Magical Girl Syn, Chapter 4

Lawrence sat on his bed and tried to
think. What was he going to do? Some hot young thing declares me her Master,
tells me she’ll do
anything I want, and she’s obviously got one thing in
He knew what most men would do in his situation.

But he tried not to be most men. He
had a fiancee–had being the operative word–that he loved, and he would
never, ever cheat on her. It had been so much work getting Morgan to trust him!
She worked as a PI, so more half the time her job was to take photographs of a
cheating spouse on behalf of their jealous significant other. She and Lawrence
got on well, but she shied away from commitment, convinced that betrayal was
always just around the corner. It had taken years of patient, loving loyalty to
convince her to accept his proposal, and now all of that was gone.

He leaned around the bookshelf to
look at the girl, or at least the back of her head. She was sitting patiently,
exactly as he’d told her to. Her head bobbed side to side ever so slightly, her
pigtails bouncing in their little pink bows, as she bopped along to the memory
of some song.

Syn was aware her Master was looking
at her. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she knew. She wished she could pose
for him, but he had ordered her to sit quietly, and so quietly sit she would.

But there had to be some way to get
his attention, some way to get him to use her. She knew he was upset with her
for causing his fiancee to dump him, and hurting Master was the worst thing
imaginable. She had to heal him, just like she’d healed him after that
monster hurt him–and preferably through the same methods.

Her thoughts turned to the ways he
might use her, and she rubbed her hands slowly up her thighs, under her skirt. Please
take me
, she thought. Use me, order me… She sighed and let her
head fall back on the couch. She raised one hand slowly, languorously over her
bare belly to her blouse, and began to rub her breast through it, imagining
that it was her Master’s hand.

Lawrence watched, open-mouthed. He
couldn’t see much of the show, but he could see more than enough to know what
was going on. “Please,” he said. “Stop.”

Immediately, Syn straightened up and
placed her hands back in her lap. An explosion of happiness burst through her
at being given a command to obey, almost enough to overwhelm the disappointment
she felt at not being able to continue.


“What, um, what is your name,
again?” Lawrence asked.

“Syn, Master,” she

“Do you have to call me
that?” he asked. It was really unnerving to hear that sweet voice say such
an unsettling word, and directed at him, no less!

Syn thought about it a moment.
“Yes,” she said finally. “Unless you order me to call you
something else, then I have to obey that.” She smiled. A chance for
another command! “Is there something else you’d like me to call
you, Master?”

“Please just call me
Lawrence,” he said tiredly.

“Yes, Lawrence,”
she said, smiling.

Lawrence shivered. Everything about
the way she said it, other than the word itself, sounded exactly like she was
saying “Master.” Hearing his name like that was worse than
having her call him her Master–it made him feel like he actually was.

He looked down. One part of him
liked that idea a great deal. Irritably, he pushed aside the memory of how he’d
woken up after the building collapsed on him, and tried to focus on the
unanswered questions. “I was hurt, wasn’t I?” he asked. “How
come I’m fine now?”

“I healed you, Lawrence,”
said Syn.

“How?” He stood and walked
back around to the couch–there was no point in having this conversation with
the back of her head.

“Magic,” she answered.

He stood next to the couch, at the
far end from her, and stared. “Magic?” he repeated.

Syn nodded. “Yes,

“What exactly did you do?”

She turned her head to look up at
him, and smiled through her lashes. “I climbed on top of you and rode your
cock, Lawrence, until we both came,” she said sweetly.

He reddened. “I… I
remember.” Magic, though. Magic?

“The magic is why you own me,
too,” she said. “It made me yours.”

He stared at her a long moment, then
shook his head. “No, this is crazy. You’re… you’re a disturbed young
woman, acting out some kind of fantasy… I’ll call the hospital, I have
friends who work in the psych ward and they–” He broke off. Syn’s huge
blue eyes were welling up in tears.

“No, no, please don’t
cry!” he said. He looked around frantically for a box of tissues. Finding
none, he grabbed a fresh roll of toilet paper out of the linen closet, then sat
on the couch and held it out to her. “What’s wrong?”

“Please don’t send me away!”
she begged, dabbing at her eyes. “I just want to stay by your side and
serve you, please! I’ll do anything you want!”

Lawrence sighed. “I know you
feel that way, Syn, but there’s no magic spell making you obey me. You know
magic isn’t real, right?”

“It is real!” Syn
insisted. “I can prove it!”

“Really?” Lawrence
countered. “Do it.”

Before he could stop her, Syn ran to
the balcony and jumped off.

