Or does that fall to Rashmi?

Disclaimer: This story is only for audiences 18 years of age or older. All characters depicted in intimate situations are over 18 years old. This story deals with themes of mental manipulation and control as well as dubious consent. If any of that makes you uncomfortable, turn back now. All characters and stories depicted herein are original Hypnogriff creations and copyrights, unless noted otherwise.

If it was possible, the Hummer looked even more out of place in the school parking lot than it had in Rashmi’s neighborhood. Sure some other kids had rented limousines, but Carrie’s cotton candy chariot could crush those coaches like croutons. The back door opened, and the parade of Hampton High’s most popular population poured out. Carrie gestured for Rashmi to get out ahead of her so she could talk to V.

“V, I wanna make tonight special for Rash, but thinking of how gives me a headache. Can you help me?”

“I would be happy to, dear.”

Another shadow of a thought stirred beneath the bubbly ocean of Carrie’s mind, a fragment of memory. “I thought you didn’t like using your magic for people besides me.”

“Oh, that. Water under the bridge, sweetie,” Vilette said dismissively. “That was for a hateful old woman who was mean to you. It’s like you said, if making that ungrateful little waif happy will make you happy then that makes me happy.”

“So . . . everyone can be happy?”

“Yes, very much so,” Vilette said with a predatory grin.

“Happy!” Carrie squealed, as Vilette’s assurances soothed the stirring in her mind. Everything would be alright. How could it not be when she had Vilette’s magic behind her. It felt so nice to go back to not thinking. Then Carrie let Travis help her down from the Hummer. She didn’t need the help, of course. She could have backflipped her way out, but Daddy’s strong hands on her arm felt nice.

Just as she’d always imagined it, Carrie strode into prom on the arm of the hunkiest hunk she’d ever chunked. Except she’d always imagined this would be a night for her and Daddy, the day their love would finally be proven, but she didn’t worry about that so much anymore. She saw Daddy all the time. Saw him, felt him, rode him. You name it, she had done it, as well as many acts she didn’t know the names of. No, tonight was about Rashmi. Rashmi was her oldest and bestest friend, and Carrie knew her perfect life wouldn’t be complete without Rashmi.

The gymnasium, however, was falling far short of Carrie’s expectations. She wanted the best and the school’s paltry display was anything but. Colorful streamers threaded between the metal joists complete with a worn disco ball, missing several of its little reflective thingies. A lone fog machine in the corner did its best to fill the cavernous space, which it did about as effectively as a vaping teenager.

“Humpf,” Caroline pouted, crossing her arms. “This place is, like, totes lame.”

“I mean it’s the gym. What did you expect?” Rashmi said with a shrug.

“I expect magic, moods, the best!” Carrie paused. “Wait, that's it! V, I wish prom was somewhere cool, some place we could have the bestest night ever.”

“Oh, that’s perfect. Yes, I can work with that,” the little fairy said with barely suppressed glee. “Your wish is my command, dear.” Then came the now familiar burst of purple light that accompanied Vilette’s magic.

When the glow faded, the tired gymnasium had become a splendid ballroom. Slabs of veined marble had replaced the scratched and splintering floorboards. Pilasters of a deep violet stone lined the walls, stretching to a majestically vaulted ceiling. Carrie studied the columns in awe, trying to remember their order. She knew that she knew what kind they were. They were . . . the leafy ones! The stone pedestals supported soaring vaults that met in a series of ‘X’s that marched down the hall. Carrie recognized those too. They had something to do with groins. . . Something vaults. Carrie decided to call them ‘pussy vaults’ and moved on. Even more remarkable than the space was the wait staff.

Beautiful, busty brunettes beamed at the crowd as they circulated with drinks and little trays of snacks. One of them stopped in front of Rashmi, offering her some colorful concoction.

Rashmi, for her part, seemed stunned, staring up at the woman. “Whoah, who are you?”

The woman giggled, twirling a strand of chestnut hair in her free hand. “Oh, me. I’m, like, nobody important.”

“Not looking like that you’re not,” Rashmi gushed. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Jenny,” the waitress purred. “How may I serve you?”

Something struck Carrie about the woman. She studied the stranger as she chatted with Rashmi. Maybe it was her flowing tawny hair, just like Carrie’s. Or her rack that seemed to spite gravity with its very existence, just like Carrie’s. Or her pink eyes, just like Carrie’s. She definitely reminded Carrie of someone. But Jenny was wearing a frilly maid’s dress and a collar of bright purple metal. Carrie didn’t know anyone with those things, and that simply flummoxed her. “V, who is she?” Carrie whispered.

