Lucinda was a good witch. Long ago she’d majored at Coven College in the art of spellcasting. And now, 30 years later, her spells were the envy of many. Almost always, things worked out just as they should. Okay, there was that one incident with the cat and the dog, but they’d worked it out eventually. So, the cat wasn’t her familiar anymore, whatever. When the Grand Poohbah of Witches, Warlock Michael had met with her, explaining a curious, yet burgeoning need in the fae world, she’d thought at the time that it was a lateral move in her career. Yet, he had thought that it was a role she was perfectly suited for. Becoming a fairy slutmother had become so fulfilling that she’d not accepted any other role ever since. It seemed she had a real knack for hearing the heart-calls of men and women seeking an ‘alternate’ state.
The demands on her time were incredible. Sluts wanting Masters, Masters wanting sluts, Dommes seeking the perfect outfit–calls came to her constantly. It seemed that she rarely had a moment to herself. Stress wasn’t a thing most fairy god parents talked about, but she knew they all felt it. Add to that being overtired by the new trend of having Sex Con’s ? She was definitely feeling the pressure. Her specialty was Needy Sluts; they all seemed to hold a special place in her heart, once she heard their lamentations. And all of them were pretty deserving of finding the One Big D, that one who would most match their needs. Finding the perfect mate, or mates, in this lifestyle was a constant challenge. Of course, she offered no guarantees; it was her job to get the connection, and *theirs* to keep it going. Her mission last month, Slut B, for instance, had been one of her best matches this year. Of course, Bea and her new Dom would have to work out the finer details of their arrangement, which both seemed quite inclined to do. They were but one of the couples that she had touched with her magic fae wand. Smiling smugly to herself, she let her wings flutter for a moment; this work was tough, and she was simply exhausted.
Preoccupied with thoughts of her latest group of “matched and pending” sluts, Lucinda wasn’t paying full attention to where she was flying. A sudden rush of air gave her seconds of warning before she went spiraling through the air. Her hat fell and tumbled into the trees far below, her wand whipped away in a shower of magical sparkles, which fell on the houses far below, permeating roofs and infecting everyone in its path to earth. Ohhhhnooooo, Lucinda moaned, as she herself twirled in the wind, falling, falling….fallllllinnnnng. Her last conscious words as she spiraled towards the ground was “fuuuuuuccckiinng bats…..”
Her wand bounced upon the rooftop of a large green house, skittered down the shingles, tipped off the edge of the gutter, and being filled with magickal abilities, fairly leapt to the house next door. Zigging and zagging, it bounced off eaves, window sills, door lintels, front porches, and sidewalks before coming to rest in a pile of leaves, just inches away from an unconscious Lucinda, who had fallen, by pure happenstance, into the deep pile under the large maple tree. In the darkness, if one was looking carefully, ziggles and zazzles of magical fireworks lit up the neighborhood as the Fairy Slutmother lay deep in the cushioning leaves, unaware.
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At Seven Erstwhile Way, Charlie Paxton felt his cock, age 83, spring to life as if he were twenty. Mrs. Paxton, busy cleaning up the kitchen from supper, felt the sudden surge in her pussy as if she’d been shocked. Hands still holding her washcloth and a pan, her legs clamped tightly together at the sudden upwelling of need that she’d not felt in decades. At 82, she was as shocked by the heat making her nether regions quiver, and raising her nipples. They poked insistently against her bra. Consumed by the plethora of sensations, she didn’t hear Charlie stalk into the kitchen. Hot, soapy water was flung in every direction as he twirled her away from the sink, his gnarled fingers grabbing at her sagging boobs with something akin to desperation. Her mouth fused to his, growls and grunts the only sounds in the room as the couple locked into each others arms. Clothes were strewn everywhere. Later, she would find her support bra in the sink with her saute pan and her panties half under the fridge. But for now, it was pure, raw sexual need that clawed at them.
Over on Maple Street, Chrissy Cinqfoil was tucking her youngest son into bed. Again. Some days she swore all she did was the same task over. And over. And over again. Being a stay at home mom was not restful. Was not glamorous. Was exhausting. Each night for the last month she’d fallen into bed, fallen into a slumber that never seemed to be quite enough. Her husband hadn’t been any more interested in sex than she had. He worked hard each day, then came home and helped her fight the good fight. Three kids under age six took their toll on a relationship, but she had to admit he was amazing with them. Amazing with her, too.
Their sex life–she laughed darkly to herself as she slipped into the hallway, hoping that their son would finally stay asleep, and in bed. What sex life? They’d no more than fallen into bed then they were overcome by the visceral need for sleep.
She didn’t see the sparkles that slid through the attic floor, couldn’t see them break into two distinct arrows. Didn’t know that one arrow was hovering as the second winged down to the living room where Jake sat, idly flicking through the channels. At some signal, both arrows darted into their victims.
One moment, she stood in the hallway, waiting to see if JC had really fallen asleep. The next she was reeling with an upwelling of sex-need so intense it brought her to her knees. Forehead to the floor, hands clasping her aching pussy through her yoga pants, she whimpered. In moments, Jake’s sock-covered toes were standing in front of her, his fingers wrapped into her ponytail, pulling her upright.
