the passenger door of his red Pontiac G8. “I am very hungry, and you are taking me to eat. Let’s go.”
“I, you, uh, we . . . okay,” he said in a small voice. Lurching out of his trance, he stumbled around and opened the passenger door for her and she slipped inside. She watched him walk stiff-legged back around the front of the car and numbly climb in behind the wheel. “Listen, listen, Maeve, there’s something I’ve got to tits you–tell you. There, there, there was some, something I had to—”
“No,” said Maeve complacently, “not something; there was someone you thought you had to do. That little slutty freshman, Louise. But you aren’t going to do her any longer, so you might as well forget about it. Drive.”
“Uh . . . o-okay.” Michael backed out of the driveway and followed her directions as if he were a mindless zombie. Maeve smiled to herself, enjoying his pole-axed reactions, his strangely subdued demeanor. She decided that she liked him meek. He drove, but as she very well knew, he didn’t notice anything about the trip, not road signs, not scenery, not clouds flashing past half a mile beneath the tires. If he had, he might have wondered how in hell they had started from her apartment house in Florida and five minutes later parked in an astonishingly convenient spot right in front of a stately red-brick restaurant on the bank of the Seine in Paris, with the blazingly illuminated Eiffel Tower in clear view across the river. None of that phased him at all. Nor did he seem to notice that his light blue sport jacket over an open-necked knit shirt and his baggy pair of torn jeans changed as he dutifully walked around the car to open the door for her: by the time she stepped out, giving him a very generous flash of thigh, he was wearing a stylish, sharp dark charcoal-gray suit.
The maître-d’, a matchstick-thin elderly man with a wild head of white hair looking rather like a dandelion ready to be blown, straightened his back as they approached. His cold look thawed at the sight of her, and he gave them a deep and graceful bow. In French, Maeve said, “Good evening, sir. We have no reservations at all, and we impose on your politeness. Still, could you please find a table for the two of us?”
He responded in an awed voice, also in rapid French: “But of course! Oh, just to look at you, I feel young again! You have such beautiful round tits, young woman, and such an elegant ass! Now I can die happy, for I have seen perfection!” His face turned a flaming scarlet as he caught himself and pressed his fingers to his lips as if trying to keep more enthusiastic compliments from spilling out.
“What did he say?” asked Michael, his brow furrowed. He looked worried.
Maeve remembered that Michael had barely passed the minimum requirement in language, one term of Latin for science majors. She kindly translated: “He says we’re lucky. They’re very busy tonight, but he has a table for us.”
“Oh.” He fidgeted and then as though he were trying to make small talk, he said, “Sure got dark early this evening.”
Maeve didn’t bother pointing out that seven p.m. in Florida was midnight in Paris. The little old maître-d’ showed them to a primo table in the very center of the main dining room, an opulent place with deep maroon wall coverings that looked like plush velvet, round tables scattered about, each one lit by a single weeping candle, and a small crowd of people enjoying late-night dining and drinking, murmuring to each other and laughing softly. Eyes turned their way as Michael held Maeve’s chair for her and she slipped demurely into it. The sommelier brought the wine list, moaned as he stood near Maeve, and swayed in his tracks when he heard her voice. “I’ll order for us,” Maeve told Michael. “That will make everything simpler.” Switching to French, she ordered cocktails, a Black Rose for herself and a Pernod and water for Michael. She also found a wine that would go well with the meal she was planning for the two of them. The sommelier walked off, crouching slightly, and a moment later their waiter, a trim, short, balding man of about fifty, brought the menu, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Maeve. Gulping audibly, he gave her a deep Gallic bow and whacked Michael in the face with the menu he was offering.
Michael grabbed and unfolded it and sat staring uncomprehendingly down at the bill of fare. The only things he could make out, Maeve guessed, were the prices. Even in Euros, they were impressive. “Hey,” Michael said worriedly, “this place looks damned expensive! I can’t pay for this kind of meal!”
Without even looking at Michael, his eyes still glued to Maeve, the waiter murmured a polite, distracted “Monsieur?”
Maeve smiled at him, making the man stagger like a sailor on a ship in a force 9 gale. She toyed with a wanton tress of her beautiful hair and said reassuringly, “Cet imbécile pense que vos prix sont trop chers.”
Hastily, the waiter said to Michael, “Non, non!” He could not bear, it seemed, to tear his gaze away from Maeve for more than an instant, and turning back to her, his expression that of a man on the verge of joyful tears, he murmured devotedly, “Ah, mademoiselle! Vous êtres vraiment belle! Vos seins, ah, vos seins sont si grands, tellement juste pour le nourisson! Pour vous, il n’y aura aucune dépense. Ah, ah, si je pourrais mais une fois vous plier dans le lit, et plonger mon bite dans vous! Je t’adore, mademoiselle!”
