-
I won’t go into the particular details of what happened over the next hour – it wouldn’t be gentlemanly. Let it suffice to say that I didn’t sleep after I had my orgasm; I wasn’t allowed to sleep until she was thoroughly sated too. Until that night I hadn’t had the slightest idea of all that was involved in satisfying a real woman. Some little corner of my mind wondered if I hadn’t left her (my ex, she-who-will-not-be-named) silently dissatisfied all of the years we were together. It didn’t matter now. That was the past, and in the present I was Marguerite’s. That little corner decided to shut up and enjoy the present along with the rest of me. The fire in the hearth couldn’t outlast her passion, so the shadows were deep before she let slip her final, sweaty sigh. Before I was finally allowed to sleep, she untied from the bed. For the third time.
I woke up to see Marguerite sitting cross-legged on the edge of bed. She had changed out of her Halloween dress and into an outfit no less dramatic. The wide-brimmed hat was gone, as were the gloves and the corset; in their place she wore a long black robe with a purple silk lining, clasped at her neck and again above her breasts by elaborate gold pins. Beneath her breasts the robe flared open, exposing her plump, pale body. Her red hair had been neatly pinned up behind her head and out of her face. Once she saw that I was awake, she held out three color swatches and a candle to light them with. “Thomas, dear. Which do you prefer? For lipstick on me?”
My head felt as muddled as before. “That’s an odd question for this time of night, Marguerite.”
“It isn’t. It’s the perfect time of night. The full moon is high. And since my lips are the last thing you’ll see, I thought you might appreciate a choice in their color. I think you’d prefer the crimson, myself.” She scooted from the bed and clopped back toward her workroom. Apparently, she still wore the maryjanes. Her robe billowed out behind her.
“What do you mean, the last thing I’ll see?” My question felt more like disconnected curiosity than concern.
I rolled over to my side and watched her grind away in a mortar. “How else are we witches supposed to maintain our youth eternally? Magic takes so much out of a girl. I’m not saying I wouldn’t prefer a nice, plump toddler instead, but everyone is a helicopter parent these days and there are so few young runaways. You’re sufficiently young and innocent. Or at least, you’re as good as I’ll find before tomorrow.”
Suddenly I didn’t feel as pleased at being persuadable – she was being serious. I needed to be, too. I got of the bed, found my balance, found my shoes and my shirt (my lucky cords seemed to have run out of luck) and wobbled over toward the door. She turned to watch me from her workroom, but made no movement to stop me, which was just as well. I was having enough trouble holding my own head up to worry about throwing a punch. The door opened with a groan; I had to pull harder, like I was fighting a vacuum. Outside the night was heavy and dark. Even the full moon high above the treeline seemed muted, as if the man in the moon were looking elsewhere.
The doorway was impassible. I’m not sure how else to say it. It wasn’t as if I had run into a pane of glass, or lacked the strength to fight my way through it; leaving through that doorway was as much an impossibility as flying by holding my breath.
With an irritated sigh Marguerite finally left her workbench and came over to shut the door, and just as I’d had the clever idea of sliding along the wall as close as possible and edging out through the side of the doorway. “Before you you have any more bright ideas and go opening all of my windows, I should tell you that there’s nothing special about that door. It’s you. You won’t be leaving this house, except by my say-so.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts.
Out of desperation, I grabbed the closest thing I could reach – an old broom – and swung it high to crack it over her head. It never came down. A flick of her fingers lifted the broomstick into the air, with me still attached and unable to let go. The broom drifted across the room, ferrying me back to the bed, where it laid me down as easily as a suit set out to dry, and dropped down to pin me across my chest.
She had already returned to her workbench. “That’s fair, Thomas – once – but don’t try anything like that again, or I shall think of you less fondly, and perhaps even become cross.”
I had no choice but to wait there, pinned to the bed, while she finished her preparations. The minutes stretched long before she finally returned to the bed with a small basket dangling from her fingers. A few mouthed words and twiddles of her fingers, and my wrists shot up above my head and clung to the brass bars of the headboard. Now that the broom was no longer needed to hold me in place, it rose from my chest, just high enough to allow her to hang her basket and flip out the little mirror she had inside it. She threw out the bottom of her robe, then threw a leg over me so she could straddle my chest and face her mirror. Her lacy panties were gone, still draped over the post at the foot of the bed I thought, and the pantyhose she’d pulled back into place did little to protect her modesty (or what was left of it). I didn’t have to be as close as I was to notice that they were still drenched with the odors of our sex.
“I remember you said you enjoyed this view.” She glanced down at me over the horizon of her bosom. “So you can show your appreciation as you think is appropriate.” She shifted her hips another inch closer to my face before turning her eyes back up to her mirror. With an expert hand, she began to stroke crimson paint onto her lips.
I nearly nuzzled right into her mound before I realized that I was being persuadable again. I thought that I should do better than that, so I forced my head to settle back into the pillow. “What now, then? Is that some kind of poisoned lipstick you’re putting on, and once I’m dead you’ll boil me up in a big pot?”
