She trembled as they continued to tease her, stroking against her cotton-covered pussy until the fabric was drenched. She had no complaint when the ruined panties were drawn down her hips, over her legs, and flung away. The arms holding her in place, however, did not give. Harper had a mind to shift her back, opening her legs fully for them, but she was kept on her side, thighs pressed together.
“I believe this is the spot where you are most sensitive, is it not?” Another wriggling finger of smoke pressed between the lips of her sex to circle directly against her clit, making her cry out. “Verysensitive, it seems. Show me how you pleasure yourself, sweetling. Use my form and show me.”
It was the most erotic experience of her life. Harper tilted her hips, grinding against the fat tentacle that had pushed back between her thighs. Back and forth, she rocked against them, moving her hips as if she were a rodeo star, feeling the textured drag against the lips of her sex. That smaller tendril had circled around her clit, pulsing and pulling, drawing a moan from her throat as if she were a marionette. Her arms were still restrained, and her toes dug into the bedding as she bucked against them. When she did so, the tentacle around her clit tightened like a noose. Not uncomfortable but creating a vacuum of pressure within her that made her eyes roll back every time it pulsed.
The only thing that would make it better was if they were fucking her at the same time, she thought, and no sooner had the consideration formed in her mind, before a thick cock-like protuberance was pressing into the mouth of her cunt. Harper realized there was no end to the forms they could take, of what they could do to her. They could lick her clit and fuck her at the same time, hold her down, take on the knot of a werewolf, the girth of an ogre, the double dick of a dragon, stimulate every single erogenous zone she possessed simultaneously.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped, an additional shadow tongue licking against the un-hooded swollen pearl, her hips never stopping their motion. “Don’t stop. I-I’m going to come.Fuck, I’m going to come so hard.”
The two wriggling tendrils working at her clit had begun to move in tandem — the pulsing little noose had taken on the same rhythm as the tongue that licked her, the band of pressure that it tightened within her snapping at last. Her moan of pleasure came out on a long whine, whimpering as her body clenched and convulsed, reverberations Azathé surely felt. Her whole body trembled as she came down from her peak, the tentacles slowly retreating.
“Fuck,” she laughed, wheezing once she had the ability to see again. “How is it possible that the best sex I’ve ever had is with someone who has no solid form? Explain to me how that works.”
She sunk into her pillows as the darkness swaddled around her.
“Balance in all things, sweet one,” they purred, in what Harper was certain was a distinctly smug tone.
OOTD:Scoop-neck A-line dress with moon embroidered skirt. Mini crinoline. Pentagram harness. Fishnet thigh highs. Platform pumps. Magpie eyeshadow palette and matte lip stain in Midnight. Ribbon choker and HBIC attitude.
Her closet had needed a thorough reorganization, cataloging her shoes and hosiery, determining what needed replacement. If the lack of wanting to care for her wardrobe was a sign her depression was out of control, the desire to shop and repopulate it was certainly a sign it was being well managed, she thought with satisfaction.
Holt had offered her a surprisingly competitive rate of pay, and while it wasn’t as much as she would likely be making if she had a full-time office job, it certainly beat typical retail work, with the bonus of being free of office drudgery. He wouldn’t be able to have her start until after the solstice holiday, grumbling over the surplus inventory they were currently sitting on, a buying spree completed by his business partner, over which he had no control.
He had appeared on the curb beside her for a second time, simply telling her to get in the car with no further indication of where he might be taking her. Harper felt vague unease, but she obeyed each time, and he had still not cooked her liver. That time, he had driven her to Bridgeton, to The Cat & Crow, the metaphysical and occultist curiosity shop he owned with his former witch. It was located on a small alley, like something out of a movie, the hidden treasure no one knew about except for the local witches.
Holt had rolled his eyes at her declaration. “Yeah, the local witches and all the Halloween store goths. The witch wannabes, the folks just looking for a clever housewarming gift, psychos who collect decapitated doll heads. But oh yeah, we’re a well kept secret.”
He rolled his eyes again, and Harper was once more possessed with the desire to stab him in the ankle.
“Are all cats jerks, or is it a specific familiar trait?”