“What?” asked Michael, with the pained expression of ignorance.
“He says don’t worry about the cost, they have a lot of specials tonight that are really very affordable,” Maeve told him. She didn’t bother to translate the bits about her shapely tits, the waiter’s desire to suck them, or his wish that he could fold her in bed and plunge his dick into her. She smiled sweetly at the older man and said, “Bien, bien. Merci. I’le parié vous pouvez satisfaire une femme en utilisant votre languette longue.”
“What?” repeated Michael plaintively.
Maeve waved him off, not bothering to tell him that she had just assured the waiter that he looked like the kind of man who easily could get a woman off by the skillful use of his tongue alone.
But the waiter had understood. He eagerly said, “Mais oui! Oui, ma chérie! Si je pourrais te lécher—”
Maeve gave him a brilliant smile and a friendly nod, but in truth she did not intend to let him take even the one little lick he suggested. Still, she could give him something to dream about, so she said, “Peut-être plus tard je peux sucer quelque chose à vous. En ce moment, nous voudrions te dire ce que nous voulons en tant que notre repas.”
With a deep and grateful bow, the waiter responded, “Merci, maîtresse. Merci mille fois.”
To Michael, Maeve said, “Since you don’t speak the language, maybe I’d better order.” She did, and the waiter nodded, whimpered, and approved each course. He bowed, repeatedly, and backed away, like a peasant in the presence of an empress.
Michael shook his head. “I can’t get over the way you look! Have you done something to your hair?”
“Thank you for noticing,” said Maeve with a smile, patting her new silvery coif. She looked around casually at the other tables. Even at this late hour, the restaurant was still nearly full, candle-lit couples whispering, some kissing or holding hands. Except, Maeve saw, all that had tapered down to a standstill. Their table was now the center of attention. Every man in the room was staring at her with apparent lust. Most of the women were glaring. At the very next table, a man of about thirty-five sat with a younger woman, maybe twenty-five or a few years younger. He kept glancing at Maeve and sighing, quite evidently enraging the beautiful younger woman who sat with him. She was really a lovely young thing, exotic, perhaps with Gypsy blood in her, black-haired and dark-eyed, but right now she stared at Maeve with smoldering resentment, her brows knit and her mouth turned down in a furious frown.
Maeve smiled at her. She idly ran her nails down the outside curve of her glorious right breast, her fingertips whispering along the taut silk, as she pursed her lips in a kissing gesture, and gave the dark woman a wink.
The woman actually rocked back in her chair as though she had been physically slapped. She seemed to try to focus as she moaned, “Ohh. . . .” Then she blinked, and her eyes became wickedly, lustfully hooded. She opened her full lips in a red, round “O” and ran her tongue slowly, lecherously, all the way around before closing her mouth, her white teeth clenched tight on her lower lip, her head thrown back as if she were on the verge of climax, and her expression became one of abject pleading: Take me, please, oh, take me!
Maeve turned away from her as the first course came: an appetizer of gougeres, together with their cocktails. The warm cheese puffs were delicious, the raspberry tang of the Black Rose perfectly complementing them. From there they went on to an endive and pear salad, to a rich oyster soup, and to duck a l’orange, all set off with a tasty, oak-aged Château Mayne Vieil Cuvée Aliénor. They finished with demitasses of espresso and a scrumptious chocolate mousse. By the end of the meal, Michael was so far under her spell that he didn’t even ask why they could leave without paying. On the way out of the restaurant, half a dozen men and two women reached out longingly to touch, to stroke and caress, Maeve’s hips, her thighs. They left in a cloud of murmured pleas and endearments.
Back to the car, and once behind the wheel, Michael asked in a stunned voice, “What now?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Maeve said carelessly. “Feel like fucking?”
“Wh-what?”
“Because I’m in the mood,” Maeve said. “Let’s go somewhere a little less private.”
“Huh?”
“Just drive.”
A moment later they were zipping north next to the Atlantic, and the sky had become lighter again–well, it was still only early night in Florida. “Where does Louise live?” Maeve asked Michael.
“Where does–why do you want to know?”
“We need a place to fuck, don’t we?”
“I, I, I couldn’t, I can’t, I couldn’t–”
“Here we are.”
Groggily, Michael looked around. He had stopped the car, or anyway it was stopped, in the drive of a neat little Florida bungalow. “This, this is her-her-her–”
“Come on,” Maeve said, opening her door and swinging out of the car. Michael stumbled out on his side, too. “Come here.”
