Oh how Rose missed the sea. It tousles her golden curls as she speeds along the coastal highway towards Maine, invigorated by being so close to home again. College has been wonderful, but contains far too little magick for someone like Rose. She can’t keep the joy from bubbling over at the thought of being able to stir her tea with a nod, or do her laundry with a flick of the wrist again.
Magick is a daily occurrence in The Soricelle House. She explained to several new friends the wonders of their old house, but could never go into accurate detail. She could never tell them how breakfast would make itself under her grandmother’s watchful eye, or how all the plants in the sunroom could bloom overnight.
“The grass is soft and green all year round, thanks to Soricelle Lake. My Grandmother remembers almost drowning in it when she was a little girl, but she says it’s impossible to actually die there. She calls it the heart of our land. She has these sprawling gardens… It keeps her young, I think.” Rose smiled at the study group inquiring.
“See, I feel like people who get to grow up with nature are just… kind of different?” a friend had observed.
“I grew up in apartments,” another friend added. “Can we get back to math, please? It’s depressing me how boring my life has been.”
Rose quickly realized she needed to dumb down the stories in order to fit into this new world. She disguised the Focus Spells and Good Luck Potions as pots of coffee and pencils, attempting to help her peers with the type of clandestine magick witches have to use among mortals. But they still noticed Rose was special; everyone does.
Rose turns up the radio and smiles as she hugs a familiar curve in the road. She didn’t get to travel home for Christmas, so this is the first time she’ll see her family in about nine months. She plans to soak up as much magick as possible, and make sure she hasn’t gotten rusty in her casting or potion brewing.
There is one thing she needs help with, despite becoming a master at sneakily performing spells before observant eyes. There’s a new element of her magic she can’t quite control, and it occupies her mind on this journey.
The quaint town of Crescent Hollow is already bustling with tourists, people crossing the streets while pointing up at seagulls or applying sunscreen. It is with great care she creeps past the ice cream shops and boutiques, the used book stall and candy store, the restaurants with their little outdoor tables and window boxes. She heads up the hill, snaking through a neighborhood of old cottages and estates, into the dense woods which lead to the cliffside property overlooking the waterfront town. She ambles through the open iron gate, so immaculately designed with an enormous S on either side. Her black jeep disappears into foliage from the perspective of the road.
The drive swoops downward into a cool valley, then up, and up, and up a little more. The house appears in the distance once she breaks through the trees. It is an estate surrounded by gardens and sprawling lawns, the other side of the property a less dense forest containing the lake. She can see slivers of water sparkling in the late morning sun.
Rose has driven a day and a night but any fatigue that might have plagued her disappears when she parks her car.
A blue victorian style home with white trim, three stories, and an attic towers before her. On the porch, which wraps around the house and nests deep beneath the grey roof, sits Grandma Gwen, sipping lemonade. She waves to her granddaughter and stands from her favorite wicker rocker. Her wild white curls betray the obvious relation to her granddaughter (whose hair is still golden) as does the glow about her plump cheeks. Rose runs towards the house with its familiar turrets, and dormers, and stained glass windows that look like magick themselves in the right lighting. She passes beneath the rose covered trellis, which seems to sigh, relieved she’s returned.
Grandma Gwen embraces the girl with a kiss on the forehead and a squeeze around her small middle.
“Welcome back,” she says.
Rose takes a deep breath. Gwen smells of gardenias and she always will.
The front door opens and Esme appears. She is the only other family member here, at present, but Rose knows the rest will trickle in, given a few more days. Esme is as dark as Rose is fair, with chestnut brown hair and eyes. She tucks a strand of her straight bob behind her ear and asks her cousin about college, prepared to go see for herself the following year. The girls sit at the kitchen table and catch up while their grandmother makes more lemonade, straining the hot water through a piece of cheesecloth lined with rose petals.
“To help you settle in,” she winks, offering the girls glasses. She throws a petal into each glass.
Gwen slips away while the girls escape to the garden.
“It’s strange, being so far from home. It’s different out there. Drab. I’m getting good at hiding my magic but sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice… It would have been so much easier just to stay here this year.” Rose tilts her head back to soak up the sunshine peeking through the clouds. She inhales the scent of the garden, and the lapping seashore beyond the cliffside.
