The Magician's Bitch, Ch. 1

 

Chapter 1: A Magical Mishap

 

‘Damnit. Damnit!’

It’s the first thing I hear, the first sound. One moment I’m crossing the street, the next I’m elsewhere. No flash, no flame, a mere transition. Cold stone beneath me, a stink of sulphur, something fleeting like ozone, an electrical buzz setting a rhythm into the calcium of my bones. Warm golden lights, torch sconces on walls, flame burning above the metal, no obvious source.

‘Azarlia, you prostitute,’ a man says, voice gnarled and rough, dusty, ancient. ‘Goddess of magic my bunghole, filthy fucking shit-show of a deity.’

I push against the stone with my hands, sitting myself upright. The chamber is round, floor a series of flagstones. One side has a staircase, rising both upwards and downwards, concealed by a length of wall. Surrounding me is a heptacle, a seven-pointed shape. A man, bald but for wisps of grey hair around his liver-spotted scalp, ruffles through the pages of a great tome upon a desk between two floating golden flames. His robe is black, forming rolls around his sandalled feet.

‘Mugwort…tannic essence…nymph milk…set of words…’

He snarls, angrily slides the book to the floor. A pair of amber eyes set upon me, nestled beneath two great bushy eyebrows, grey and curling wildly. The ancient man, skinny but for a noticeable pot-belly, growls at me. His thin lips pull taut against yellowing teeth, stubble on his jaw meeting descending hairs born of two wide nostrils set in a crooked nose. Large ears sit either side of his mostly-hairless head, tufts of thick grey protruding like declarations of exasperation from each ear.

‘You,’ he says, bitter and aged. ‘A boy. You hiding your shape? This a trick, demon-whore?’

‘Wha–’

‘Azarlia be damned.’ He hangs his head, sighs. ‘Whole realm of sex-demons, and I get one who thinks the most attractive form is a skinny bearded fella.’

‘Sex-demons?’ I manage, in a single motion, to get to my feet. There are windows to this chamber, high and small, but the world beyond the glass is black. ‘Where?’

The old man chuckles. ‘Heh. You and me both, boy. Suppose you’ll do.’

He gestures, dispensing with his robe; it goes somewhere, somehow. Out comes a pale body, saggy and wrinkled, with a hairy belly and chest, overflowing armpits, a jungle of pubic hair. Between his legs hangs a pair of billiard-ball nuts, sagging halfway down his thighs. Before them droops a flaccid penis, a wizened wrinkled thing topped with a fat bulge in a hood of foreskin. I immediately avert my eyes, passingly aware of how large his cock is.

‘Suck it,’ he says.

‘No. What the fuck, man?’

The old man wets his thin lips, and points down. ‘Suck. It. That’s a command.’

‘A command? Who the hell are you? Where am I? I want to go back home!’

He bores into me with his eyes, a kind of madness shimmering across them. The old man seizes his flaccid cock, flopping it about, jutting it towards me. ‘Knees. Cock. Mouth. Go.’

‘What? The fuck is this?’

At last he sighs, and hangs his head. ‘That ritual took two damned years.’ A gesture returns his robe, another creates a stool, and the old man drops back onto it. ‘You’re not a demon, are ya boy? That’s why the commands don’t work. You ain’t bound.’

‘No…I’m not,’ I say, scratching behind my head, flicking my ponytail in the process. ‘I’m…I’m Max. From Earth. From England. Do you…do you know anything about that?’

He shakes his head. ‘Think we both got conned, boyo. Some sneaky slut musta fiddled me. You came here, she went to your word.’ The old man rises, strong despite his apparent age. He dusts his hands together. ‘Well, boy. Suppose this is your new home. I’m Archaelaus, former greatest magician of the Nine Realms of Gauhn.’

‘My…magician…can’t I go back?’

‘Tonight? No. Eventually? Maybe, but I’d have to look into that and I’m a notorious procrastinator.’ He gestures wide. ‘Make yourself at home, I guess. Good to have company, at least. You eaten yet?’

‘What? But…’

Earth, gone. I pinch myself, remain here. No dream. The sulphur smell, the ozone, the electricity, has faded. What remains is the mustiness of books, the faint herbaceous glamour of dried ingredients. Warm, despite the cold stone. I shudder, making sense, slowly but surely, of what will likely take a long while yet to accept.

‘Come on, boy. Let’s feed ya.’

