Want to see all of this story, and many others, right now? Check out my Patreon for early access to all stories, plus exclusive stories and captions!
Cynthia lay on her back in her dark
bedroom, staring blankly upward. Sleep refused to come; her thoughts whirled
with memories of the last two days.
The police had found her in the
alley, curled up and sobbing, and taken her to the emergency room along with
the other survivors of the Beast’s second attack. Once there, they quickly
realized she wasn’t physically harmed, which meant sitting, alone, surrounded
by the sick and injured, waiting for someone to call the orphanage.
Sister Euphresia had shown up around
midnight, furiously demanding to know where Cynthia had disappeared to.
“You may be eighteen, but you haven’t moved out yet, and until you do,
you’re still our responsibility!” she’d said–multiple times, with slight
Cynthia couldn’t explain. What could
she say? That she’d been cursed and blessed, given strange powers, compelled to
embrace being a sex slave?
They’d probably call an exorcist–the Church still
had those, didn’t it? She’d babbled something about being caught in the first
attack, wandering confused and scared for a day, and then being picked up by
the police after the second. Sister Euphrasia seemed suspicious, but at least
for now she’d bought Cynthia’s claim that being found near the second attack
was pure coincidence.
And then she’d had to do it all over
again with Ruthie. “We thought you were dead!” was the refrain
that time, though, and unlike Euphresia Ruthie’s variations on it were
accompanied by tears. Which of course started Cynthia crying again.
Eventually, Ruthie had crawled into
her bunk–the top one–and gone to sleep. Cynthia could hear her soft snores,
the creak of the springs behind the thin particle board that silently received
Cynthia’s blank gaze.
Maybe she should just tell them.
They probably wouldn’t believe her, but if she demonstrated… no, that
wouldn’t work, then she’d be Syn again, and Syn loved being Syn, she
would leave and make sure the nuns never allowed Cynthia back. But if they did
call in an exorcist, maybe that could actually work? Get whatever this
blessing/curse was out of her system and set her free?
But. Syn loved being Syn. And
Cynthia… well, she didn’t mind being Cynthia, but it was–well,
ordinary. Cynthia did all right at school, but she wasn’t a genius. She could
sing well enough for a place in the choir, but she wasn’t a soloist. She wasn’t
ugly, but she wasn’t beautiful. Wasn’t an outcast, but wasn’t super-popular.
She was just Cynthia, and would never be anything else.
Could she really throw away being
Syn, being a gorgeous sexy super-powered warrior against evil monsters? After
all, if not for the whole sexual slavery thing, and the monsters, it would have
been pretty much end-to-end wonderful–and when she was Syn, even the
slavery felt good. Even being held down and–her mind skidded away from the
word–used by that monster felt good.
Her last thought before exhaustion
finally claimed her was, Maybe the problem isn’t being Syn. Maybe it’s
becoming Cynthia again.
* * *
Lawrence laughed cruelly.
“You’re mine, Syn! And you’ll do anything I want!” He rubbed his
enormous cock, and Cynthia recognized it as the monster’s.
“I’m not Syn!” she
protested, but he ignored her as he advanced slowly, looming over her.
“This is what you get,”
Sister Euphresia said sternly, and handed Lawrence a tangled bundle of dark red
Lawrence held one, and Ruthie had
another. They slowly circled Cynthia, who could only stand helplessly as they
wound around her. There were two other people winding ropes around her, too,
but she couldn’t quite see them–a small man, who circled her directly across
from Lawrence, and a tall woman opposite Ruthie.
Soon she was on her knees,
completely bound, helpless. The ropes had morphed from a cocoon to the minimum
necessary to hold her completely immobile, and her clothes had vanished,
leaving her naked as well. She tried to struggle, and gasped.
The ropes felt so good. And
the more she struggled, the better she felt.
She looked up to see that Sister
Euphresia, Lawrence, Ruthie, and the two people she couldn’t see were gone. Two
women stood in front of her, naked as she was, holding hands. They were
identical in every way, except that one was bathed in golden light and so
beautiful it was hard to look at her, and the other was draped in shadow and so
sexy it was hard to look away.
Each laid a gentle hand on one of
Cynthia’s cheeks, the golden beauty on her left and the dark seductress on her
right. They said something, but she couldn’t hear.
“What?” she asked.
They said it again, but she still
couldn’t hear them. She strained as hard as she could, desperate to catch
anything of their message, because she knew it had to be incredibly important.