“Of course you made the right choice! You have to get out and experience things.” Esme says, her big eyes alight with excitement. She pushes up her glasses. “Do you know what you’ll do yet?”
“Not yet,” Rose says.
“I know. I don’t have much time left to decide.”
“You have less than one moon’s cycle.” She’s shocked at her cousin’s procrastination.
Rose lowers herself into the double swing, inviting her cousin to sit beside her. They shift their weight forward and back languidly, Rose’s legs golden and glossy in her jean shorts, Esme’s skin the color of paper.
“It will come to me when it comes to me,” Rose shrugs.
She sounds almost exactly like the girls’ grandmother. They share a knowing glance and giggle.
“Is ‘wise old witch’ a career option these days?” Esme teases.
“Grandma’s doing it,” Rose replies.
Rose notices a lemon seed has sunk to the bottom of her glass. She places a finger on the side, guiding the seed up the translucent drink and making it hop out, into her palm. Before the girls return to the house she presses the seed into the dirt by the swing, shutting her eyes for a moment and whispering something inaudible.
“Are you going back to Luigi’s again this summer?” Esme inquires, holding the screen door open for her cousin.
“Sure am. I may be magickal but I’m still just a broke college kid.”
By the time the screen door has swung shut behind the girls, the lemon tree is already a seedling.
The manager of Luigi’s is a middle aged woman named Rhonda. She hires what she calls ’summer kids”, though in reality she’s hardly a decade older than them. She hugs Rose upon seeing her, and tells her she’s going to need help training this batch of ‘summer kids’.
Rose says hello to the kitchen staff she knows, but realizes the only server remaining from the previous year is Jason. They drink a beer and catch up on his break.
“So our new hostess is like fourteen and gets everything wrong, but Karen knows her dad so…” Jason takes a long drink and rolls his eyes.
Karen bought Luigi’s from the previous owner a decade prior, hiring Rhonda and dropping in once in awhile for dinner. Everyone joked that she actually killed the previous owner (the real Luigi) in order to get the place, but in truth, there was never an actual Luigi.
Jason continues. “We’ve got a couple cute college girls, present company included,” he winks.
“Well, I never,” Rose mocks, batting her eyelashes.
“And we’ve got a new kitchen guy… Keeps to himself a lot. Actually… that’s him now.”
Jason nods towards the pier, where tourists stroll hand in hand. Rose’s eyes land on a tall, tattooed young man wearing a black teeshirt and jeans. His apron is hanging over the railing and he stares at the water with a thoughtful expression, smoking a cigarette directly beside a sign that requests him not to.
“Who is he, exactly?” Rose sounds interested.
“Not a tourist,” Jason says. “He doesn’t seem that into sightseeing. He’s not in school, I don’t think. And this isn’t his only job either. I’ve seen him on boats, but I don’t think he’s a fisherman. He knows some of the farmers too.”
“Sounds like he’s saving up for something.”
“Maybe his next bail fund,” Jason scoffs.
Rose doesn’t tell Jason how much the thought of that excites her.
All year she’s behaved - well, as much as a young woman can behave. She’s been careful to blend in when she could stand out so vividly, careful to study when she could just cast an enchantment on her teachers for perfect grades. No, she’s been abiding by the rules of the mortal world. Now it’s summer, and she’s on her own turf. Rose is ready to make some magick.
Rose’s first shift back at Luigi’s is invigorating. The hustle and bustle is so familiar; the chaos of the hot kitchen, the overly animated tourists, enamored with the coastal views and inebriated by the salty, fresh air. She stays to help close, allowing Rhonda to focus on paperwork. When she’s about to head home she smells smoke, and returns to the overlook where she’d stood with Jason earlier that day. There’s Dean, the cool night air pressing his shirt to his fit figure, revealing the shapes of sweat that had formed during his shift. He runs a hand through his dark hair which flops onto his forehead.
“Are you just gonna stare at me or do you want a cigarette?” he asks, without turning his head to face Rose.
She closes the space between them, grasping the railing onto which he leans. She looks out over the water, aware of the heat of his body next to her. She wonders what he looks like without a shirt on… judging by the faint veins on his arms, she would bet he looks pretty damn good.
“I don’t want my own,” she tells him. “But I’ll have some of yours.”