 

The tower has seven stories, basement excluded. He takes me past two libraries, a cosy sitting room, ultimately ending in the kitchen and dining room. Archaelaus prepares a small feast of fruits, cheeses, meats, breads. I eat, because I’m hungry, because there’s nothing else to do. It all seems so real.

He talks, and talks, and talks. His first company in ages. ‘Had a servant girl, ’til I got handsy,’ he says, with no apparent remorse or self-reflection. ‘Had to move the tower, then. Musta been sixty years back.’

‘How old were you?’

Archelaus shrugs, gestures uncertainly. ‘Oh, two-ninety?’

‘Two-hundred-and-ninety?!’

He smiles, nods. ‘Former greatest magician, didn’t I say? Well, see, that was because back at the Neihmalt Academy, some snotty little bitch went and tattled when I managed to knock up her and her–’

‘Is everything about you somehow tied to your inability to keep it in your pants?’

Archaelaus waves dismissively. ‘Pfft. They love it.’

‘Sounds like they don’t.’

He lifts a wild eyebrow to me. ‘Boyo, you know how easy is it is get girls when you’re the greatest mage in the world? Penny a dozen.’ He leans towards me, conspiratorially. ‘See, that servant girl? Wanted to be my wife. Archaelaus the Magnificent? He don’t do wives. He does booty-calls. Got no time to settle down, see?’

I can’t help but smile at his brashness. ‘And the academy girls?’

‘Well-known fact that consuming my semen accelerates the development of magical abilities. So girls – and more than the occasional boy – tended to be willing to work for, let’s say, “extra credit”.’ He makes a suggestive motion of those ancient brows, smirking all the while. ‘Only these two girls, they wanted my kids. Sure, can do, but when I refused to pay my share – not a legal requirement, y’see – they got parents involved and it all came out that I was feeding students loads and well’ – he gestures widely – ‘here we are today.’

I put down my fork. ‘Eating your sperm really gave them greater powers? Why weren’t you bottling and selling the stuff, man? You’d be minted.’

A dark, somewhat mischievous grin prevails. ‘So…sperm, half of a new life, male half…it carries the man’s lineage, his essence. You follow. In a man like me, it’s…well, my essence is magic, the raw shit. But…while every one of my loads carries my lineage…I may or may not have held back the magical essence.’

‘Cheeky fucker.’ I stare in disbelief. ‘You spread a story that benefitted you.’

He taps the side of his skull. ‘Well, sonny, them’s the breaks. Shouldn’t slut yourself out to an old man for a taste of power. By all means, slut around, but do it earnestly. Word from the wise, m’boy.’

We eat a bit more, he talks more, and inevitably I’m entertained by the old man. Stories of lords, ladies, great spells cast, greater ones unwoven. Heroic journeys, deeds – mostly not his, though he often reaped his manner of rewards; young men, young women – and the list goes on. On the surface, loneliness would seem his greatest concern, not lust.

‘Why a sex-demon? Why’d it fail, if you’re so great?’

He smirks. ‘I’ll pretend you meant that nicely, boyo.’ The old man folds his arms. ‘Well, for starters, sex-demons can switch the whole kids thing on or off, which is a plus. They’re bound to their masters – enslaved, if you will, but they fuck to live so bugger ’em – and have no interest in mortal affairs like power or money. Better yet, they shapeshift, so you ever get bored, BAM, new model, same mind. No retraining, no sir.

‘As for it failing…see, the spells to bind the buggers come from other demons. Usually, that’s fine, but in this case, looks like I got conned. Some head’ll roll, no doubt, when the traders get word of it.’ He sighs, shakes his head. ‘Don’t matter how talented you are, when the spell itself is a trick. Humans don’t write the demon-world spells, and vice-versa, so they gotta be traded. Ah well, I’ll get another. Ain’t like I lack for time.’

‘You’re…two-hundred-and-ninety?’

‘And three, yeah.’ Archaelaus nods. ‘Immortal, believe it or not. Ageless, at least.’

‘But you’re old?’

He grins yellow. ‘Am so, sonny. Am so. Was eight-five when I got the spell right, and bested time and death. Ageless at eighty-five, forever. Bit sprightlier, I’ll say, and vigorous besides.’ Archaelaus shrugs. ‘Kinda like it. Age-play always was a thing of mine…’

 

He talks on, and when I finish, he talks further. Eventually the old mage shows me to the former servant girl’s quarters, off to the side of the kitchen. It’s a surprisingly cosy, comfortable room, with a washbasin, wardrobe, warm bed. Tonight, it’s all too tiring to bother with solutions.