“Don’t trouble yourself for the help dear. She’s just one of my servants.”

“Okay, just one of your servants,” Carrie repeated, trying to process. “Wait, YOUR servants?”

“Of course, silly. I couldn’t possibly maintain a manor like this on my own.”

“That makes sense,” the cheerleader said with a nod. “Wait, this is your place?”

Vilette gave a shrill, mocking laugh. “Obviously. Did you think I lived inside that mirror?”

“Kinda.”

“Well, I prefer things a little more luxurious. We have that in common, sweetie. We both want the best. You wanted the best place for your little party, and I can’t help it if that happens to be my home.”

“The best,” Carrie mouthed. A funny tickling sensation was teasing her brain. “Your type.” Huh? Why had she said that? Something deep inside her was trying to think something, trying, like, really really hard. She must have been forgetting something important. Rashmi! Surely that was it. Carrie realized that she had been totally neglecting her friend, who was still watching the waitress as she sauntered away. “Isn’t this place the bestest?”

“I’ll say. I could have sworn we were driving to school, but I guess not. This place looks more ornate than The Biltmore Estate, and that’s the largest private home in the US. Where are we, Caroline?”

“Fairy Land!” Carrie answered cheerfully.

Rashmi laughed. “It’s okay to say you don’t know.”

“But I totes do know this one! It IS Fairy Land.”

“If Carrie says it’s Fairy Land, then it is,” Gwennie interjected.

“Sure, whatever,” Rashmi answered with a sidelong glance. “Wherever we are, it’s incredible. I feel a little underdressed now.”

“Oooh, I can help with that,” Carrie offered, jumping for joy and sending her jugs jiggling at the same time. At last, a way she could use magic to help her friend’s night. “I wish Rash’s dress was, like, sooo sexy and fine.”

Another purple flash.

Rashmi’s squeal reached Carrie’s ears before the spots had even left her vision. “What the fuck?” The simple silver dress had been utterly transformed. The fabric now flared at the base in an elegant mermaid tail that hugged Rashmi’s hips, exaggerating her modest curves. But as it reached her stomach, the fabric split into two loose fitting, narrow strips that barely covered her breasts. A crisscrossing network of fine silver chains laced across her back and tied the two narrow strips around her neck. The effect left her entire midriff exposed, as well as her back and most of her sides. “I’m practically naked.”

“I know! It’s way better,” Carrie beamed.

“No, it’s not! You can see most of my boobs. My parents are gonna kill me if I come home like this.”

“Then go home with someone else, silly! You can borrow one of his shirts. Daddy always likes that.”

Travis nodded. “That’s the move.”

Rashmi looked in shock between her friend, her friend’s date, and . . . whatever Gwennie counted as. They all seemed to be taking the transformation completely in stride. “That would be a thousand times worse,” she fumed.

“Hmmm,” Carrie said, doing her best to process Rashmi’s objections.

“What?”

“A thousand’s a really big number,” she quietly mused.

“Oh my god,” Rashmi snapped before she stormed off, wrapping her arms around her chest, which did precious little to preserve her modesty.

Carrie watched with total confusion. “I don’t get it, V. I thought the dress looked hawt.”

“I know. I even kept the drab grey color she liked, and she was so ungrateful. Are you sure you want a friend like that? Wouldn’t you be happier without her?”

Even from this distance, Carrie could see the faint glow emanating from Rashmi. “Nuh-uh. I’ll be happier with her.”

The scowl crossed the Fairy’s face far too quickly for Carrie to notice. “Fine then. In that case it’s obvious what we should do.”

“Not to me. You’re better at the thinky stuff.”

“She’s self-conscious, dear.”

“Self-conch . . .” Carrie repeated, fumbling for the word and not finding it. “She’s a shell in the ocean?”

“No, dummy. She’s embarrassed of her body. I mean look how spindly and plain she is next to you, even compared to little Gwen. You should just wish for me to transform her, like I did to you, and I’m certain she’ll feel much better.”

“That makes sense. Well in that case, I wish . . .No!” The word burst from Carrie’s mouth like a popping air bubble that had gurgled up from deep beneath the sea of pink. Another of those funny thoughts. “I mean, no. There must be something else.”

Vilette growled in frustration. “If you’re so smart, let’s hear your ideas then.”

Carrie screwed up her face again, summoning all the cognitive faculties she had left. What made her feel beautiful? Then it came to her. It was so obvious. “I’ve got it!”