His brow arches in surprise, but he extends the cigarette. Their hands brush in the exchange and he looks at her properly for the first time, aside from earlier, in the kitchen, when he noticed the way her jean shorts hug her round ass, and how toned and tanned her legs are. Yes, he can sense her magick - though he doesn’t know it’s magick. He forces himself to look away, caught off guard by the sensation of being close to something explosive, and rare. She smiles to herself and takes a long drag.
She doesn’t put a spell on him; she doesn’t have to. She simply returns the cigarette to her new friend’s fingers. When he takes another drag he will taste her on the filter, and he will never forget that taste.
“I’m Rose, by the way.”
“Dean.” He reaches to shake her hand. She notices the callouses and long fingers, the tattoos accentuating his hard forearm.
He watches her walk away, wishing she could haves stayed just a minute longer - just thirty seconds, or ten.
Dean takes another drag and finds he cannot stop thinking about Rose.
That night the sea will not rest, and nor will Rose. She fantasizes about Dean before drifting into a troubled slumber. Then something happens that Rose cannot control. It’s happened before - a few times this year, actually. And always, she feels as though she’s a marionette, forced into movement by strings she cannot snip.
Tonight she is standing over herself, watching herself sleep, her white teeshirt halfway up her soft belly, her cotton panties riding up on her generous hips. Then she turns away from herself and finds she’s traveling along the pier past Luigi’s and onto the beach. She is headed for the boathouses, floating along like a ghost in the moonlight.
She is sleeping and also entering the boathouses. She can smell the fish - feel stiff netting beneath her fingertips. She travels up a set of stairs into an office. Through the office is a room. In that room is a modest studio apartment, a twin bed shoved in one corner, a sink and toilet behind a curtain, and a tiny table hosting a single burner plugged into the wall. The wind rustles Dean’s hair through the open window.
He sleeps shirtless, his body as beautiful as Rose imagined. He wears only loose boxers, which have come down low on his hips in his slumber. She nears the bed, gently placing her weight on one knee on the edge of the thin mattress. He doesn’t stir, but he can feel her; she knows this because she can feel him. She swings her other leg over his form and gently lowers her weight onto him. She leans down, her hair brushing his shoulder.
“Shhh,” she soothes. She brushes a kiss upon his lips, so gentle it might have been the wind.
She knows she is dreaming, as is he… and where are fantasies to be fulfilled if not dreamland? She brushes her lips to his ear next. Goosebumps arise on his warm skin. She caresses his face, his chest, aware of him growing harder and longer between her legs, her own body becoming excited. She closes her eyes for a moment, giving into the tingly sensations. When she opens her eyes a dark gaze stares back at her, his mouth slightly agape. She bites her lip as he reaches for her, lifting her white teeshirt up and over her head as if in a daze. He is hard as stone now, held down only by his boxer shorts and her weight. He examines her in the moonlight, running his large hands up along the curves of her sides to gently hold her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. He lifts his head from the pillow then to gently place his mouth over her breast. He licks her gently at first, gradually beginning to suck harder and harder. Rose gasps.
She cradles his dark head as he tilts it sideways, looking up at her while gently biting her nipple. He’s taken the other breast in his hand and massages the generous flesh. But that hand begins to travel down her soft tummy towards the cotton panties. He finds the moisture with his fingers and presses hard, dragging his fingers upward and towards himself, causing her to gasp again. She is overcome with desire to have him inside her. She grasps his now solid penis in her hand, her eagerness not curbed by the pleasant sensation of a hearty handful. Now it’s his turn to moan as she tugs upward.
Just then the wind slams the shutters against the boathouse and they both startle. When she returns her gaze to him he is searching the room for her. He runs his hands through his hair and she realizes he can no longer see or feel her. He rubs his eyes and looks again. She falls back to the foot of the bed, deeply disappointed.
She can feel her sleeping body calling her back home.
Dean realizes it was a dream, but instead of attempting sleep, he folds his arm over his eyes and kicks off his boxers, gripping his erect dick and beginning to stroke. Rose watches with hungry eyes, slipping her own hand down her panties and pressing two fingers down and up, scooping the thick moisture from her slick crevasse up and onto her sensitive clit.
Dean twists and pulls and strokes, and Rose moves her hand in circular motions until she can take it no longer and dives her fingers deep into her vagina. It is spacious and warm now, longing for Dean to slip slowly inside her…
Still, her sleeping body beacons her.