“I’m getting rid of all this crap for Christmas,” he went on, ignoring her as he gestured to the shelves stretching before them. “That’s what all the goths like to buy each other for the holiday — haunted dolls and mortuary equipment. No offense. Bethany is going skiing with her boyfriend, so she won’t be here to see me mark it all down. After the first of the year, I take over all the inventory. No more garbage. If you want a set of 18th-century mortuary tools, there’s going to beoneto pick, not seven. We have too much capital invested in product that we can’t move. That’s when I’ll be able to bring you on. Inventory management and pricing research, mostly remote.”
Harper laughed. “You’re sort of the worst. You know that, right? But that sounds good, I can definitely do that. If nothing else, I’m already familiar with what you carry on the auction and how much stuff sells for. I wonder if there are other shops doing online sales like that? I’m going to search when I get home and follow a few of them.”
Holt very nearly purred in response, disappearing down one of the aisles.
She understood his frustration, walking up and down the rows of products. Individually, the items were interesting and unusual, the way they were featured on the weekly auction. But altogether, laid end-to-end on a shelf . . . In the small, space constrained shop, the effect was overwhelming, and the sheer volume of the gimcrack and ephemera made each successive piece seem a little less special.He’s the worst, but he’s not wrong. It’s just too much stuff.
Turning a corner, she had found him at the very end of the shop, standing before a wall of ritual candles, her heart tripping over itself in her chest.
“Sabbath candles, chalices, altar tools. I don’t have space for a ton of books right now, but if there’s ever something you want, I can get it. We’ll have more space when I can clear out some of the junk. Ritual herb blends, I’m sure you can guess who my supplier is for that. One-of-a-kind altar cloths. Summoning charms, spell scrolls. We have everything a practicing witch would ever need. And if it is not something I physically have in stock, it is likely something I am able to procure, regardless of how arcane the ingredient or object. We have many suppliers, both on and off the black market. There’s no reason for you to not resume your studies, Harper Hollingsworth.”
He was rude and blunt and more than just a little bit of a dick.And possibly a criminal?Even still, Harper could scarcely remember another time in her life when she had felt as inspired to be a witch.And when you start working, you can buy new clothes.
It was with that thought in mind that she undertook the closet project.
She loved the idea of having a reading nook in her house, but her ass loved its couch groove more, and she found the odd-shaped little room sitting empty more often than not, a waste of the minimal real estate her home possessed.
She had wondered endlessly what Pernella had used the space for, arriving eventually on the supposition that it had been her Sabbath spot, used for ritual moon worship and her altar. It seemed as good an explanation as any, Harper thought. She had fallen out of practice with all of her rituals in the past year, and although she was more energized and enthusiastic about resuming her path as she ever had been previously, a devoted altar in her home was still not a good use of the space. Her wardrobe was her point of pride, her barometer of good mental health, and it deserved a place of honor.
She would turn the small room into a walk-in, lined with shelves on two sides and a sturdy rolling rack on the other, taking the pressure off the the minuscule closet her bedroom boasted. DIY home improvement was not her strength, but Harper wasn’t inclined to ask for help for this particular project. There were many things that were not her strength, but that didn’t mean she ought not attempt them. Perfection was, after all, she reminded herself, unattainable. The brackets had been easy enough to install, and she’d only needed to redo them twice — a triumph, all things considered.
It was in the course of her light construction that she found it. Holt was right.Fucking know-it-all cat.Once she’d pulled her armchair and the tottering bookshelves out, Harper had tapped on the walls, looking for studs the way her father always had. She noticed the odd ripple in the wallpaper, almost indistinguishable in the old-fashioned pattern, and when she knocked on that section of the wall, it moved beneath her hand. They hadn’t drywalled over the cellar door — they had simply wallpapered over it.
She’d taken her time, feeling all the way down the wall until she could trace the shape of the door. Carefully, using a box cutter, so as not to damage the rest of the wall, she sliced the door free, cutting around the ancient hinges until she was able to pry it open.
You should wait. Call Holt. Or wait for Azathé. You shouldn’t go down alone.Rationally, she knew the voice in her head was correct. She had no idea how safe the staircase might be, or what animals may have lurked in the darkness. It would have been smarter and safer to wait until there was someone there with her, lest she fell and was unable to call for help.
