Cantrips: Volume #1: Minor Magics Crafted to Amuse and Entertain

by Joey W. Hill

  Jess reached for her own building response desperately, knowing it was there, just out of her reach, that submissive’s pleasure that came with surrendering. The flogger tails flashed out and Amara arched harder this time, making Jess gasp at the increased pressure against her sex, the building friction.

  “Now underhanded, love,” Amara managed. “Please.”

  Jess didn’t fully comprehend until Enrique took a step in, changed his stance and swing. The straps slapped the inside of Amara’s thighs...and Jess’s. She jumped, the sensation tingling up between her legs, but Enrique had followed that strike with an immediate second one. It struck Jess’s wet labia with a smack of sensation that had her pushing into Amara, increasing the stimulation to her clit by the other woman’s. “Oh. Oh.”

  “Our pretty little slave likes your technique,” Amara said when Enrique paused after five more strokes. Jess had let out a small moan on the last one, and Amara’s voice was a bit strained as well.

  Enrique arched a brow, idly swinging the flogger against his cocked hip. “I don’t hear her asking for more.”

  “Ask for more,” Amara suggested, catching Jess’s ear in her teeth. “Please Goddess, ask for more for us.”

  “More,” Jess managed, her voice quavering. She thought she might be about to split apart, divided between the way her body was reacting and the maelstrom of feelings this was stirring inside of her, a cyclone starting to turn faster and faster. So much pain and mental damage had been done to her like this, but Enrique was skillfully making it clear how much it hadn’t had to be like that. But Raithe had been a sadistic bastard, a demon who was even now laughing at her somewhere, because that darkness was grasping at her with dry, sharp fingers, trying to pull the pleasure away from her.

  She fought it. This was different, a wholly new world discovered in herself. But the dark was welling up on all sides, threatening it. She whimpered as Enrique resumed, because she was afraid of where her feelings were going, and what would happen when they got there. What would break loose with the physical explosion of a climax?

  She cried out this time when the straps licked up between her legs. She didn’t know if Enrique gave the order, but he must have, for Amara freed herself and backed away, kneeling nearby as her husband resumed the flogging, but now only on Jessica. Jess saw the flogger flash out, watched the straps hit between her legs, and moaned again.

  “I can’t...” No. She could, and that was the point, right? She could do this. She just hadn’t expected this clawing spiral of irrefutable arousal to be so tangled with all the rest, as if the nightmares were coming to the surface with the orgasm. That tidal wave might overwhelm her, take her on a wild, thrilling ride, but when it got to shore, it would drown her, pummel her.

  She lost time, her body bucking with the movement of the lash, getting heavier and needier by the moment, her ability to speak prohibited by the roar of that storm.

  When Enrique paused again, a breather, she tried to marshal her thoughts, form words, but then Amara was there. The woman bent, cupping Jess’s breasts in her capable, long-fingered hands, and began tonguing Jessica’s nipples. Enrique took a seat on a stool to watch. When he braced a leg on one of the higher rungs, it outlined the prominent erection beneath his slacks. He twitched the flogger in his hand, a warning of more to come.

  That, and the merest touch of Amara’s hands and mouth, made Jessica cry out again. Everything was gathering, centering in her core. For days her body had been brought to a near-boil by Mason’s nightly calls, held there by her anticipation and longing of his return. She hadn’t had a single climax since he was gone. Now she was so perilously close to one, and it seemed they’d barely started.

  A moment later she realized she was wrong about that. Apparently, it had been over an hour. Enrique had managed a commanding and masterful tone quite easily, but it was nothing compared to the silky and dangerous words that resonated through her mind now.

  Habiba. That one word was enough to send shivers down her spine, make her heart leap into her throat. Her pussy tightened on its own emptiness, contracting on all the ready moisture there.

  You will explain to me what you are doing. Right after you get down from there and put on some clothes. Now.