“Shit,” she whispers, removing her hand and sighing. She can’t focus. She can’t stay.
She shuts her eyes tight and when she reopens them she is in bed once more, her panties soaked through.
“Have either of you ever Astral projected?” Rose asks her grandmother and cousin over breakfast.
Spoons stir by themselves while the sponge scrubs a pan in the sink. Oh how Rose has missed this incredibly useful and common magic. She flicks her wrist to pour more syrup onto her plate, watching the ribbon fall hot and oozing, coating the doughy pancakes.
“Nope,” Esme replies through a full mouth.
“Sure, all the time,” Grandma Gwen offers. “Would you like to learn?”
“I mean, I think I’ve been doing it. I just can’t really control it yet.”
“Well that’s something I can’t help with,” Gwen shakes her head. “I still can’t properly control mine either. Sometimes it’s for five minutes, sometimes it’s the whole night. And I am an old lady, mind you. I need my beauty rest.” She raises her eyebrows stoically, sipping her herbal tea.
Of course, this isn’t true. Grandma Gwen is fantastically beautiful, and doesn’t look a year over fifty.
A thud comes from outside. The younger girls are distracted but Gwen doesn’t bat an eye.
“Your mother is on her way today,” she says to Rose. “I believe she missed you too much to stay away.” She is staring into her cup, reading her tea leaves.
Esme stands and cranes over the sink to peer out the kitchen window. “Is there supposed to be a man in our yard?” she asks.
“I’ve hired some help,” Gwen says. “My old bones don’t hold up the way they used to… besides, it improves the view.”
Rose stands to look, surprised by what she sees. “Where did you find this person, exactly?”
“Oh, you know. Around.” Gwen takes her leave without any further explanation.
Rose decides if her elusive grandmother won’t fill her in, perhaps the boy she visited in his dreams last night will. She trots outside and leans on the porch railing.
Dean’s muscles flex and pulsate as he lifts enormous bags of soil from the truck bed and tosses them near the garden. He feels eyes on him and turns.
“Rose,” he says. “Right?”
“Right,” she smiles. She knows he remembers good and well.
She wants him to be thinking about that dream - about her hard, round nipples on the tip of his tongue.
“Take a break in a bit,” she tells him. “Come inside for some iced tea.”
“It’s not even hot yet,” he replies.
She smirks. “Not yet.”
She hears him whisper her name when she’s returned to the house - hears him from a distance no mortal ever could.
Esme comes to stand next to Rose at the window, a playful smile on her heart shaped face. “I’ve got a couple sigils needing activated,” she tells her cousin. “Ya know, if you wanna put all this lust to good use.”
Rose isn’t coy enough to blush. “Sure. Hand them over!”
Esme and Rose spend the morning discussing Sigil work and spells. Esme reveals an interest in some revenge sigils and they ponder the danger in this type of magic. They’ve relocated to the attic, where the fans are already working hard to keep the room cool. They sit on the lopsided furniture and layered area rugs, reading personal grimoires from their own past (you don’t touch another witch’s grimoire without permission).
“And just who are we trying to enact revenge upon?” Rose asks.
“A girl at school. A cheerleader. She took something from me and… she isn’t sorry.”
Rose considers this information, then caves. “Alright. I’ll help. Have you made the sigil yet?”
The girls take a piece of blank paper to the sigil wheel, which is a wheel shape carved into a tall, round table. The wheel shape is made up of 13 sections around the edges. In each section there is a number, 1-13. Beneath the wheel, elegantly burned into the wood, sits the alphabet and another set of numbers.
“I suggest we use neutral language,” Rose says.
“Oh, for sure…” Esme agrees, but something in her wishes they didn’t have to. “How about may you get exactly what you deserve?”
“What about, may you relinquish what is not yours? Since you say she took something from you.”
“That’s better. That sounds good. And you’re sure we cant just say… I don’t know… may you burn for all eternity?”
“Good lord,” Rose laughs, eyes wide.
The girls write out the chosen phrase and cross out every vowel and repeating letter. They are left with an indiscernible word: MRLNQSHWTN. They write down the number that corresponds with each letter, then draw their sigil on paper pressed over the wheel with slow, steady hands, gently chanting their intention out of sync. Then they fold up the paper and Rose takes it.