They were sad, and trying to warn her, and to help her, she was certain of
that. But no matter how she strained, she couldn’t make out a single word.
And then she woke up.
* * *
Janelle tried not to squirm in her
chair as the meeting droned on. It wasn’t that it was boring–quite the
opposite, it was a major crisis that had to be dealt with. Two explosions of
unknown causes in two days, dozens of deaths, over a hundred injured, and no
one could tell her what was happening? That was bad.
The problem was that she already
knew what she was going to do about it, and the prospect was intensely
exciting. But she couldn’t do it until the right moment, and that moment would
be when everyone else stopped making excuses or explaining at length what the
explosions weren’t. So she had to sit and wait, wet with anticipation, while
the chief of police explained that there were no credible claims of
responsibility by terrorists or evidence of incendiary devices at the scene, a
representative from the utility company insisted that there were no gas leaks
or electrical issues in the areas hit, and on and on, one stuffed-shirt old man
after another using as many words as possible to say that he didn’t know
anything and it wasn’t his fault.
Finally, finally they were all
finished, and looking to her for her decision. Finally, she could obey, and
feel pleasure. “Gentlemen, it’s all right,” she said. She couldn’t
quite suppress the mini-orgasm as she began to obey, but she was able to turn
it into a hopefully convincing smile. “I have already begun assembling a
task force to investigate these disasters, headed by a notable expert in the
Before any of the other people could
ask “What field?” she buzzed for Carrie. “Send Mr. Feiticeiro
In the anteroom of the Mayor’s
office, Carrie giggled and removed her mouth from Bruce’s cock with a pop.
“Sorry Master, I guess I didn’t finish in time,” she said.
He patted her head. “I’ll cum
on you later,” he said. “Duty calls.” He tucked his cock back
into his fly and zipped it up, then walked to the doors of the Mayor’s private
conference room. Now the real work could begin.
* * *
Morgan slammed her fist on her desk
in frustration. Next to her keyboard, the untouched, long-turned-cold cup of
coffee bounced and a little splashed over the side.
Nothing. No matches for the mystery
man’s face in any criminal databases she could access. Nothing in the DMV files
she wasn’t supposed to be able to access–which meant he was either from out of
state or didn’t have an ID.
Her phone rang, and grumpily, she
picked it up. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Um, eleven in the
morning?” replied the voice of her old school friend Meghan.
Morgan looked up and blinked at the
dusty sunlight coming in through the window. “Fuck, really?” Had she
worked all night and well into the morning? Wouldn’t be the first time, but
still. She sighed. “What’s up?”
“Bruce Feiti–shoot, I have no
idea how to pronounce this. I’ll just forward you the press release.”
Morgan sighed again. She thought
about telling Meghan to fuck off, but… Meghan was a junior reporter on the
City desk of the Times, and Morgan was a PI. They had access to very
different sources of information, which meant they very often had tips
to help each other with their jobs. Plus, she was a friend, and Morgan didn’t
actually have very many of those.
And most of the ones I do have, I
made through Lawrence… She shoved
the thought away and looked at the email.
It was about the launch of a City
Hall task force to investigate the explosions that had been happening the last
few days–Explosions, plural? Guess I should have been watching the news–headed
by some guy named Feiticeiro.
“What about it?” she
asked, already bored and wishing she could get back to tracking Mystery Man and
finding out what the fuck he was doing in that video.
“I’m trying to figure out who
he is,” Meghan replied. “You don’t just come out of nowhere and get
put in charge of a crisis task force, but I can’t find anything on him.
There’s only a handful of Feiticeiros in the country, none named Bruce, and as
near as I can tell, none anywhere near here. They’re mostly in Rhode
“You think it’s a fake
“Yeah,” said Meghan.
“But there’s no way City Hall would put someone they didn’t know on
a task force like this… I smell shenanigans.”
Morgan rolled her eyes. Only Meghan
would say shenanigans to mean corruption, conspiracy, and cover-up.
It was a good thing her editor wrote all her headlines. “I guess I can
look into things if you–” She froze, staring at the picture attached to
the press release. “Holy shit.”
“Is that him?” she asked,
hardly daring to breathe. “In the group shot of the task force, next to
"Yeah,” said Meghan.
“Why, do you know him?”
“No. But I may have a lead.
I’ll get back to you.” She hung up, still staring at the man in the photo.
No question: it was definitely her Mystery Man.
“Feiticeiro,” she said
quietly. Even a fake name was a start.