  Part Three

  Intro: During the time this vignette was written, a reader was offered the chance to win a “walk-on” part. The winner, Helen (“Shyness” on the JWH Connection fan forum), gave me a few basic facts about herself, and I interwove fact and fiction to create this section. We had quite a bit of fun with it. It’s kind of a “step into her shoes” scenario, where each of us can imagine a chance encounter in which we not only get to meet a favored character, but help him out in some useful way (grin).

  Because of the timing of it, this part featuring Helen was placed about an hour BEFORE Mason is within range of Jessica’s mind. So he hasn’t yet discovered what Jessica is doing, as noted at the end of the previous segment. After this part with Helen, we return to where we left off with Jess. Don’t skip this segue, however! As noted above, Helen’s participation provided a key revelation for Mason that is pertinent to the later sections. So here we go...

  §

  Helen Shyness slipped her feet out of her heeled sandals and buried her toes in the deep carpet, marveling at the lush feel of it, as well as the rest of her opulent surroundings. She still couldn’t believe she was on her way to the American Geophysical Union to accept an award for the climate science paper she’d published. She hadn’t expected publication to happen for years after her thesis, let alone receive an award. Hell, she’d been delighted to simply finish her PhD. The greatest prize she’d anticipated from that was no longer hearing, “How’s it going? Are you done yet?” from her well-meaning family and friends.

  However, this prize, as well as the full course treatment that AGU had arranged to go with it, was serious icing on the cake.

  After making a landing from the long crossover flight from Australia, she’d been braced to wait for her connection in the crowded main terminal. Instead, she’d been escorted to a waiting area reserved for dignitaries and other parties traveling by private plane. Since it was late, at least in this time zone, she was the only one here, with the exception of an attractive, well-groomed concierge in a snugly fitted dark suit. The woman was standing behind a desk, ready to respond to Helen’s every need. At first, the concierge had made her a bit uncomfortable, in that way that occurred when you were the only two people in a room. That awkward expectation of having to interact. Even in this, though, she was pleasantly surprised. The woman stayed discreetly busy at her desk, giving Helen a sense of privacy she appreciated.

  She liked not having to talk to anyone as she looked at the comfortable reclining chairs and sectional sofa arrangements, accented with coffee and end tables that she’d have expected in a well appointed living room rather than an airport terminal. No chairs bolted to the floor in rows. No fluorescent lighting. There were lamps on the table that threw warm yellow light out for reading. There was even original artwork placed between the dim bronze wall sconces, and potted plants with a profusion of greenery and tropical flowers. She’d taken a closer look at a couple of spiral topiaries, digging in among the ivy to check out the forms, despite the concierge’s sidelong look. She’d just finished creating a topiary of a sea monster in her own backyard, one that looked like it was about to dive into her manmade pond. On the flight over, she’d passed the time looking through a big book of forms, trying to decide what she’d do next. It was a solitary hobby—her favorite kind.

  All that aside, the fancy surroundings and VIP treatment made her glad she’d dressed up a bit for the trip. While she normally preferred her long sleeved T-shirts and jeans, before she landed, she’d changed into a favorite pair of fitted trousers and a medieval style top in swirling blue-green color, the sleeves flaring just past the wrists. The ensemble was enhanced with silver and teal jewelry that brought out the blue in her eyes. She hadn’t yet taken down her w
aist-length brown hair to brush it out and do a better job of re-pinning it, but as she took a seat on one end of a comfortable-enough-to-nap sofa, she found her brush in her bag and set it on the arm so she could do just that. She might still be a few hours from her destination, but she wanted to look damn good to reflect the way she felt inside. Deeply satisfied that all the hard work she’d put into earning her PhD, writing her thesis and pushing for publication had been worth it.

  Because she had time, though, instead of doing her hair immediately, she decided to put on her ear phones and listen to her iPod. As the Metamorphosis track filled her head, her fingers played the notes out on her knee. She loved the music, which she’d heard on Battlestar Galactica, one of the plethora of sci-fi shows she preferred to watch above any other genre—she was a scientist, after all.