He walked stiff-legged to her and said, “She’s looking out the goddam window!”
Maeve waggled her fingers at the house in jolly greeting.
“Are you gonna, like, kiss me here where she can see us in the light from the porch? Make her jealous?”
“Not exactly.” Maeve reached out, his trousers vanished, and she grabbed him by the cock. “Come along.”
Using his flaccid member as a handle, she led him up the walk and to the front door. He followed her silently, fascinated, unable to hold back or resist. Louise opened the door as they stepped onto the low porch. The freshman looked wide-eyed and pale. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to fuck Michael,” Maeve explained casually. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Huh?”
“Just let us in.”
“Louise,” Michael said desperately, “I swear I don’t know why I’m doing this!”
“You’re not doing anything, noodle boy,” said Maeve, waggling his useless wang tauntingly. “Not yet.” They stepped into Louise’s living room, which was not very tidy. The TV was on, tuned to “NCIS.” Louise had evidently been sitting on the floor–a bag of microwave popcorn and a half-full bottle of Miller Light were still there.
“I thought we were gonna hang out,” Louise whined to Michael.
“Sit down,” Maeve said. “Turn off the T.V. Sit back down on the floor. You can watch. You might learn something.” Louise couldn’t resist her voice, and she obediently switched off the T.V. and settled cross-legged on the floor. She was wearing shorts and a tee top that showed her boobs to good advantage. Maeve barely glanced at her, though. She shoved Michael against the couch, his legs buckled, and he sat down bare-assed on the leather sofa, wincing.
“It’s cold,” he said in a small voice.
“Get a hard-on for me,” Maeve said, finally letting go of his cock. She shucked off the white dress and stood absolutely, gloriously naked except for her red high-heels. She looked down at Louise. “Whose tits are better, Louise, yours or mine?”
Louise’s eyes were almost perfectly round, like a cartoon rabbit’s. “Yours,” she said. “Omigod!”
‘“Thank you. Come on, get hard for me Michael! Work it.”
Michael fumbled with his privates, as if he had mislaid them. His jacket hung down in the way.
“Oh, for God’s sakes,” said Maeve. “Get naked!”
And he was. Just like that.
“Get hard!”
“Umgghh,” he groaned as suddenly his limp dick became a quivering, Guinness-record boner. “Mggghh!”
“Okay,” Maeve said, cheerfully straddling him. “Now fuck me.” She settled herself down. As she had known she would, she maintained a supernatural control: her pussy immediately made itself wet, flooded, ready, and she glided down onto his huge erection with the grace of a dove alighting. Michael desperately began to pump.
“Michae-llllll,” whined Louise.
“Sweetie,” gasped Maeve–Michael’s cock was really very, very nice, and she had already cum just from the penetration–“you aren’t going to get any more of this. But that’s okay. ‘Cause you’re gonna go full-tilt the way you’ve started. You’re gonna be the slut of sluts, darling. Beginning tomorrow, you’re gonna offer yourself to every man you see. And if they take you up on it, you’re gonna fuck them all, too.”
“What?”
“You are.”
“Umm . . . yeah,” Louise said dreamily. “Yeah, that sounds good.” She giggled. “His cock is making all like squishy noises inside you!”
“Go ahead and cum,” Maeve told a purple-faced Michael, though she was not yet ready to cum again herself. She felt his rod spasm inside her, felt the hot jets of his jism. She chuckled in her throat. “That’s one, my Lady!” she muttered.
7
That orgasm was the first of . . . many. Six times, Mab had told her–that was the minimum. Somewhere around nine repetitions later, Maeve lost count, but they kept on, well, coming, and by the end of the night she would estimate that it had to be at least a dozen or maybe even more. Michael fucked her four more times in Louise’s living room, once as she lay on her back, legs spread wide, and a spellbound Louise watched them, munching popcorn, and then once more doggy-style, with her luscious tits swinging wild, and then he took her as she stood on one leg, the other hiked up on top of the sofa, and they finished with her riding him like a bronco in a reverse-cowgirl. After that she dressed them both and, leaving a dazed Louise behind, they drove to the beach, where they skinny-dipped and fucked standing up in the surging, salty water, Maeve’s arms and legs wrapped around Michael and her glorious boobs flattened against his heaving chest. They dressed again, drove around for a while, and when they passed an all-night porn theater, on impulse she made him stop the car and led him inside and to a seat in the fourth row. With the power that Mab had ceded her, she was giving Michael extra stamina, but even so he was hoarsely pleading to stop.
“Nonsense,” she told him. “The night is young.”