* * *
Janelle moaned as mini-orgasm after
mini-orgasm exploded through her, one every time her Master thrust into her.
She’d taken intense pleasure in
watching him dismiss all questions about his appointment with a word, instantly
overcoming that room full of old men and proving what she’d always known, that
they were weak. Now they did what he ordered, just like her, but they took no
special pleasure in it–they neither resisted nor were rewarded for obeying,
they simply did. The same was true of the other women she’d seen service Master–Carrie,
or that young brunette she vaguely recognized as Teisdale’s daughter.
Janelle was different. Janelle had
fought, still fought. Something inside her screamed at her every moment,
that this was all wrong, that she needed to stop obeying, needed to resist.
But Master had given her everything
she needed to overcome that part of herself. Every act of obedience to him was
pure pleasure, and every burst of pleasure made the voice of resistance inside
her a little weaker. The more she obeyed, the better she felt, and the better
she felt, the more submissive she became. That was the reward for her strength:
the pleasure to silence her resistance.
And now? Master had ordered her to
fuck him, and with every stroke he fucked the pleasure into her, fucked obedience
into her. She knew that when he came, his will would fill her at last, and the
last of her resistance would be gone.
But the reward of pleasure would
Bruce was enjoying himself as well.
But like every time he used his slaves–as he did every waking moment–he was
plotting, scheming, analyzing ways to make the present moment work toward his
grand design. The woman was on the verge of collapse. Fucking her will away
completely would release powerful energies–energies that he could use.
He was still frustrated that the
Beast had overcome the new magical girl, disrupting his plan to locate her.
After being fully sated by a magical girl’s unlimited life force twice in such
rapid succession, it would be unlikely to return for some time. But with this
energy he could pull it back, force it to pursue her again.
Hopefully this time he’d be able to
track it. Damn the Beasts and their chaotic, unpredictable magic!
He came with a grunt, and Janelle
screamed in ecstasy. He felt her resistance crumbling, and deftly reached in to
drain away that energy. He stood, leaving her panting, dripping, full of his
cum and empty of everything else.
He had work to do.
* * *
Cynthia woke with a start and stared
panting at the top bunk. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
It’s coming back, she thought. It’s too soon. She didn’t question how
she knew; perhaps the women in the dream told her, or perhaps it was some
part of the curse.
Much later she would come to
know that the answer was both. But this night, she could only
guess–and in any case, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the
Beast was near–and it was coming for her.
She sat bolt upright. It’s coming
HERE! How many people would it kill?
I could protect them. The thought came unbidden and she shied immediately
away from it. If she became Syn again, she knew she would try to stay
Syn. It felt too good to stop. And if she stayed Syn, who knew what could
No. As much as some dark,
deep-down part of her wanted to, she couldn’t. Which meant the only thing
she could do was wait here and let it kill her and who knew how many
other people–Wait. No.
If it killed her here,
surrounded by teen girls… The curse would pass on to one of her
classmates. It might even fall on Ruthie. She couldn’t do that. There was
only one option: she had to run.
No time to dress. The
sweatpants and t-shirt she’d gone to bed with would have to do. The
nuns will kill me, she thought, slipping out into the hallway.
…if I ever come back…
As the door quietly closed
behind her, there was a rustling in the top bunk. Ruthie sat up as well.
She stared after Cynthia a moment, and then climbed down the bunk bed’s
* * *
She was probably going to die.
If she didn’t… She’d have to keep running forever, trying to stay ahead
of the Beast. She had no other options.
Cynthia paused at a street
corner, panting. She had no idea where she was–this neighborhood was completely
unfamiliar, a run-down, graffiti-splattered block of boarded up windows
and half-collapsed old buildings.
It was close. She could feel
it. She’d run as fast and as far as she could, but she couldn’t run
anymore–and it was closer than ever.
Syn could outrun it, that treacherous voice inside her said. Syn is much
faster, and never gets tired. Cynthia shut her eyes. She refused to
become Syn–and that meant she was going to die very soon. Was that
really what she wanted?
“Cynthia!” The familiar
voice rang out, and she opened her eyes again. “What’re you doing, can’t
you feel it coming?”
“Yes,” Cynthia panted.
“Then transform, you stupid
girl! You have to fight it!”
“I won’t!” She balled up
her fists and glared down at Grankitty. “I never will again!”
Grankitty sighed. “I know how
you feel, child, truly I do, but do you understand what you’re saying?”
“I’ll die,” Cynthia
answered simply. “I’m not afraid.”