We part ways, I lay down, and sleep comes quickly.

I dream of Earth, dream of home, dream of the stories woven by the old man. A brain, making sense of a new existence, temporary or otherwise. Inevitably, sex dreams occur, spurred on if nothing else by Archaelaus and his crude talk.

The strangest dream occurs: I’m walking along, suddenly aware of my bouncing chest. Huge, heavy breasts, G-cup things, sag weightily from me. My beard is gone, but I’ve still got my cock, and it’s hard. It seems to grow, stretch, until burrowing between my chest, thrusting somehow of its own accord, telescopically rising up and down, up and down. It hits my cheek, a wet sticky kiss, and I wince.

‘Ughn.’

Archaelaus.

I open my eyes onto darkness, unable to move my hands, tied as they somehow beyond my head. My feet, the same, are locked against the posts at the base of the bed. There’s warmth, heat, a powerful pulse between my breasts. Breasts. I have breasts now. What the fuck, no way, it’s an illusion.

‘Oof. That’s the ticket. Ugh.’

Something moves between the great pillowy mounds of flesh that are unmistakeably mine. The heat of it, the strength of its throbbing, mark it obviously. A smell hits me, a tang, a muskiness, a potent old-man stench. I shiver, shudder, reason with my imagination, but his hands squeeze into my fat tits and those enormous testicles bounce against the underside, dragging back and forth upon my belly as he thrusts himself through my novel cleavage.

‘Archaelaus,’ I say, to the shape slowly coming into focus above me. The naked old man, hairy and flabby, grinning wide in pleasure. ‘Is this…is this real?’

‘Real as your cock, sonny.’ He chuckles, grunts. ‘Real as that world you came from. Real as my spell that failed. Ughn.’

I glance downwards just in time for a huge bell-end, a slick ruby apple, to kiss my chin with its sloppy eyelet. Oh, God. Jesus Christ, he’s hung like a donkey. Jesus Christ, he’s fucking my tits. Jesus Christ, it…feels weirdly good. I gasp, pant a little, writhe futilely against the unfelt-yet-unyielding bindings. His hairy balls swing and drag, his fat lengthy staff of a cock pistols and pulls.

‘Why…why’ve I got…got boobs?’

He sniggers. ‘Because you needed ’em for this, sonny. Big milkers to milk me big. Ugh.’

‘Stop. Please.’

‘Nuh-uh. No way,’ he says. He thrusts against my neck, trailing a slimy splatter from the top of my bulging bosom to my clavicle. ‘Staying here, free of charge? Nope. You do this for me. Help me out. That’s our deal.’

‘I don’t want this!’

Archaelaus chuckles. ‘Cock sure is hard. You sure seem excited.’

‘It feels…it feels…’

‘Good,’ he says, nodding. ‘Be weird if it didn’t. Pleasuring the greatest magician in the world right now, sonny-boy. You should be thanking me.’

‘Former…you said…uh…former.’

‘Still the most powerful.’ Archaelaus grunts, poking my neck. He rubs the tip about, slathering my skin in sticky wetness. ‘Ughn, you’re a lucky boy, boyo. Ugh, so lucky.’

Something about his hands, about his thrusts, makes me gasp, moan. ‘What’s…what’s happening?’

‘Gonna come, Max. Gonna come from me fucking your busty-boy milkers. So do it. Give in. Come for me, come for daddy.’

‘Ugh…Jesus…Christ…’

My hips buck, and a thick load shoots volcanically out of my nuts, spilling out over my balls, my pubes, the base of my belly. At the same time Archaelaus thrusts and grunts, a massive groan leaving his thin lips, and his balls rise and fall against the underside of my breasts. A splatter of heat follows, a burst of it, a thick heaviness that pours out of his twitching member, plastering the top of my chest, pooling and immediately overflowing from my clavicle.

It shoots in ropes, knotted heavy strings, part jelly-like solid and part mayonnaise-thick ooze. The ooze leaks, the jelly hangs, forming confetti strings from my clearly hairless jaw and chin, from my shoulders to the pillow. So much sperm, such a huge and ancient load, so musky in its stink, so tangy, a potent old-man concoction.

Exhausted from the force of orgasm I lie back, dirtied with his ejaculation. Archaelaus chuckles and climbs off, cock softening. My boobs, slick and sperm-laden, rest down into my chest. The bindings fade, and I exhale mercifully.

‘See ya in the morning, boyo.’

The pervy old mage laughs as he departs, and slumber eclipses me.