She had him drop his pants and sit next to her in the theater, his legs outthrust and his hips forward. She made him finger her pussy, quickly getting off on his inexpert touch because she had jacked her own sensitivity to such a high level. She enthusiastically beat him off, and when he came with a groan and a jerk, his jism sprayed so high that you could see the shadow of the drops sailing across the screen, where a guy was making it with three fairly unattractive girls. “Would you two please stop?” said a querulous voice. “Hey, Pee Wee, tell your girlfriend to knock it off.”
Maeve didn’t look around at the man standing at her elbow. “Who are you?”
“I’m the manager,” the man growled. “Would you two please–oh. Oh! Oh my God!”
It was kind of nice, Maeve thought, to be jerking Michael off–again–to her right, while simultaneously she was giving the manager standing in the aisle to her left a nice handjob. Two big fat cocks warm in her clasp, though Michael was squirming hard now every time she squeezed and milked him. The manager actually collapsed to the floor in a dead faint as he climaxed. Michael stayed in his seat, but this time his trajectory was lower. He was losing power.
“Let’s go,” she said brightly. “Change of scene will do you good.”
Four o’clock in the morning, or thereabouts. They parked in front of the police station, and she had him sit in the passenger seat. She gingerly sat herself on his lap, directing his cock–now not nearly so thick and hard as formerly, even when fully erect–into her tight asshole, a whole new experience for her. She moved up and down on his rod, fingering herself, taking the friction as she pulled off him, then sinking back down carefully. Her clit throbbed, and she came at every stroke, very nice, really. Beneath and behind her, Michael was nearly weeping.
Three times different policemen came over to the car to ask what was going on. “He’s just fucking me up the ass,” Maeve responded politely, with a dazzling smile for the minions of the law.
Each time the cop, looking momentarily puzzled, but then said, “Oh, okay. Carry on, kids,” or something like it. She made him cum twice more that way.
Then she dragged him out of the car and made him sit on the hood, masturbating. She took off her dress again, everything but those scarlet fuck-me shoes, and danced for him, caressing her own dazzlingly beautiful tits, displaying her bawdy stiff nipples in the red light from the neon POLICE sign overhead, urging him by word and gesture to frig himself harder and harder, until his hand was only a blur. He sprayed her naked body with lashings of hot cum. The thick, creamy flow of milk began as she squeezed and pinched her nipples, and she made him suck them, caressing his hair. The enchanted milk gave him the strength to jack off and spurt on her at least three times, maybe four. By then Maeve had just about lost count.
It went on all night. Then, as the dawn began to pale the eastern sky, a satiated Maeve finally dressed herself. “All right, Michael,” she said. “We’ve had our fun. But you know what? I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other any longer.”
“Whaaaa?” moaned Michael. His cock was so red it looked as though it had been boiled. It could have been cradled in a bun and sold at any ballpark in the country without anyone suspecting a thing. He sat slumped on the sidewalk, still right in front of the police station.
“You can’t fully satisfy me, darling. I need more than you have, I’m afraid. I need someone who can stay really, really stiff, and go all . . . night . . . long. And just pump me full of lovely cum. Not just give me a measly eight or nine or dozen orgasms.” She stood over him, back in her beautiful glimmer-white dress again, and reached down to pat his head. “Look, you’re an adult. You know how things are. Let’s face it, some people appeal to other people, and some just don’t. It’s something you have to accept, that’s all. Now, don’t cry or anything, okay?”
“Hah?” Michael could hardly speak. Ever since swallowing her milk he had seemed to be only halfway aware of the world around him.
Maeve glanced toward the east. The sun was not quite up. Maybe she had time for one last little trick. “I think you’re all fucked out, darling,” she said sweetly.
“Uh-huh.” His face seemed to have turned permanently purple, and sweat tracked down it in gleaming runlets.
She petted his soaked hair again. “Don’t worry. From now on, I don’t think you can use that thing for fucking any more. I think it will only be good for peeing.”
“Hunnhh?” Suddenly, with a wild look, Michael sprang up to his feet, gripping his floppy cock. And he started to pee. A yellow stream hissed out, in full, strong flow. He was peeing on his own car, the stream spattering and steaming against the headlight.
A policeman came out of the station, gave them a casual glance, and then paused gawping at the top of the steps, and then ran down them, his face a mask of outrage. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I can’t stop!” Michael yelped.
“You can’t piss out in the open like this! It’s against the law! Stop it!”
Michael turned toward him, pleading incoherently.
The cop jumped back. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you pissed on my legs! Stop it!” Furiously, he turned on Maeve. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He drank a lot of French wine last night,” Maeve said innocently.
“Is he your boyfriend? Stop it! Damn it, stop pissing!”