  Heaven must be like this. A quiet room provided with every comfort. A panorama of windows, the darkness and jeweled lights of the airport coming through like a star-filled sky at eye level. It was so...satisfying, to be relaxing here, being treated like someone important, while at the same time not being so inundated with attention that she couldn’t have this isolated moment of time to savor it without interruption.

  Of course, everything was temporary. A surge of air told her someone had opened the door to the waiting area. She squelched the twinge of disappointment, trying not to resent the interruption of her fantasy, being queen of her airport domain. She hoped it was no one who would feel the need to be sociable with her. She cracked open an eye. Reflexively, both eyes came wide open.

  Okay, she really was in a fantasy dream world. Because if this bloke was part of the amenities of this room, she was never leaving. Award? What award? She was keeping her ass right here.

  He was well over six feet, which meant he’d be taller than her 5’ 10”—six feet in her heeled sandals. That was a point for him already. His long hair was the color of a tiger’s copper-gold markings, with the silken texture of a horse’s well-brushed mane. Despite being pulled back and held by a silver buckle tie, a few strands of it had worked their way forward, gleaming across one broad shoulder. He wore belted gray slacks and a dark turtleneck that molded to his upper body and told her he was extremely fit. When his eyes briefly turned to her, it gave her a start. Those amber eyes were not made in nature. She thought he must wear contacts, but the idea didn’t seem to suit him. Despite his awesome appearance, he didn’t give off vain, pretentious vibes. It was almost like his appearance was an effortless afterthought. If he was a woman, she’d have hated him on principle. But in this case, Helen could only admire.

  There was an impatient and very physical energy emanating off him as he nodded shortly to the concierge. She’d asked if he wanted a drink.

  “Whiskey, neat,” he said. His voice was a tiger’s purr. He moved like one, a flow of movement as he went to the window and studied the small plane she expected was his, pulled up to the refueling dock. Setting a briefcase down on a chair, he paced restlessly. Since he seemed oblivious to her after that cursory acknowledgment, she was more than happy to take advantage of her apparent insignificance to stare at him.

  Then, abruptly, he turned around and looked straight at her. It took a concerted effort to hold her ground rather than shrink visibly back into the sofa, but she managed to look reasonably inquiring and mannerly as he cocked his head. He didn’t speak at first, taking in her appearance from head to toe. The intensity of his gaze was riveting to say the least, and she wondered what kind of important personage or dignitary this guy was. If it wasn’t for the aura of reserve and authority around him, she’d say he was a larger-than-life rock star. But she suspected he was some kind of Middle Eastern prince, despite the Western dress. She could almost imagine Bedouin robes on him, and she wasn’t typically that fanciful. Well, okay, she did like watching all manner of sci-fi shows, from Battlestar Galactica to Firefly, so she supposed she was capable of a wide imaginative range.

  “Metamorphosis,” he said. Then nodded toward her hand, which had stilled. “You play the piano.”

  “I’m learning.” She wondered how he’d heard the track, since she didn’t have it on that loud, but as she spoke, a faint smile touched his firm mouth, distracting her.

  “You’re Australian.”

  Outside Oz, people often mistook her for British, because her dialect wasn’t as pronounced as a lot of her fellow countrymen, but she expected this guy noticed a lot of details others didn’t. “Yes.”

  “I have a friend whose servant is Australian. He’s from Queensland, originally.”

  “Is the servant your friend as well? Or is he just a servant?”

  She sucked at small talk, and had a terrible tendency to latch onto an intriguing facet of the conversation rather than following the mundane flow like a normal person. As a result, she had to deal with the consequences. In this case, him lifting a brow, his gaze sharpening on her. She’d just made herself more interesting to him. Strewth, what had she been thinking? If she’d stayed as unremarkable as wallpaper, she could have just watched him to her heart’s content and not had to worry about being in the spotlight like this. Even more harrowing, he moved over to the sofa and sat on the opposite end. Though there was still the space of one cushion between them, the way he sat sideways, putting an ankle on his knee so that he was fully attentive to her, made him feel unbelievably close. He smelled good, a masculine, clean scent flavored with something exotic, like sandalwood. “He is a friend as well. I owe him a debt, for he helped protect someone very precious to me.”

