Ask Pan exactly what she means by 'more intense curriculum'

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 10:49 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

"Wait," I say, holding up a hand even as my eyes keep drifting to the tartan fabric pressed against Pan's chest. "What do you mean, 'more intense curriculum'? What's the condition this time? Because last time you didn't tell me anything until I was already —" I gesture vaguely at my own body, at the phantom weight still ghosting across my chest. "You know. Changed."

Pan tilts her head, that cascade of violet-black hair spilling over one shoulder. Her amber eyes dance with amusement, and she clicks her tongue against her teeth in a theatrical show of consideration.

"Mmm, let me think about how to put this," she says, tapping one manicured finger against her lower lip. "The witch wanted you to feel pleasured. To experience sensation. The schoolgirl..." She steps closer, the costume still clutched in one hand, and her free hand comes to rest on my hip. Her thumb traces a slow circle against the denim. "The schoolgirl wants you to feel taken. To be taught a lesson. To submit to instruction from someone who knows exactly what you need."

"That's not an answer," I manage, though my voice is already losing its edge. She's too close. That scent — cinnamon and musk and something thick underneath — is filling my lungs with every breath.

"It's exactly an answer," Pan purrs. "Just not the kind you're used to." Her hand slides from my hip to my stomach, fingers splaying across the thin cotton of my t-shirt. I feel every ridge of her fingerprints through the fabric, the enhanced sensitivity from the witch costume turning a simple touch into something electric. "Some lessons require a teacher, Trevor. Someone firm. Someone who knows how to push you until you break in all the right ways."

"But what does that actually —"

Her hand drops lower.

Her palm presses flat against the front of my jeans, directly over my cock, and the world goes white at the edges. I'm half-hard already — have been since the transformation reversed, honestly — and her hand is warm, radiating heat through the denim like a brand. She doesn't grab or squeeze. She just presses, her fingers curling slightly, molding to the shape of me through the rough fabric.

"Oh," I breathe. My hips jerk forward involuntarily, pushing into her touch.

"There we go," Pan whispers, her lips brushing my ear. Her fingers begin a slow, deliberate stroke through the denim — up, then down, tracing the length of my shaft with agonizing precision. My cock swells rapidly under her attention, straining against the zipper, and I can feel every thread of fabric, every seam, amplified by the sensitivity the witch costume left behind. "Stop asking questions, sweetie. You already know you want to feel it again. That rush. That release. That feeling of becoming something more than what you are."

She strokes again — firmer this time — and my knees actually buckle. I grab her shoulder to steady myself and she laughs, low and warm, her hand never stopping its slow rhythm.

"The fitting room is still right there," she murmurs against my neck. "The costume is right here in my hand. All you have to do is say yes."

"Yes," I hear myself say. The word comes out ragged and desperate, stripped of all the hesitation I'd been clinging to. "Okay. Yes. I'll try it on."

Pan's hand withdraws from my cock — leaving me throbbing and aching in my jeans — and she presses the schoolgirl costume into my arms with a triumphant smile. The fabric is impossibly soft against my skin, warm and alive, and I can already feel that familiar tingle beginning where it touches my forearms.

"Good girl," she says, and winks.