* * *

Mayor Lumley gazed out the window
over her city. She loved the view from here–in fact, she’d had the mayoral
offices moved from the old city hall to the space the city rented in this
skyscraper just so she could get a view like it. Her city spread out below her
like a map, its lights, its streets, its people, all buzzing away, living and
working and thriving.

They’d said she couldn’t do it. She
was too young, they said, only 37 when she announced her candidacy, and too
inexperienced, with only three years as a city councilor and a decade before
that as a community organizer. They didn’t say it, but she knew what else they
were thinking, too: too black, too female, too working-class.

But she proved them wrong. She
convinced the business leaders she would keep their profits high, charmed and
schmoozed her way to those fat donation checks, and then took to the streets
with her message of renewal and construction and opportunity.

And here she was, mayor of a major
metropolitan city, approval ratings high, and not even 40 yet. And with the
ties she was forming, there were more opportunities on the horizon–Governor,
Senator, maybe even higher than that. “First black woman President of the
United States” had a very nice ring to it.

Her phone buzzed, and she pressed
the button to answer it. “What is it, Carrie?” she asked.

“Um, your…” Carrie was
audibly out of breath, and she interrupted herself with what almost sounded
like a muffled giggle. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Lumley sighed. “It’s past
seven, Carrie, I’ve finished all my meetings for the day. Tell them to make an

“It’s very–oh!–very
urgent.” Lumley stared at her phone. This wasn’t like Carrie at all. She
was normally very professional, not all breathy and giggly.

“Fine, send them in,”
Lumley said. She smoothed down her skirt and patted her hair–everything had to
be in place, because the world was always watching, always judging.

Carrie walked in looking–well, if
Lumley hadn’t known better, she’d have said she looked groped. Several
locks of her blonde hair had escaped from her usual neat bun, including one
that dangled down the side of her face, her cream-colored button-down blouse
was askew, and Lumley couldn’t be sure, but it looked like she might not be
wearing a bra.

Behind her walked a rather short
man, pale, with straight dark hair and eyes, wearing an impeccably neat navy suit.
He didn’t look particularly important or interesting–quite the
opposite, actually, he looked like someone whose own mother would have trouble
picking him out of a police lineup–but something about the way he carried
himself suggested power. This was someone who had the power to fear nothing,
who hadn’t heard the word “no” in years.

Lumley allowed herself an inward
sigh and repressed the urge to roll her eyes. The farther up she got in
politics the more men like that she met–and inevitably they turned out to be
weak, privileged crybabies, so used to power and ease that they crumpled at the
first sign of difficulty or opposition.

Still, it never hurt to be cordial
to them, at least at first. They could be useful, if you steered them with a
gentle enough hand. “Janelle Lumley,” she said, holding out a hand to
shake. “Pleased to meet you, Mr…?”

He took her hand and kissed it.
She’d had him pegged as Asian, but maybe he was European? “Bruce
Feiticeiro,” he said. “We have an appointment tomorrow afternoon.”

“Feiticeiro,” she said,
thinking. “I’m sorry, but I can’t place the name.”

“I added him to your
appointment calendar earlier today, ma’am,” Carrie said. “He’s a
construction contractor working with Mr. Teisdale.”

“Ah,” said Lumley,
nodding. Teisdale was one of the richest men in the city and a major campaign
contributor. Of course, he’d contributed just as much to her opponent’s
campaign, but that was the point–most of the city’s wealthy had assumed she
would lose, and given her campaign a lot less than old Mayor Grunby’s.
“Well, any friend of Mr. Teisdale is a friend of mine, but you’re almost a
full day early. Why the visit?”

Bruce smiled, and Lumley had to
suppress a shiver. Something about him creeped her out, some sense that he was
used to power in ways beyond even her ambitions. “Tomorrow is the official
meeting, when you create a position for me with the access and power I require.
Tonight is when I enslave you and give you your orders for that meeting.”

“When you what!?
Lumley demanded, but then his power struck her like a physical blow. It tore
through the layers of Mayor Lumley and down into Janelle beneath, spreading
around her like a warm and comforting blanket, a soft, gentle, yet irresistible
urge to worship this man.

But Janelle fought back.

Bruce arched an eyebrow. “You
are strong indeed, young Janelle,” he said. “You must have a will of
iron, to resist my power.”

“Nobody…” she said
through gritted teeth. “Nobody tells me… what to do.”

“Of course this is only a
fraction of the power I could bring to bear,” Bruce continued, “but
the full force of my magic might break your mind, and I need it intact. You are
far too public a figure to risk damaging. Carrie, help persuade Janelle that
she needs to stop fighting.”