“Give me twenty-four hours and you’ll have yourself some magic. In fact, I wonder if he’s thirsty yet…”
The girls smile at each other knowingly and Rose vanishes to tend to her new friend.
Esme, however, stares at the sigil wheel. What would happen if she did wish ill on Aimee? What would happen if she did wish she’d fall in a hole and sprain her ankle? Or maybe have a headache for several days? Would it really come back to bite her?
Esme manages to spend the entire day without an inclination as to where the time has gone. Rose, however, spends her day hunting. She has the whole summer to foster a burning romance with Dean, yet she can’t stop thinking about the previous night. Perhaps, if she had anything at all to distract her she might move more slowly in her pursuits. Instead, she finds herself hot and bothered, repeatedly bringing him iced water and tea, sweat dripping down both the glass and his body. By dusk she’s convinced herself she’s doing Esme a favor. After all, she needs that sigil activated, doesn’t she?
Dean enters the mudroom through the backdoor, looking for Gwen at the end of the day. He has landscaping questions for her, but Gwen is nowhere to be found.
“I was also wondering where I might find the stakes she told me to use,” Dean says. “All the other tools were in the shed but, I don’t see them.”
“They’re there,” Rose says. She has no clue what stakes he’s talking about, but she is sure without a shadow of a doubt they’re in a box towards the back. “I can show you.”
“So you’re home from college?” Dean asks as they meander through the gardens to the shed, neither in much of a hurry. “What’s your major?”
“I’m not sure yet. Just getting my feet under me. I’m too young for such big decisions.” She doesn’t mention she has to have a bigger decision made before the month is up.
“How… young are you, exactly?” he asks.
This question makes her chuckle. “Old enough, Casanova.”
“Old enough for what?” he asks as they pass beneath the gazebo.
“Lots of things,” she glances back at him and winks.
His white shirt is clinging to his sweaty body, his hair a mess from working the day away. She can see where the callouses came from, the way he swings those heavy gardening tools about. She can’t help imagining him swinging her about…
“They’re here,” she says, stepping into the shed and reaching into the dim corner.
Its a spacious area with two little windows on either side and just a few items for gardening or safekeeping on the sparse shelves. The box with the stakes in it sits on a shelf at waist level, but against the wall, away from the bruise colored sky. “I can’t reach them,” she lies.
He steps into the shed.
The door to the shed is angular to the house, viewing more of the gardens than anything else. But it feels private enough… and yet public enough…
“Where?” Dean asks squinting into the darkness. He couldn’t look for it if he tried - not with her swishing from side to side in that sundress in front of him.
Rose turns around, her face level with his neck and toned shoulders. She smiles wryly up at him and bites her lip. “Here,” she says, meekly, holding the box at her waist.
The corner of his mouth curls into a smile and he folds his hands over hers around the box.
“Is this what you wanted?” she asks.
He chuckles. “Is this what you wanted?”
She nods slowly, not breaking eye contact.
She lets him remove the box and caress her jaw, tilting her face up to kiss him. They both remember kissing, though this is their first time.
“I had a dream about you,” he says between kissing her mouth and neck.
He leans back, a puzzled expression on his handsome face. He shakes his head, then kisses her deeply, his tongue exploring her own. His mouth is strong, but not too forceful. She likes the sweetness of lemonade lingering there. She lifts her leg as their passion intensifies, dragging her foot up along the outside of his jeans. She presses her thigh to his hip, willing him to lift her. He does, and she encircles him with her legs like a snake about to devour its prey. He squeezes her thigh with his big hand, slipping it up into the silky fabric of her sundress and grabbing a handful of ass.
Dean presses Rose agains the one wall of the shed that doesn’t contain shelving and she intertwines her fingers into his dark hair, grinding herself upon his form. He is astounded by how perfectly proportioned her figure seems to be - like handholds and grips made specifically for him.
Rose enjoys feeling her whole weight held up by his strong arms, his hands eagerly exploring her form. She knows what he is thinking; that he is soaking her up. In reality, she knows it is she absorbing all his willpower. She smiles to herself as he bites down on her neck and sucks, thirsty for the very depths of her.
