Dicking Down a Mage

Brandon's eyes went wide, a slow, incredulous grin spreading across his face. For a moment, he looked like a kid who'd just been told he could have anything in the entire candy store, and today, everything was free. "Me? Really?" he breathed, his gaze fixed on Mara's pale, naked form. There was no predatory menace in his expression, it was pure, unadulterated, almost boyish enthusiasm. He looked down at himself, then back at Emi, as if to confirm this wasn't some elaborate, wonderful joke.

"You bet your ass, really," Emi purred, her voice laced with a dark, triumphant amusement. "Consider it your first official duty as Custos." She kicked the shredded remains of Mara's short jeans aside, giving Brandon a clear, unobstructed view of the other witch's exposed, **** body. "Get to it. Before she wakes up."

Brandon needed no further encouragement. He practically scrambled over, fumbling with his belt, his movements clumsy with a ****, barely contained excitement. He knelt between Mara's legs, his hands trembling slightly as he placed them on her pale, trembling thighs.

***

Mara's world returned to her in a sickening rush. The first thing she registered was the cold, hard floor against her back. The second was a profound, terrifying silence. The constant, dark hum of the **** Miasma, the power that was as much a part of her as her own heartbeat, was gone. Vanished. It was like being struck deaf and blind in a world she had once commanded.

Her eyes fluttered open, focusing on the face of a man, an intensely handsome but utterly bland-looking man kneeling between her legs, a look of slack-jawed, idiotic glee on his face. His hands were on her thighs. His cock, hard and insistent, was pressing against the thin fabric of her panties. A hot, cold wave of pure, undiluted rage washed over her, so potent it was almost a physical ****.

"Get your hands off me, you insignificant piece of shit," she snarled, her voice a raw, venomous hiss. She tried to summon the Miasma, to will the life from his body, to rot the flesh from his bones. Nothing happened. The magic was a dead echo, a memory in a room where the furniture had been repossessed. Her struggles were weak, her muscles refusing to obey her with their accustomed strength, the feedback from her own ruined spell leaving her body a trembling, unresponsive vessel.

Brandon just grinned, the Trickster's magic holding him fast, overriding her words with the irresistible pull of the Pass and the raw, primal command of his new mistress. "Sorry," he mumbled, not sounding sorry at all. "Orders."

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her plain white panties, the last vestige of her modesty, and ripped them away with a single, rough tug. The fabric tore with a satisfyingly final sound. Mara’s cunt was a masterpiece. A neat triangle of jet-black curls, as dark and severe as a widow's weeds. Her outer lips, full and plump,

Brandon's cock, freed from the confines of his jeans, stood at rigid, almost painful attention. It was a sight that could make even a defeated **** Witch pause to appreciate the raw, uncomplicated mechanics of male arousal. He was thick, a solid column of flushed, eager flesh that pulsed with a life **** that was a direct insult to Mara's very nature. The prominent veins that mapped its surface were like roads to her oblivion, and the broad, mushroom-shaped head was a deep, angry purple, a single bead of clear fluid welling at the slit, a promise of the potent, Life-infused seed about to be delivered.

He shuffled forward on his knees, positioning himself, the head of his cock nudging against the entrance to her tight, unprepared cunt, a final, demeaning prelude to the violation that was to come.

It was an infuriating, maddening betrayal. Brandon's cock, sliding into her dry, unprepared channel, should have been agony, an ****. But her body, a traitorous vessel still humming with the chaotic feedback of her own ruined spell, responded with a treacherous spark of pleasure.

A gasp escaped her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock that had nothing to do with pain. He wasn't particularly skilled, just a blunt, determined instrument of the Trickster's will, but the sheer, primal **** of it, the undeniable physical reality of being taken, sent a jolt of unwanted heat through her.

Her mind screamed in furious, indignant protest, a silent litany of curses and promises of ****. But her hips, on their own volition, lifted slightly to meet his next thrust, a small, almost imperceptible movement of surrender that made her want to scream. She could feel the heat blooming in her core, a shameful, wet slickness easing his passage, her body conspiring with her enemy to betray her. With every pump, with every ragged grunt from the man fucking her, her anger warred with a rising tide of ****, humiliating pleasure.

Behind them, a bubble of utterly mundane discussion formed Emi, now with the “Stiff Upper Libram” in her hands, was flipping through its pages with the focused interest of a new homeowner reading the warranty for her appliances.

'Okay, so this symbol here,' Verdant Green's gravelly mental voice noted, pointing out a sigil that looked like a three-legged crow eating its own leg, 'that's a basic containment ward. Useful for trapping a minor spirit or keeping your lunch from getting cold. But this one, this little squiggle here... that's a doozy. That's a marker for a temporal anchor. You could use that to trap someone in a five-second loop for the rest of their life. Absolutely vicious. But very difficult to cast. Probably above your paygrade until you hit Level 8 or 9'

"Good to know," Emi murmured, her eyes tracing the complex diagrams. She glanced over her shoulder at the rhythmic grunting and the occasional venomous curse from the woman on the floor. "Anything in here about a proper magical workshop? Setting up a space, permanent wards, that kind of thing? Apartment living isn't going to cut it forever."