His engorged shaft thrust from his dress slacks like an angry sword. Precum oozed from the hole in the center of the swollen hood, a long silver trail that hung in space a moment before touching the floor between his dark socks.
She didn’t even think before tugging herself forward against his hand holding her hair. She felt the pull on her scalp, but her tongue dove into that small dot on her floor; her open mouth captured the trailing string until her lips were around the bulbous tip and sucking his semen into her mouth.
The door behind them remained shut, and some vague remembrance of parenthood kept them quiet, even as his hips shoved forward and buried the length of his cock in her throat. A gag, a gasp, and then he was out again, rubbing the wet silky tip of his cock along her cheek, teasing at her grasping mouth. He took a step back, she crawled a step forward. He stuffed her throat again, then pulled back, repeating the back-stepping until they were in front of their bedroom door.
“Whore, come into our room. Crawl like the needy bitch you are.”
His voice was quiet and dark. Ages it had been since he had last spoken so to her, and the sudden sodden crotch of her pants had her squirming–in embarrassment and raw need.
He directed her over the chest at the end of their bed, her hands up in the air as he tugged the old sweatshirt, and tee beneath it, up and over her head. He tugged the bra up and off as well, his cock throbbing as she gasped. He was brutal in his need to possess, to hurt. His beast ran rampant, enjoying the three red scratches up her neck from the clasp of her bra. Reaching around her, he pinched her enlarged nipples until she whimpered and tried to tug away.
“Puss is so wet I can smell you, wanton cunt. Smell the seeping of your hole, wetting itself for my cock. Tell me you want me to fuck your empty cunt. Tell me!”
Her pussy throbbed. Her clit lurched a little at his tone, as it always had when they’d played in the past. The meaner he was, the more she oozed.
“My empty pussy needs your cock, Master.”
“Your cunt. Say cunt.”
“My…cunt…wants your cock.”
“Your cunt wants to be pounded by my cock?”
“My cunt needs to be pounded by your cock, Master.”
“As you wish, princess.”
Suiting actions to words, he lifted her hips, presenting her sweet round bottom, her dripping cunt to his reach. He slid inside, a taking, a raw and deep need to possess her from inside and out raging through him. It wasn’t long before he could feel her squirting, the clench of her pussy his undoing. Fingers digging into her softly rounded hips, he drove deep as his balls tightened, then spewed their thick load into her belly.
Young CJ would have a baby sister come summer.
On Maple Avenue, Laura and Diane were sharing a bottle of champagne and celebrating a major coup. Their young bakery would be making the wedding cake for the Mayor’s daughter. They had been friends for years, and both loved to bake. Going into business in this day and age was a risk, but with their husbands support, they had made a go of it.
“This will get us in the papers, for sure!”
“Best free advertising ever!”
They toasted, the clink of their glasses a clear chime. At that moment, magical sparkles danced through the window and into the raised glasses. They sipped, and eyes widened, nearly simultaneously.
Leaping from the table, they nearly fell into each other’s embrace, tongues tangling and tasting of Dom.
There was the wet sound of tongue upon sloppy pussy, the slither of sheets, the squeak of a mattress as bodies writhed upon it.
Fingers caressed, plucked, pinched. Lips met, sucked, teeth nibbled, then bit. Cunts were filled with digits, orgasms tugged relentlessly from each other’s bodies as sexual need poured through their veins.
The trail of clothing would have led their spouses to the bedroom, where the two lay entangled. Thankfully their husbands were spending the evening together, watching the World Series at the local sports bar.
They never spoke of the incident, but there were many long heated looks in the bake shop that had nothing to do with what was cooking in the oven. And perhaps someday, when the timing was right, a hand might caress an ass under an apron, or tug a ponytail, or flick across a rounded tit.
Lucinda came awake slowly. Her arm hurt where a branch was poking it, and there were leaves scratching her thigh. Why were leaves even on her thigh? Groggy, totally disoriented, she shook herself. She was in one piece, but laying flat on her back…in a leaf pile. A single bat whirled around her head. Funny, but the fucking rat with wings seemed to be…laughing.
“bumbleberry,” she muttered, and her wand fairly flew into her hand. “Oh damn. Discharged.”
AWOL discharges were heavily frowned upon. With a deep sigh she began uttering a charm to call them back. Sitting up, head throbbing, her wand arm fell to her side. Fuck it. It was time to go home and get some rest. With a groan, she rose, rubbing her rump.
The bat flew past her head, chittering it’s rancid little laugh.
“An it harm none. And it harm none. Harm none.” she muttered under her breath. No one was more surprised than she, when the bat shimmered to the ground in front of her–and turned out to be Michael himself.
“Come along, wench, you’ve done enough for tonight.”
If she happened to note a particularly large bulge under his robe, she was certainly far too polite to mention it while they were flying. His hand fisted in her proper slutmother bun, she smiled as they flew home.