Chapter Twenty Three

Micah hovered outside the door leading down to the archeology department. It was late–very late–and Daphne hadn’t come home.

Her phone was off or perhaps out of battery. Micah’s calls went straight to the message bank, but the last place her girlfriend’s location data pinged in the wee hours before sunrise was on campus.

She was sure this would end in another spat, but what could she do?

Professor Hostler had hoisted an entire class's worth of last-minute grading onto her desk at the end of office hours and demanded the task be completed by Friday. Twenty-four hours. Then tenured douchebag waltzed out the door to join his fellow ivy leaguers for brandy and cigars in one of their pretentious clubs or lounges.

Micah was not an angry person–Daphne had a foul enough temper for them both and more besides–but the way the aged misogynist treated women (and his teaching assistants in particular) wore her tolerance razor thin.

Three years into the position, she held the record for longest time served. The pay was dismal, the work was drudgerous, the so-called jokes varied between racist and sexist, and his lechery was nonstop. Only the extra credit and padding to her academic CV made any of it worthwhile. Vile as he may be, Hostler was one of the few recognized authorities remaining in a dying field of study.

So Micah toughed it out.

Yes, she was almost certainly hired due to her outward appearance. As a voluptuous Latina with classically refined facial features and a retro sense of style that flattered her generous hourglass figure, Micah was accustomed to turning men’s heads.

Her wardrobe could be considered rockabilly adjacent. Tight-topped dresses with flowy skirts and shiny pumps. Open-necked long-sleeved blouses that paired well with high-waisted swing skirts or clingy capri pants. The leather jackets, polka dot bandanas, and excesses of hair accessories and clunky fake jewelry went without saying.

Micah was a blast from the past—chum in the water for toothless old sharks like the Professor–the 1950s poster girl they’d drooled over as adolescents. She knew it, even if they didn’t, and like any good feminist, she altered the paradigm to work in her favor.

Still, the teaching assistant T&A “jokes” rankled after she’d overheard them for the hundredth time.

Tit and Ass. Haha, laugh it up while you still can, little boys.

She would endure and condemn them all once safely ensconced in an ivory tower of her own making–firmly seated on a throne earned through intellectual prestige and professional accomplishment.

That was the dream, anyway. Right now, she had a volatile lover to wrangle.

Daphne was always a firecracker on the verge of detonation. Micah adored her passion, her raw emotion boiling beneath the surface, ready to explode at the merest spark of provocation. Her butch Anglo girlfriend was borderline unhinged, allowing her the rare role of the peacekeeper in their turbulent relationship.

It probably wasn’t what most would consider healthy–all the fighting and making up–but Micah loved watching Daphne fly off the handle for her, going apeshit over the slightest infractions. She felt valued in those moments—special, treasured.

She hesitated, though. Fingers froze on the handle of the door that impeded their turbulent reunion. Something felt wrong.

It wasn’t apprehension at the state in which she’d likely find her girlfriend–seething fit to burst from being set aside in favor of marking exam papers. Nor was it unease stoked by the spooky stillness and emptiness of the darkened halls and classroom that bustled with life during the day.

No, an existential dread crept over the curvy Latina. A tiny instinctual warning that danger lay a short step past the basement entryway, and here she was– dolled up to the nines in a form-fitting black blouse, charcoal pencil skirt, smoky stockings and onyx wedge heels–preparing to charge headlong into it, armed with little more than a can-do attitude.

Micah retrieved her phone from a cherry red clutch, turned on the torch function, and keyed in the number for campus security, just to be safe. With her thumb hovering over the call icon, she took a steadying breath and opened the door.

Murky gloom greeted her at the top of the stairs leading downward. A few flicks of the switch confirmed the lights were out of commission. Micah bit back a curse before cautiously descending. The illumination from her phone barely pierced the darkness and the bright screen didn’t allow her eyes to adjust.

Without her familiarity with the underground space, she would’ve been stumbling about like a blind person.

Shabby as the archeology department’s new accommodations might be, the workspace and attached archival storage weren’t small. Benches, tables and shelves cluttered the basement, reaching far back to the steel fire doors that protected the university’s trove of historical findings.

Micah prepared to navigate by memory when the sound of movement stopped her in her tracks. It was a shifting noise, something scraping along the cold cement floor, shrouded by the inky shadows.

“Daphne, is that you?” She urgently whispered, skin prickling. “It’s me, Micah. Are you okay, love?”

“Help… me.”

It was her! The voice was slurred but unmistakably Daphne’s. She sounded drunk but Micah wasn’t taking any chances.

She raised the phone to her ear, ready to make the call, when a ragged chuckle stalled her hand.

“You gotta help me, babe. Shit got out of hand… again. Now I’m all tangled up.”

Typical. The olive-skinned beauty sighed in exasperation and shut off the screen, panning about with the flashlight to find scattered tools, charred strips of paper and shards of broken stone.

“What have you done?” She asked, plucked brows climbing in alarm. “Are you responsible for this mess?!”

“Mostly.” Micah honed in on Daphne’s hysterical giggling and nearly tripped over a snapped broom handle. “But that’s not the problem.”

“Keep talking, love. Tell me what’s wrong. We’ll get through whatever it is together.”