Then as suddenly as Dean put Rose against the wall she has pushed him off, and returned to standing, a head shorter than the incredible young man. She swivels him around so the shadowy corner swallows him. He willingly allows her to control him, even holding his hands up as if she points some type of weapon at his heart - which she might as well. She surprises him by melting into a kneeling position, a mischievous gleam in her bright eyes. The rough floor of the shed feels gritty beneath Rose’s knees, but she barely notices, her mind elsewhere. Before Dean can fully grasp her intention she is undoing his belt buckle with fervor, her fingers little and quick.
He is flabbergasted by the ferocity in which she touches. He wants nothing more than to make her cum, yet it’s her who takes his pants down. She looks up at him, her hands on his thighs, her eyes enormous and perfect, and staring into his own. His heart is racing with suspense, his erect penis only inches from her face. She leans forward, but doesn’t touch him. A shiver runs up his spine to feel her hot breath between his legs. He is overwhelmed by a sense of still being asleep - existing in another dream about this goddess of a woman.
Rose reaches up to grasp his cock in her small, golden hand, causing him to intake breath so sharply one might think she’d hurt him. She grins, stroking it gently towards herself. He takes a few much needed deep breaths, unable to remove his eyes from her, awestruck in her perfection. She licks her lips and opens her mouth, leaning further forwards with an obscene amount of patience. The tip of her tongue extends over her white teeth and rosy, plump bottom lip. He can’t believe what he’s seeing as her tongue extends, barely touching the head of his cock. Again, he shivers, emitting a sound he’s never made before. She enjoys the feeling of the crease at the head of his cock on her tongue, the slightly salty flavor of his sweat. Ever so slowly, as if testing the temperature, she caresses just the tip of him with her tongue. Then Rose makes an O with her mouth and carefully takes the entire head into her lips, using hardly any pressure, then a bit more, until there is a soft popping noise when she releases him. His own mouth is agape at the sight of something so erotic.
Rose is enjoying the pace of their encounter - the feeling of the spot between her own legs moistening. She begins licking him from balls to head, squeezing his balls with her hand as she licks, licks, licks him like a popsicle melting in unrelenting summer heat. She pauses a moment to wipe some oozing spittle from her chin, only to return and take every inch she can muster into her mouth and throat.
“Holy mother of god,” he whispers, leaning his head back against the wall with a soft thud.
Without warning she shoves him down her throat as deeply and fully as she can, holding him there a long moment while he exclaims his pleasure and surprise.
“Holy fucking shit,” he breathes.
She is still using slow movements, not wanting him to cum too fast. She releases him and plunges him deep into her throat a few times in this fashion, feeling her eyes moisten with tears as she pushes her own body to its limits. He is throbbing now, so she stops.
She leans away again to wipe the driving string of moisture from her chin, and he takes the opportunity to pull her up to standing and trade places once more. He peels her panties down in one fell swoop, pressing her to the wall and placing his face at the level of her crotch. He hikes one of her legs up over his shoulder and presses her stomach flat with his other hand. There is one moment of breathtaking eye contact before she feels his whole mouth on her hot, wet pussy, engulfing her as if designed to do so.
My god, Rose tastes good. Dean fully extends his tongue and licks as deeply and passionately as he can, slurping the liquid oozing out of her. He’s aware of his cock throbbing between his legs, but he wouldn’t dare leave this encounter without giving her something to remember. Now, he wants to make her tremble - cry out for mercy as he pleases her in ways she’s never known. He dives two fingers into the saturated crevice and twists them in and out, in and out, curving his fingers to hit the little wrinkled walnut shape just inside. She whines like a feral animal, but he is relentless in his strength and passion.
“Fuck,” she says. “Fuck!”
Rose watches Dean close his eyes and lap her up eagerly, her hands clawing at his head and shoulders. She maneuvers him, using his perfect face as an artfully designed toy of pleasure, until she can’t take another minute. She leans him backward onto the part of the floor where a dusty tarp is spread, the door still wide open to the side of them, a gentle breeze whispering over their partially naked bodies. She crawls on top of him, tearing his shirt up and off as he lays down. Her sundress has fallen off one of her shoulders, her soft breast emerging, swaying attractively with her movements.