“You will, and yes you
are. But you think dying will set you free? It won’t. You’ll become like
me, bound to the next girl for as long as she needs you. I don’t mind,
though I wish you wouldn’t keep leaving me behind. But I’ve always been
fond of you, and you’ve always been a good girl. Whoever the curse passes
to next… Might not be. Will you apologize to her? Tell her that she
carries the curse now because you gave up without a fight?”
“I…” Cynthia began.
“I didn’t think about that.”
“I know,” Grankitty said.
“It’s okay. But… You have to decide. It’s close.”
Even without her strange sense
of the Beast’s nearness, Cynthia would have known that. She could feel
the pounding of its feet as it ran through back streets and alleys. She
gulped. “Will… Will you help me?” she asked Grankitty. It was
clear to both of them what she meant–not just advise her in the fight,
but help keep her from losing her will.
“Of course. It’s what I’m here
Cynthia nodded. How do I– she
thought, but it was like wondering how to breathe. She just had to not choose
not to do it.
She gasped as those waves of
pleasure and delight filled her, as light and dark magic swirled around
her. Once again her body changed, her features shifting into doll-like
perfection, her hair into effortlessly tumbling golden waves, her legs
lengthening, her breasts swelling until her t-shirt strained to contain
them. It changed, too, becoming thinner, clingier, the hem rising to
expose her navel and the neckline plunging to show a nigh-obscene
quantity of cleavage. Her sweats dwindled away to almost nothing, a tiny
pair of shorts that barely covered her ass.
Syn grinned, reveling in the
intense feeling of being herself. Why did I ever fight this? she
wondered. I feel so alive, so powerful… So horny…
Then she heard the scream, and the
roar. Pausing only to scoop up Grankitty and drop the plush toy into her
cleavage, she raced at top speed toward the source of the sound.
What she saw as she rounded
the corner horrified her enough to momentarily break through the sheet
joy of her transformation: Ruthie, gripped in the claws of that hideous
monster, screaming, sobbing, struggling, and utterly unable to break
free. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
The worst was that she was too far
away. Syn leaped as hard as she could toward the Beast, hit the ground running,
and sprinted toward it… but it was already tearing Ruthie’s clothing away
with its claws. She had no time…
“Syn!” gasped Grankitty
from her cleavage. “Quickly–your power! You can attack with light! No
time for practice, just do it, get its attention!”
Syn tried. She had no idea what to
do, but then she had no idea how she did any of what she did. She just
knew. She raised a hand as she ran and pushed it toward the Beast, imagining a
ball of blazing light flying out to strike it.
The Beast finished tearing Ruthie’s
clothes off and grasped her legs, one in each claw, prying them apart. She had
gone limp, trembling occasionally from the sobs that wracked her but no longer
Syn tried, desperately, again. No
light flared out again. She closed her eyes, briefly, trying to concentrate,
but she couldn’t. She couldn’t shake an image, a fragment of half-remembered
dream–a warm, gentle hand, and a whisper. A warning, and…
Her eyes flew open, blazing a
brilliant blue. She stopped runnign and stood straight and tall, her left arm
held out in front of her at face height, her right drawing back at shoulder
level. “Light of the fallen!” she cried, the words welling up inside
her. “Guide my aim!” Light flickered fitfully between her hands, and
at right angles to that, outlining the vague shapes of a bow and an arrow.
“Shooting… Star…” The light concentrated, focused, pulling in
from all around her, until the blazing white bow and arrow looked almost solid.
She loosed the arrow. It flew,
perfectly straight and blindingly fast, into the Beast. The Beast dropped
Ruthie, turned toward Syn, opened its mouth to roar…
And exploded in a burst of pure
white light, howling in agony as it died. When it was over, nothing of the
Beast remained but a wisp of smoke.
* * *
In the Mayor’s office, Bruce swore
in three dead languages and two living ones, one of them human, and punched a
wall. “First she’s defeated,” he ranted, “and now she wins too
He glared at the still-limply
blissed-out Janelle as if it were her doing. “How? How does a girl
transformed for only the second time, in only her second battle, not only
manifest light but fully materialize and weaponize it? What is
He closed his eyes, took a deep
breath, forced himself to calm down. So. The girl had talent. Perhaps she was
unusually good at tapping into that which powered the magical girl, or perhaps
she had some small gift of her own that interacted positively with those
powers. Either way, it made her even more of a prize–and meant even more power
for him once he had her in his grasp.
He smiled thinly. One thing was
certain. “She will be mine.”