Carrie walked up to Janelle and
began removing her jacket. “Please…” Janelle said, struggling to
speak while still fighting the insidiously soft, warm pressure inside her
skull. “Carrie…”

“Sorry, boss, I belong to
Master now,” she said cheerfully. “Trust me, you’ll be so happy once
you do, too!” She continued methodically stripping Janelle, who was too
busy trying to keep her mind under control to resist what was happening to her

Keeping up the spell wrapping around
Janelle’s mind took little effort and less attention, so Bruce was able to poke
around inside her mind while he did, looking for the key to her resistance. It
wasn’t hard to find, since it was everywhere: ambition. Janelle lived for the
climb, the ascent to power, the game of politics and status, and that was
incompatible with descending into slavery.

Or would be normally. It had been a
long time since Bruce owned a ruler–democracy had made it more hassle than it
was worth–but there might be advantages to having the President as a slave.

Meanwhile, Carrie had pressed her
clothed body against Janelle’s now-naked back and wrapped her arms around her.
One of Carrie’s hands went to tease the Mayor’s small, but still high and perky,
breasts, while the other descended between her legs. Carrie nibbled her boss’
ear and whispered, “When Master finally fucked me, it was like I was
flying. It was the best ever. I can’t wait for you to find out how good
it feels, too…”

“No…” Janelle groaned,
but she couldn’t stop her assistant. It was hard to want to stop her.
The stroking of her gentle fingers resonated with that warm fuzzy blanket
wrapping around Janelle’s brain, and they amplified each other, making it
harder to think while Carrie’s hands felt better and better.

“Don’t worry,” said Bruce.
“I have no intentions of getting in the way of your career. Quite the
opposite–give me what I want, and I might be able to help you.”

That was the key. Visions blossomed in her mind before she could
stop them. A man with this kind of power, he could bring recalcitrant
legislators to heal, persuade donors to make campaign contributions, convince
rivals to back down. All she had to do was do things for him, too–it was the
same quid pro quo that all of politics was built on.

And just like that, her resistance
was gone. With her ambition swinging around to support the invader in her mind,
what independence remained just didn’t have the votes. She surrendered.

Bruce stepped forward and pulled her
into a kiss, which she eagerly returned. Carrie was right; this felt amazing.
It didn’t matter what he wanted from her. Sex, favors, a job, kickbacks–she
would give it to him, and love doing it.

* * *

“Syn!” Lawrence rushed to the balcony in a panic. Fearing what he
might see, he leaned over the balcony and looked down.

Syn had made a perfect three-point
landing in the parking lot. She looked up at Lawrence, more than forty feet
above, and could see every detail of his face with perfect clarity. She smiled
at the worry she saw there, and jumped back up. Lawrence barely had time to
step back before Syn grabbed the edge of the balcony, flipped herself up and
over it one-handed, and landed on her feet and upright directly in front of

“Wha… how… you…”

Syn smiled.

“Tha… that was more than four
stories! Straight up! From a standing start! Nobody can jump that high!”

“Not without magic,” Syn

Lawrence stared at her wide-eyed.
“So you’re saying… you have… magical powers? Of…

“And strength, and speed, and
healing, and I’m not even sure what else,” Syn said. “Also senses–I
was able to feel where you were from across the city.”

Lawrence shook his head and returned
to the couch. He sank into it slowly. “This is crazy.”

“It’s true though,” said
Syn, following him. She descended gracefully to her knees in front of him and
looked up at him in concern. “Are you okay?”

“And this same magic, it makes
you… belong to me?” He couldn’t wrap his brain around it.

“Completely,” said Syn.
“Utterly, totally, and happily yours.”

He looked down at that beautiful,
angelic face, that infernally sexy body, and fought the urge to gulp. “Um,
could you maybe, uh, not kneel?”

“Of course, Lawrence!” Syn
chirped happily, and stood up. Which just put his face on a level with her
bare, smooth midriff, not exactly an improvement.

“Maybe, uh, sit next to me
instead?” he asked.

“Okay,” said Syn. She sat
on the couch, just a little too close to Lawrence for his comfort, and again
smiled that dazzling smile.

“What… what’s it like?”
he asked.

“It’s wonderful,”
she breathed. “I feel like there’s this fire inside me, just this infinite
supply of energy. I feel bathed in love for everyone and everything. I’m
constantly horny, but everything feels so good–the cloth of my blouse
on my tits, the brush of my skirt against my thighs. Nothing’s as good as skin
against skin, though.” She laid her hand on top of Lawrence’s, closed her
eyes, and moaned softly. “So good…”

He didn’t move his hand away.
“And… how you feel about, um, me?”