She straddles him, stroking his cock with her slippery vagina as it remains pinned beneath her weight. He puts her breast in his mouth and sucks hard, causing her lashes to flutter. He applies gentle pressure with his teeth on her round, hard nipple. She reaches between their legs and takes his long, hard dick into her hand, standing it up to insert the tip into her slick vagina. She releases it with her hands only to grasp it with her pussy, bouncing slowly upon only the head of his penis. Then, without warning, she plunges his cock deep into her vagina. He is so hard she feels as though she’s riding a glass toy, but it throbs in a way she could never demand of glass. She can feel his hot cock, soaked with her own fluid, pressing to what feels like the back of her vagina, pulsating in rhythm with her own body. She settles all of her weight onto him and they both gasp at the sensation of fullness.
Dean cannot understand what is happening. The angle of her hips and the depth of her pussy seem to cast a spell on him. He finds he can’t stop staring into her eyes and groping every inch of her, taking her swaying breasts into his mouth as if desiring to remove some of her life force through them - to somehow drink her soul. Only pausing for air as she tilts and grinds, he sucks hungrily at her neck next, and plunges his tongue into her mouth, his jaw tight with passion. His mouth tastes like her pussy, and she kisses him harder now. She is in control of him, gripping his cock with such desire it might hurt a man who wanted her less.
She releases him and giggles at his reaction, then slowly slides every inch into her pussy once more, deeply satisfied by the sensation.
Dean can feel her vagina beginning to throb and contract, tightening on his cock like her mouth had before, but in a different, wonderful way. He feels his own self pulsating too. He becomes so distracted by trying to contain the sensation he doesn’t notice her removing the sigil from a pocket and shoving it onto a nail behind him just as she shoved his own cock inside her warm, silky folds of perfection. She could do just about anything right now, and he would not notice. At present he is trying with every ounce of his being not to picture his thick, creamy ejaculation, releasing deep inside the small cavern of her body… dripping down the walls of her pussy, oozing onto him once more, partially him, partially her…
He’s about to cum, and he tries to warn her, but she grips him with her thighs, also on the verge of climax. He finds his strong arms wrapped tightly around her, and holds her to him with as much strength as he dares lest he break her in two. He finds himself frozen in time with this otherworldly woman, watching her teardrop shaped tits bounce erotically as she rides him, watching her eyelashes flutter with pleasure, her mouth open in surprise. She looks down to see he is on the verge of worshiping her, appearing both terrified and bewitched.
“Oh,” she exclaims. “Oh, oh! Fuck fuck fuck!” she finds herself folding into him as waves of pleasure wash over her, but she forces herself to look up, gazing at the sigil as her body trembles.
“I’m - ” he tries to tell her. “Rose - ” He attempts to push at her waist, to remove himself from her.
She is attached to him as if glued there, clawing as his shoulders and hair, grasping a handful of tarp beneath them as she writhes.
The dam breaks. His hands squeeze her hips hard enough to hurt, through neither of them notice. As she shivers violently atop him he is aware of the cum escaping his body, flooding her pussy, overflowing into every crevice and hollow. She grasps a handful of his hair and folds down upon him like a crumpled flower, allowing him to hold her as they shift their hips in unison, both enjoying the sensation of the thick liquid oozing from her pink pussy onto his generous cock. They hold each other, panting, moving in this lazy way until they’ve both nearly caught their breath.
Rose lifts herself off his still hard penis, biting her lip as cum dribbles out of her onto their thighs. She falls backward and to the side with a thud. She lets out a satisfied laugh and sigh, scooping cum off her thigh with one finger and raising it to her lips. She meets Dean’s hazy, half open eyes, slowly licking the fluid from her fingertip. Sweet. Slightly tangy. Watery.
He grins at her and shakes his head. “Mary me?”
“No,” she smiles.
After a moment Rose reaches for her panties, wiping cum from herself then offering them to Dean. He begins cleaning himself up then searching for his own underwear. He sways a little when getting to his feet, and Rose laughs at him for it.
“Don’t forget the stakes,” Rose chuckles, stepping over the tarp on shaky legs to retrieve the sigil.
“What?” he asks her.
She turns to remind him why they entered the shed in the first place, but there is a loud thud. He’s managed to slip into his underwear once more, but has fallen.
Rose realizes something is very wrong. “Dean!” she angles him so he isn’t facedown on the shed floor and holds his head in her lap. “Dean! Wake up!” She smacks his cheeks hard with her palm. “Wake up!”
Then she stops to feel for a pulse. She finds nothing.