  “Your wife? Girlfriend?”

  His eyes gleamed at the perception. “She is a servant, too. Which means something very much like wife or girlfriend, in my world.”

  “Oh.” That was a pretty intriguing comment as well, but she wasn’t sure if it meant what she thought it meant, so she figured she’d better not test those waters with her admittedly limited interpersonal skills. Realizing she must appear rude, she pulled the ear buds out of her ears. Come on, Helen. Don’t back away from this. What’re the chances you’ll ever be in this situation again? Even if you make a fool of yourself, you’ll never see him again. “Are you going to her now?”

  “Yes. Not nearly fast enough.” He shifted, stretching one long arm across the back of the sofa. God, did he realize how much he appeared like a sprawling tiger? She would almost believe the man could shape shift into such a beast right before her eyes, complete with lashing tail and a heavy ruff begging for hands to sink into the thick fur, feel the powerful muscles of the neck and shoulders. Those fangs so close, eyes so still and vibrant.

  “What does servant actually mean in your world?”

  That faint smile again. “If you are going to ask such direct questions, I expect you should give me your name.”

  “I’m sorry.” Helen felt color tinge her cheeks. “I’m just really bad at small talk, at stuff that doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “I did not say I was offended. Your name?” He lifted a brow, and Helen felt a frisson of warmth go through her at that direct gaze, the hint of command in what should have been a polite request.

  “Helen.”

  “Helen. Lovely. Were you going to brush your hair?” He nodded to the brush at her elbow.

  “Oh, yeah. I thought about it, so that I’d look presentable when I land at the next place. People will be meeting me at the airport there, with a limo and everything.” She flushed, wondering why she’d said something so ridiculous to a man who obviously rode everywhere in limos.

  “I like to watch a woman brush her hair,” he observed. “Do not let me interrupt you. It reminds me of home. Of my habiba. She is growing her hair out long now as well. Watching you brush yours would be calming.”

  Helen blinked. Was he really suggesting she should go ahead and brush her hair while he watched? And instead of recoiling from him, as she normally would from a intrusive stranger with a hair fetish, she was actually thinking she wouldn’t mind doing that in front of him. “You kind of look i
n need of calm,” she ventured, playing for time. “I guess you really miss her.”

  Instead of responding, he remained silent, studying her in that steady, intent way. She realized her palms were feeling a bit damp. Crikey, he was compelling her to brush her hair, just by that silence. Funny, but she was sort of okay with it, despite it being kind of a forward, intimate thing to do in front of a stranger. Now, instead of a tiger, she was imagining that Bedouin prince again. Inside a tent of silken walls, lounging back on cushions in a robe, the top loose enough to reveal a section of impressive musculature across his chest, the hint of shoulder architecture. His amber eyes were gleaming, watching his favored...servant, brush her hair. Those eyes and his regard would get more heated with every stroke, until that heat swept over his “habiba’s” skin. As she brushed her hair forward, blinding herself with the thick fall of it, his lips would brush her bared nape. He’d take the brush away and comb his fingers through her hair instead, tightening his grip to tilt her head back, back, exposing the throat, until his mouth came down on hers as he stood over her.

  What does servant mean in your world? He hadn’t responded, but she had a feeling she knew exactly what it meant in his world. Yet she knew she was going to do what he wanted, as if nothing that happened in this dreamlike moment was wrong or misguided. So she unpinned her hair.

  As it tumbled to her waist, it flustered her, how attentively he watched its track. If his servant did such a thing for him, she expected she was completely naked when she did it, her hair caressing bare skin. “I’m actually thinking of cutting it,” Helen said, noting her voice was a bit thick. She cleared her throat. “Once I get back home, that is. Easier to care for and all that. You know, it’s really unnerving, the way you’re looking at me. Can’t tell if it’s making me nervous because you’re looking at me like that, or because I’m doing this for you.”