'Page 212,' Verdant Green replied instantly.

Brandon nibbled at the lively goth girls ear lobe. Her toned stomach tensed wonderfully and her breasts bouncing pleasingly.

The sorceress had tried to kill him, so he didn't feel too bad about **** her. The thought was a simple, clean justification that settled any lingering traces of guilt. Fuck with the bull, you get the horn. He'd heard his grandfather say that once, and it had never felt more appropriate. He wasn't just a cog in a magical machine; he was the horn. And right now, he was enjoying the ride.

He hammered her exposed pussy with a renewed, clumsy enthusiasm, his hips slapping against hers with a wet, rhythmic sound that echoed in the hushed room. He could feel her body responding, the traitorous slickness, the way her muscles clenched around him, and it fuelled a raw, triumphant pride.

Meanwhile on the floor, Mara had all but given up her fight. There was no power in her, no magic to call upon, only the raw, undeniable reality of her body's betrayal. Each thrust was a wave, and she was a shore being relentlessly eroded. Her mind, once a fortress of dark will, was now a chaotic mess of fury, humiliation, and a deep, growing tide of sensation she couldn't fight. Her legs, which had been stiff with resistance, had fallen open, the muscles trembling. She wasn't fighting back anymore, her body a canvas for the Trickster's victory.

'He's getting close, mistress,' Verdant Green's gravelly mental voice cut through her scholarly perusal, a note of urgent, professional excitement. 'The grunt-to-gasp ratio is reaching critical mass. Now's the time for the magical one-two punch.' The pink cloud zipped over to the book in her hands, its ethereal form pointing to a specific spell. 'Page 488. ‘Falsa Graviditatis’. A classic. You cast it the instant he climaxes, and it fertilizes her, a useful source of mana during the pregnancy.'

'And while you're at it, you might as well go for the double,' Verdant Green added, its voice a gleeful conspiratorial whisper. 'Page 491. Lesser Harem Binding. You're not powerful enough for a full, permanent Binding Spell, but this little gem will do for now.

Emi’s smile widened as she absorbed Verdant Green’s instructions, a genuine, unadulterated delight lighting up her features. The sheer, petty cruelty of it was perfect. Her fingers, now moving with a newfound confidence, found the page.

The first spell, Falsa Graviditatis, a shimmering, pale pink aura, coalesced around her fingertips, a delicate, feminine web of magic designed for one glorious, purpose. As Brandon’s thrusts became erratic, his face a mask of impending release, Emi let the first spell fly, a silent, invisible dart of pure, fertile energy that sank into Mara’s core just as Brandon’s body went rigid.

A hot, potent flood of Life energy surged into her, a direct, primal violation of the ****-attuned womb. Mara’s eyes shot open, the fury in them replaced for a split second by pure, soul-shattering panic. She knew, with a certainty that was worse than any physical pain, what had just happened. She could feel a spark of life taking root, a magical parasite designed to siphon her power and cement her defeat. She opened her mouth to scream, a raw, incoherent sound of pure hate and terror, but Emi was already casting the second spell.

Lesser Harem Binding was a harsher, more intrusive magic. A crackling thread of violet energy shot from Emi’s outstretched hand, striking Mara squarely in the chest. It wasn't a gentle binding; it was a brand, a magical leash that wrapped itself around her very will. The sensation was one of being collared, her thoughts, her rage, her very identity suddenly overlaid with a new, undeniable imperative: serve the binder. For seven days, she would be bound to this Trickster, a plaything in her rival’s game. Her panicked scream caught in her throat.

“You fucking bitch” she gasped unable to contain a shuddering orgasm from Brandon’s efforts.

"Wrap it up, Brandon," Emi commanded with a playful laugh ignoring Mara’s curses "She's all yours. Paint her white."

The last thirty seconds were a blur of pure, unadulterated sensation, a luxurious, ecstatic eternity condensed into a handful of heartbeats. Her cunt, once dry and resistant, was now a slick, velvet vice, a living sheath that gripped him with a ****, involuntary strength. The wet, sucking sounds of their joining were the only music he needed, a primal rhythm that synced with the thundering beat of his own heart. He could feel the heavy, soft weight of her breasts brushing against his chest with every lunge, the hard points of her nipples dragging against his skin, a final, tantalizing caress from the conquered sorceress. Her pale, flawless body was spread out beneath him, a canvas of pale flesh and dark hair, a masterpiece of defeat that he was currently, joyfully, painting with his cock.

With a final, guttural roar that was more beast than man, Brandon slammed into her one last time, his body going rigid as a cord in his neck stood out. The climax was a violent, beautiful explosion, a torrent of hot, potent seed flooding her fertile, defeated womb. His cock pulsed, pumping rope after thick rope of his life, his magic, his triumph into her, the sheer, explosive **** of it stealing his breath and making the world dissolve into a white-hot haze of pure pleasure. He could feel her convulse beneath him, a final, shuddering spasm that was half-orgasm, half-surrender.

Brandon collapsed on top of her, a dead weight of satisfaction and spent lust, his ragged breaths the only sound in the sudden, heavy silence of the room.