A floral scent tickled her nose, and the faintest flicker of firelight twinkled from the far end of the room, obscured by the shelving stacks. Barely perceptible moans and grunts emanated from that direction, chilling her blood.

She was close. In only a few more seconds, she would find Daphne, and they’d escape this nightmare together.

The shifting sound came from Micah’s right, low to the ground. She swept her phone toward it and stifled a terrified scream. A top-heavy woman, cruelly bound in red ropes, wormed across the floor, headed straight for her.

A very naked woman with the sharp face and short hair of Micah’s girlfriend–inching forward as fast as her restraints would allow–dragging a simply ginormous pair of breasts beneath her.

“Daphne, is… is that you?”

“You know it, toots. Talk about a trip, right?” The hog-tied booby monster huffed. “Went off my rocker earlier and picked the wrong fight. Hoo boy, I paid for that good and proper, but you know what? I fucking loved it.”

“What happened?” Micah tottered back a step. “What’s going on down here?!”

She winced at the rising volume of her panicked voice, but Daphne simply grinned.

“Won’t lie. It’s bad, sugartits. Frank’s finally nutted up and quit being a pussy. That’s great and all; he totally powned my mouth and ass like a boss, but there’s also some cat-eared cunt in the mix doing mystical shit. Then Bernie showed up and got hella swoll and sexy. They duked it out, and now they’re banging like jackrabbits on meth, completely forgetting about my horny–”

“Oh, do we have another visitor?” A saccharin purr from the shadows resolved itself into the form of a curvy, short-statured cutie encased in a formless pink fur coat that matched her vivid hair color. She was sporting one of those animal ear headbands in her flowing lilac tresses. “Gosh, it’s Micah. I remember you! Welcome, welcome! Are you here to apply for a concubine position? I’m certain our master won’t object. You’re sooo~ pretty.”

Daphne quivered visibly at the term “master,” emitting a hungry groan and grinding her suspiciously wet thighs. Micah hurriedly positioned herself defensively in front of her demented lover and aimed her phone like a weapon at the cheerful intruder.

“Who are you and what have you done to Daphne?” She demanded. “It’s magic, isn’t it? Undo the spell or enchantment or whatever you’ve cast before I call the cops.”

Her voice was firm and steady, unlike her hands, which were shaking. Little Miss Pink cocked her head as though she didn’t understand and smiled disarmingly.

“I’m sorry. I’m aware this situation seems a touch… chaotic at first blush, but let me assure you things are not as scary as they appear.” She said placatingly. “Goodness, no. Um, I feel a little bad, actually. Everyone else got a nice-to-meet-ya gift, and here’s me empty-handed. It’s rather embarrassing, to be honest. Anyway, hi! I’m Konoha. If you give me a sec, I could probably finagle something last minute–”

“I don’t want a gift!” Micah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Worse still, the girl in the awful puffball coat acted genuinely ashamed of her imaginary faux pas. “I want my girlfriend back to normal, then we’re leaving. You can play all the messed up sex games you want, but without us.”

That snapped the lilac-haired stranger’s attention back to her, and Micah saw that her pupils were slitted like a feline dividing amethyst irises. Daphne wriggled closer, making lewd noises as she squirmed.

“I believe you’re laboring under some misapprehensions, sister.” Konoha crossed her arms and sniffed indignantly. “I’m trying to be nice, but no, it’s all about you, you, you. How selfish. What about your slut there? Did it occure to you to ask if she wanted to leave? Everyone was having a great time before you arrived. Uninvited, I might add. Party pooper, much?”

“Nooo~...” Daphne moaned, bumping her side into Micah’s heeled foot. Something looped around the Latina’s leg and constricted. “He hasn’t railed my cunny yet. Stay, please? Maybe he’ll fuck us both at the same time. Really jam that giant meat stick between our sandwiched pussies and get us off with the friction on our clits while we make out for him.”

Who was she talking about? Frank? Surely not. She despised the guy tooth and nail.

Glancing down, Micah was horrified to discover a silken cord wrapped around her stockinged ankle. It extended from Daphne’s broadened hip and no amount of kicking or yanking loosened the hold. She was trapped. Stuck to her girlfriend, who had become a literal ball and chain.

“Love, let me go.” She implored, trying to pull away but getting nowhere. Her jerky movement jostled the phone from her grasp to skitter out of reach in the darkness. “Please, this isn’t you. The magic is screwing with your mind.”

“If this is wrong. I don’t wanna be right.” Daphne sighed, curling around Micah’s foot like a contented sex kitten. More crimson ropes snaked up her calf and thigh. They were seductively soft. “It feels too good. His cock is deliverance, you’ll see. When the Master reshapes you into the perfect vessel to receive his Holy Seed, we’ll be sisters—bonded for eternity. Together forever under the aegis of his giant butt-punishing cock.”

“Well, I’ll leave the two of you to talk it out. Communication is key in any relationship.” Little Miss Pink–Konoha sniffed, her fur coat blowing in a non-existent breeze. “I’ll nip out the back and see about that gift. Don’t go anywhere.”

Was that a joke? The damn ropes crawled under her pencil skirt like a timelapse video of sprouting vines, fastening her to an immobile Daphne. Apparently not, because the girl flounced into the gloom, muttering to herself like a loon.

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