***

“Oh, Rash, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Carrie said as she crossed to her friend at the bar, where Rashmi had apparently opted to drown her sorrows.

The quizbowl captain looked lazily up from her glass. “Is it the hulking man that you’re standing in front of like you’re trying to hide him?”

“Yes! You’re so smart, Rash. This is Christian. He’s besties with Daddy. And you’re my bestie. You two can be best besties together. You have so much in common.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“‘Sup,” Christian said nonchalantly. He had dark hair buzzed into a tight fade and his tuxedo fit so tightly that a well placed flex looked like it would burst it to shreds.

“Um, yeah, hi, I guess,” Rashmi said flatly.

“Carrie says you’re pretty cool.”

Rashmi sighed. “Look, Christian, you seem like a nice and . . . um . . . large man,” Rashmi said before Carrie cut her off.

The cheerleader squeezed in close and whispered to her friend, “He’s not just large. He’s the biggest. I asked Daddy. They do, like, measuring contests or something.”

“Jesus, Caroline!”

“Jesus has got nothing on me,” Christian said with a wink.

“Only the bestest for you, Bestie! He came with Vicky tonight, and she didn’t want me to bring him over here, but I can be, like, soooo persuasive,” Carrie said, giving her breasts a little wiggle.

“Caroline!”

“What’s, like, wrong? You don’t look happy.”

Rashmi pulled on her braid so hard she nearly ripped some hair out. “Of course not! I never asked you to set me up with some guy. I certainly don’t want you to steal somebody else’s boyfriend for me. Look, Christian, it’s not you. My parents would kill me if they caught me with a guy.”

“Suit yourself. Chapel’s open all night,” he said, pointing to his fly. “In case you, you know, wanna get on your knees and take confession.”

“First off, gross,” Rashmi gasped. “Second, I’m pretty sure Catholics don’t take confession from their knees.”

“Whatever. It was, like, a metaphor,” Christian said before stalking away.

“No it wasn’t. Metaphors are…”

“Rash! You gotta stop with all the little facts. Boys don’t like brainy girls. They like girls who think with their little clitties.”

“Do you hear yourself right now?”

“Hello?“ Carrie said experimentally. “Yep, why do you ask?”

“What happened to you? Where’s my Caroline? My best friend who would stay up too late with me on quiz bowl meets, who would watch bad movies with me and make fun of them, who made me feel like I wasn’t alone.”

“She’s right here!”

Rashmi stared deeply into her friend’s unnaturally rosy eyes, scanning and searching for any sign of the curious fire that used to burn behind them. Instead, she just found two placid pools of pink, sweet, fruity, and empty. “I’m not sure if she is anymore. Just leave me alone for a while, okay?“ Rashmi said, grabbing her drink and marching off without waiting for an answer.

Caroline stood stupefied, even more so than usual. A good dicking always made her feel better, and Rashmi had turned her nose up at it.

“There,” Vilette said, appearing in a cloud of purple sparkles. “We gave it our best, but your little friend is just a spiteful, miserable person. We can fix that though, can’t we?”

Carrie stared down at the finely lacquered wooden bar, contemplating her wavy reflection. She was still the same Carrie she always was, wasn’t she? Why was she having so much trouble connecting to her best friend then? If Rashmi really was all those nasty things that Vilette had said, then how could they have been friends for so long. “I just dunno, V. It doesn’t add up.”

The fairy floated around to face her charge, resting a hand under Carrie’s chin. “Hey, hey, don’t look so down. You don’t need to make sense of this drudgery anymore. You have me now. Just don’t think. Do as I say.”

Carrie felt the fog billow through her mind. “Whatever you say.”

“That’s it. Now just wish for me to change your friend. She’ll be so much happier. You want her to be happy, don’t you?”

“I do,” Carrie said meekly.

“Then you know what to do.” Vilette booped Carrie on the nose.

“I wish . . .”

“That you understood the feelings of high school girls?” A voice called from over Carrie’s shoulder. “You and all the boys in my class.”

Carrie turned to see the shapely silhouette of Mrs. Sharpe standing behind her. The now-sex-ed teacher wore a dress of dark scarlet in a lacy floral pattern, full of little flower shaped holes. The fabric was so perforated as to almost appear translucent and leave nothing of its wearer’s figure to the imagination. The plunging neckline showcased a dangerous swath of the mature woman’s cleavage. Carrie had to remind herself not to stare or she’d fall victim to the same enchanting power that she herself wielded. “Mrs. Sharpe? What are you doing here?”