“No, Officer, he’s not my boyfriend,” Maeve said. “We just had this one date.”
“What the hell is wrong with him?”
“I don’t know. It might be the wine, or it might be that we fucked about a dozen times. Fucking makes men have to pee, doesn’t it?”
“Uh–sometimes.”
Maeve tugged her dress up. “Let’s do an experiment. Fuck me and see if you need to pee.”
“All right.” The cop unzipped and let his cock bob out. He was tall, and Maeve braced against the car to take him in. “My God, you’re great,” he panted, thrusting for all he was worth.
Not bad, not bad. Maeve squirmed lasciviously, rippling her muscles, urging his cock to blast its load. The policeman threw back his head, yelled, and let loose with a hot rush of semen.
“Please,” begged Michael off to the side, still peeing. “Help me!”
“That was lovely,” Maeve said as the cop’s deflating cock slipped out of her pussy. “Do you have to pee now?”
“No. No. But my God, what a great experiment!”
“Help me!” Michael begged again, frantic. The stream of urine was now shooting out in a yellow arc ten feet long. He turned away from them.
The cop sounded apoplectic: “Now you’re pissing in the face of the statue!”
True enough, a bronze statue of a ruggedly handsome cop was taking a steady stream right in the choppers.
“I–can’t–help–it!”
“Put a cork in it or something!”
“I can’t stop pissing!”
“That’s a vulgar word,” Maeve said. “Make him call it something else.”
The cop nodded. “Stop, uh, widdling! That’s an order! Cease your wee-wee in the name of the law!” He zipped his trousers up.
“God damn it,” groaned Michael, who was now jetting a stream a full twenty feet into the air, “I can’t stop number one-ing! Don’t you think I’d stop tinkling if I could! I don’t want to tee-tee any more, but I can’t help it!”
“Now it’s getting silly. Well, I’m leaving,” Maeve said. “This is so embarrassing. And I thought he was a nice guy, too. Do anything you want to him, Officer!”
Desperately, Michael spun around. “Maeve–”
The officer shrieked, “Stop pissing on me! Pardon, lady!”
Idly humming the Scherzo from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Maeve strolled away. She walked through the park near the police station and paused at a round fountain, not active at the moment. She looked down into the dark mirror-like water, which reflected her cheerfully tired face and the paling sky of pre-dawn. “Did I do good?”
Mab shimmered into view. God, she was beautiful. Now she wore a only ochre and black paint, in stripes across eyes, breasts, and privates. “You did very well,” she said. “Only we don’t want your world drowned, so I’m going to stop your boyfriend’s flow now.”
“Oh, well. Okay.”
Far behind her, she heard the distant sound of a dozen cops dealing with a suddenly arid Michael.
Mab said, “I rather liked the spell you put on the Louise girl. She’ll enjoy herself, anyway. But do you really think it should be permanent?”
Maeve wrinkled her nose. “Maybe not. I don’t even care if she gets Michael back, really. He wasn’t all that good in the sack.”
“We’ll find you better lovers.”
“Okay. So let Louise off the hook . . . after a week?”
“I shall see to it. And I’ll release Michael from his curse of impotence in, oh, another week. Now I’m going to take you back home, Maeve. You really overdid it on your first night as my votaress, my vicaress on earth, and you need to rest.”
Somehow, with no sensation of movement at all, Maeve stood outside her own apartment house. She had misplaced her tiny handbag somewhere along the way during the frantic night. No matter. There was just enough time left for her to summon it magically, and it appeared in her hand. She unlocked the door, Tybalt scrambled out, and Maeve went inside. Yawning, she opened Tybalt’s food, made sure he had water, and then let the cat back into the apartment. “I’m going to sleep,” she told him firmly. “No noise.”
She shut the bedroom door, locking him out, and went into the bathroom. She stripped off the dress, and it became her terrycloth robe again. Naked, she reached down to unfasten her high heels–and they were just flip-flops once more. Sun was up, enchantments had ended. Just like Cinderella. She kicked out of them and then showered the sweat and the crusts of dried cum off her peach-beautiful skin, brushed her teeth, and staggered to bed. Michael’s cock had been . . . well, an experience. Not quite her first, and in her limited experience easily her best–she had given two guys handjobs before and had dry-humped another boyfriend, though Michael had taken her flower in a technical sense–but his prick was not really as satisfying as she would have liked. Already on the cusp of sleep, Maeve smiled to herself. What she really would like, what she really needed, was another hot session with Her Highness. That woman’s tongue . . . magic . . . .pure . . . magic . . . .
Still smiling, Maeve drifted into sleep and the most delightful erotic dreams.