She opened her eyes and looked at
him, her smile absolute love and joy and affection. “I love you,” she
said simply. “Like I said, I love everyone, but you… you’re special.
I love you completely and utterly. Nothing you do could ever be wrong. I want
you to have everything you want, always. And god, you’re so hot. I’ve never
wanted anyone like I want you. It’s like torture, every second of being
near you–it’s like torture and I love it.”

“But it’s not real,”
Lawrence protested, trying to ignore how hard he was getting listening to this.

“It feels real,” said Syn.
“And if a feeling feels real, then it’s a real feeling, isn’t it?
Please… use me, Lawrence. I need it. I need you to control me, to fuck me, to
give me ord–”

Lawrence covered her mouth with his
own. It was an impulse, a desire that popped into his head that he just decided
to go with, without thinking about it.

Syn responded eagerly, wrapping her
arms around him. Her body was so warm and soft and yielding it might as well
have melted as he lowered her back onto the couch, trailing kisses down her
neck as he untied her top. She threw her head back in ecstasy as his hand found
her bare breast. “Lawrence!” she cried, putting every ounce of
worshipful, blissful obedience she could into his name. “Please… take

Fuck it, Lawrence thought. I’ve lost Morgan, Syn is here and
sexy and begging for it, I want it, so why the hell am I fighting this
? He
scrambled out of his jeans and boxers and stroked Syn’s long, smooth thighs as
she wrapped her legs around his waist.

Her skirt was already flipped up,
and she wore nothing underneath it. Lawrence could see how wet she was, her
voice was in his ear, just murmuring “please, Lawrence, please,
Lawrence” over and over. She was begging, but it was a mantra,
too–pleasing Lawrence was the thing she was begging to be allowed to do.

She cried out as he plunged into
her, her eyes rolling back in her head as she immediately came. With her
pussy–tight and wet, hot and slick–milking his cock eagerly, Lawrence didn’t
last long, either, and soon spurted inside her with a groan, before collapsing
on top of her.

The two lay together in a tangled,
sweaty mess on the couch for a while. Later, their second round lasted a bit
longer. On the third, they tried to make it to the bed, and managed to get
halfway. The fourth was actually on the bed, and then they slept.

* * *

Bruce glanced around quickly and
then ducked into an alley. It should be private enough here, he thought
as he shed his suit jacket, removed his tie, and then began unbuttoning his
shirt. He’d held off as long as he could, trying to get things done, but it was
nearly midnight and he couldn’t keep it back much longer.

Stripped to the waist, he leaned
forward and braced his hands against the wall, waiting for what he knew was
coming. His back was covered by a large, elaborate tattoo, an ornate circle
inscribed inside a triangle and surrounded by arcane symbols. Inside the circle
was a passage of text written in a language no human tongue could pronounce, in
a script no human eye save his had seen in centuries.

It began to glow. The glow soon
spread, until all the lines on his back glowed the dull red of hot metal. He
gritted his teeth against the burning pain, knowing it would soon be worse. The
tattoo glowed brighter and hotter, until it was white-hot and dazzlingly
bright. Then a massive claw emerged from his back, eliciting a grunt of pain
from the wizard.

A second soon emerged as well, both
on the ends of long, muscular arms, and a creature soon pulled itself through.
Nine feet tall, but hunched down to about seven, massively muscled, a huge,
scaly, furry round gray-green body supported by squat, thick, hairy legs. The
thing stepped out into the world from the back of the mage, and at last his
agony ended, the glow of the tattoo fading as the creature bounded off into the
world in search of prey.

Soon, he thought. Soon I will have her once more… and soon
after that I will be free

* * *

High on the wall of Lawrence’s
apartment, something banged against the air vent, from the inside, a sort of
muffled thud. It repeated four more times, before finally the vent popped off
and fell to the floor with a much louder clatter.

It wasn’t enough to wake Lawrence
and Syn, however, sunk into the deep dreamless sleep of two people who have
just spent several hours in rather strenuous, albeit extremely pleasant,

A tiny figure tumbled from vent to
floor, but despite the gracelessness of its descent, it made almost no sound on
impact. It made its way over to the bed, and laboriously climbed up the blanket
until it reached the top. Then it climbed over Lawrence’s body until it reached
his face, and slapped him.

“Wake up, ya daft great lump of
a man,” said Grankitty. “We need to have a talk.”