“I’m chaperoning. Someone has to make sure that your class is behaving responsibly and acting on all their sexual urges.”

“Oh, that, like, makes sense.” It didn’t. Carrie was pretty sure chaperones were supposed to stop that kind of behavior, but she was far past questioning that sort of thing.

“I overheard your argument with Ms. Apte. Don’t take it so hard. You’re both young and dealing with an ocean of hormones.”

“Daddy always says he likes my whore moans,” Carrie said sullenly.

“Be that as it may, Ms. Apte may not feel the same. I’d be happy to talk to her if you’d like. I have a hunch about why she’s feeling so down.”

“You’d, like, do that for me?” Carrie gasped.

“Of course. It’s the least I can do,” she said, turning to leave. “I don’t know how, but I know you helped me keep my job. So, thank you.”

Mrs. Sharpe had walked away before Carrie could properly respond. That almost felt like another life, but Carrie did faintly remember. She had helped Mrs. Sharpe. Her head started feeling funny again, buzzy, noisy almost, like more thoughts were trying to surface. Then she saw the most peculiar thing.

It looked as though Vilette flew over to Mrs. Sharpe and started talking to her.

But of course, that was impossible. No one could see or hear V except for Carrie. Yet it really seemed like Mrs. Sharpe was looking right at her and waiting for her to finish speaking. Then the teacher waved a dismissing hand and walked off after Rashmi. How strange.

***

Mrs. Sharpe found Rashmi in a corner talking with another of the wait staff, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Ms. Collins. “Ms. Apte, could I speak with you?”

Rashmi turned, surprised. “Oh, Mrs. Sharpe. Yeah, sure.”

The waitress politely moved on and left the pair alone. “Tell me, what’s been going on with you and Ms. Collins.”

Her hands flew to her braid again. “Oh, that. It’s nothing.”

“You seem awfully upset about nothing,” Mrs. Sharpe said, taking a step closer.

“Okay it’s not exactly nothing. I don’t feel comfortable talking about this kind of thing with my teacher.”

“Rashmi, look at me.”

Her hazel eyes snapped up from the floor and locked onto Mrs. Sharpe’s own.

“No. Really look at me,” she said, quickly nodding her chin down.

That was all it took, all it took to draw Rashmi’s gaze down to the tender valley of Mrs. Sharpe’s chest. Then it didn’t move again. Her tense posture began to slacken and despite herself, she started to lean forward. “I . . . I can’t look away.”

“It’s alright to stare. I don’t mind. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

“Comfortable . . .” Rashmi repeated idly, hands growing still.

“That’s it. You feel comfortable with me.” Mrs. Sharpe began gently kneading her breast, sending it bouncing up and down. Rashmi’s own head began to mirror the movement, bobbing gently up and down, up and down. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“I miss my friend.”

“But your friend still cares for you.”

“She’s not the same.”

“Rashmi, people change at your age. That doesn’t mean she’s not your friend.”

“She forgot about me.”

“Now, that’s clearly not true. She invited you to come with her here. She wouldn’t have brought that strapping young man over to you if she didn’t care.”

“Don’t . . . Don’t want him.”

Mrs. Sharpe’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“I . . .I . . . I” Rashmi started to twitch, fighting to preserve her secrets like a rocket pulling against the inescapable gravity of the twin stars trying to pull her in and shaking apart in the effort. “Don’t wanna say.”

“Why are they always so stubborn?” Mrs. Sharpe sighed. She reached down and took Rashmi’s limp hand in her own, raising it to the teacher’s own breast. She placed her student’s palm against the supple flesh and pressed it in. Rashmi responded with a surprised little gasp, but didn’t let go. Mrs. Sharpe guided her hand in slow, gentle circles, allowing her tremendous tits to sway in time with the motions. “Just relax and focus on the motion, the warmth radiating through your palm and up your arm.”

“Mmmm,” was all the quizbowl captain could manage to say. The lazy pleasure spread through her like novocaine, numbing her body and her mind. Still her hand never stopped or slowed, not even as Mrs. Sharpe withdrew her own. Rashmi kept on, grabbing and squeezing, melting more and more into the touch. Soon she was hunched so far forward that the two strips of her dress hung slack, leaving her breasts completely exposed.

“You like that don’t you?”

“Yes,” came the short, simple reply.

Rashmi kept on for a few moments of quiet, pawing mindlessly at her teacher’s tits, falling deeper and deeper under their spell with every little bounce.

“I’ve never seen you look at any of the boys in class the way you’re looking at me right now.”

Rashmi wasn’t even aware of the silly smile on her face, the vacant curve of her lips or the half-lidded stare of her eyes. “I guess not.”

“You don’t like boys, do you?”

Suddenly the fight flared to life behind Rashmi’s eyes, and her arm began to shake again. She hadn’t told anyone that, not her parents, not even Caroline. She didn’t think her parents would understand. She couldn’t say that, couldn’t admit that. Then it would be real. “Um . . Um . . . well.”

Then Mrs. Sharpe’s fingers found their way to Rashmi’s own exposed nipples and began tracing the same lazy circles. Once again, her resistance melted along with all the stiffness in her muscles. Rashmi fell forward, taken totally aback by the unexpected touch. She slouched into her teacher’s arms, resting her head against the two queen sized pillows there. Still Mrs. Sharpe kept on, rubbing and soothing her student’s thoughts away. Her nipples hardened into two little buds as her mind emptied.

Rashmi just floated there, losing herself to the sensation, softly whimpering at each delicate caress to cross her skin. After a few moments, Rashmi couldn’t remember why she’d been reluctant to talk. “I don’t like boys,” she said in a sleepy mumble.

“You like girls, don’t you?”

Rashmi felt the words welling up inside her, but retained just enough restraint to clamp her lips closed. The result was a stifled moan, as her secret vibrated against her tongue.

Of course, that only lasted until Mrs. Sharpe slid her hand underneath the loose fabric of Rashmi’s dress and found her pussy. As soon as she began tracing the same circles over Rashmi’s panties, it was over. Rashmi couldn’t deny how absolutely exquisite that felt, how much she had longed for someone to touch her like that, how badly she wanted the right person to notice.

Her hips came to life, absently rocking in time with her teacher’s ministrations. At last she surrendered to the pull of gravity and allowed herself to be drawn totally under Mrs’ Sharpe’s spell. Her lips parted, leaving her mouth and her mind totally open. “Yes,” she breathed in a barely audible whisper.

“I couldn’t hear you.”

“I like girls,” Rashmi said a little more loudly, still stilted between ragged breaths.

“You’re not just telling me,” Mrs. Sharpe prompted. “You’re admitting it to yourself.”

“I like girls!” Rashmi screamed as another wave of pleasure swept over her. In that moment she felt a massive weight lift off her shoulders. She stopped resisting all together and just savored the sensations washing over her.

She said it so loudly that some of the surrounding students turned to look, but quickly lost interest. Even such intense displays of public affection had become commonplace at Hampton High, thanks to Mrs. Sharpe’s class.

“See that wasn’t so hard,” Mrs. Sharpe said, as she cradled Rashmi’s head against her supple chest.

“How did you know?” Rashmi asked, lucidity finally returning.

“Oh, it was pretty obvious. You all tend to forget that us teachers were young too once.”

“I’ve . . . I’ve never told anyone that.”

“That’s what I’m here for. You can tell me anything,” Mrs. Sharpe said, never stopping the relentless motion of her hand, not even as the damp patch beneath her fingers grew and grew. “Anything at all.”

An expectant pause hung between them for a moment.

“You could tell that too, huh?” Rashmi asked with a laugh.

“I can pull it out of you if you prefer.”

Rashmi released another contented breath and nuzzled against her teacher’s bosom. She was tempted to make Mrs. Sharpe do just that, anything to prolong this delicious pressure pulsing through her, but the dam of her resistance had shattered completely, and she wouldn’t rebuild that wall for all the world. “I don’t just like girls.”

“You like one particular girl.”

“Caroline.” Rashmi couldn’t control the blush that spread across her cheeks and she didn’t want to. She’d hidden long enough.

Mrs. Sharpe stopped her ministrations and eased Rashmi back up to standing. “You have to tell her.”

“But . . . but what if she doesn’t feel the same?”

Mrs. Sharpe stared her student down with icy determination. “She needs to hear it. I don’t know how I know, but she does.”

Rashmi swallowed hard, and then broke out into a nervous smile. “Ok, I’ll do it. I’ll tell her.”

Of course neither of them had paid much attention to the waitress who had stayed hovering nearby, who had watched the whole scene, and who at that very moment was heading to Vilette to share all she’d heard.

Author’s Note: There you have it. The battle of the ages, quiz bowl captain vs. ancient fairy. Who will come out on top? Since I’m shelving the subscription service, my writing is now fueled entirely by praise and feedback, so I’d love to hear from you at [email protected] or in my discord: https://discord.gg/puPXqT98bG