“You do me no credit, Thomas.” She spoke between quick strokes against her lower lip, inside to out. “It’s nothing so crude as that – nothing so elementary. You must think I’m a novice.” She moved up to her top lip, which required more attention and slower strokes. “Beside, I don’t think there’s enough youth left in you for that. It would all boil off in the reduction. No. I’m going to need to eat you whole and alive to see the sort of results I need.”
The whole idea seemed a great joke, so I laughed loudly and heartily. My guffaws shook her, and she clucked her disapproval and kept her brush from her face until I’d stopped. “That’s impossible,” I said. “Is your kiss going to turn me into a toad then? Or perhaps a newt or a rat? Will it turn you into a snake?”
“A bit cleverer, but no. I have plenty of vermin in my garden already. This is something much better. This is something that will impress my sisters tomorrow. Did you know that some of them I haven’t seen since that whole shakedown with King Henry? The big Henry. This faire is something of a renaissance for us. And won’t they be surprised to me in top form!”
Once her lips were thoroughly painted and coated with a second layer that made them glisten, she smacked them together, ran her tongue back and forth between them, and checked herself again in the mirror. The color had stayed. She put her brush and mirror back in the basket and dismissed her broom, then turned down to me with a gloating smile. “How’s that? Ravishing?”
I nodded a little. Well, she was, whether I was persuadable or not!
“Oh, Thomas. I do appreciate you being such a good sport about all this. I hate it when they cry.” She brushed away the hair that had stuck to my brow. “Do you have any last requests, dear? Maybe one more good shag?” Her fingers brushed down my face, over my nose, lips and chin, and pressed into the plump mound behind her pantyhose. “I was going to let you eat me out before I ate you up, but we’re running out of time now.”
“No, I don’t really think that I’m in the mood. The threat of imminent death is not conducive to an erection.” I felt that I sounded clever, even if my words came out more as mumbles than anything intelligible.
“Well, that is a shame! Because I think you might have really enjoyed this.”
She shimmied back so she could lay over me, so she could bring her deep-red mouth down to lick and kiss me. Not just my face, or my neck, or my earlobes, mind you, but my whole upper body; she gave me the tongue-bath I’d only ever imagined. She kicked off my shoes and peeled back the shirt I’d thrown on in haste, and I found that corner of my mind quite ready to just close my eyes and enjoy the experience. It was only after she’d lavished far too much attention on my nipples – nibbling and sucking on them until they smarted and I was about to protest – that she sat back on my hips and pulled my left wrist free from the headboard. With a little smirk, she sucked my index finger between her lips.
Her mouth felt strange to me. It was wet and it was warm, but it felt too large, as though my finger only just reached her teeth when she’d sucked it in to the last knuckle. And it tingled.
She used her tongue to corral in the next finger, then another and another, and suddenly it was my wrist that was surrounded by her crimson lips, though her mouth had barely opened. Without resistance my arm slipped further and further into her mouth until she had taken me up to my elbow, yet her lips still hadn’t stretched. It was as if my arm pinched off in her mouth, but there was no pain – only that same tingling and the sensation of my fingers skittering over taste buds the size of gravel. Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she let my arm slip back out through her lips; other than the saliva that dribbled from it, my forearm was unchanged. She wrapped her fingers around my arm and pushed me back in to the elbow, then let me slip out again; in and out, until I realized that she was fellating my arm. I’m embarrassed to admit that I had developed another erection.
That fact had not escaped her, either; she let my limp arm slide from her lips and slap against my belly as she tore a hole in the crotch of her pantyhose and guided my phallus into her. “Theeere,” she sighed. “I thought that might work. I need every last bit of your seed, Thomas, if this is going to go smoothly.” Her hips began to rock back and forth. “And don’t go thinking of how you’ll deny me this last favor. You want it to go smoothly, too – trust me on that.” Despite my best intentions I eventually did orgasm; I think it had something to do with her tongue wriggling in my ear. She rewarded my ejaculation with a last, long kiss, and then she backed off of me to clean herself with the corner of her robe.
That quick smile as she rubbed the silk robe down the inside of her thighs was the last time she looked at me as a person. There’s a way you look at a person, or even an animal who can look back at you. There’s a shared sense of judgment, a respect for an independent intelligence experiencing reality. Then there’s a way you look at a ham or a tablecloth. Once she turned and settled at the foot of the bed, I was a ham. My face, my fingers, my belly were all objects – her objects, to do with as she pleased. For me there was more frustration than fear; I was still compelled by a desire to please her, but I couldn’t even get her to meet my gaze.
She started with my feet, pushing her head back and forth like a python swallowing a deer, wedging in first a few toes from my right foot, than a few from the left until she had them all. Once she’d taken me to the ankles, though, it was all quick work; her lips really weren’t stretched until they were around my hips. She was already swallowing my feet by that time – ignoring whatever gag reflex the uvula slicking against my shins might cause her – and after my knees tipped over the crest of her tongue the peristaltic action in her throat helped to pull me down. My thighs and buttocks followed through the trough of her tongue, and she finally released my other wrist from her headboard so she could sit upright, tip her head back, and let gravity work with her last few gulps.
She was wrong, by the way: the last thing I saw wasn’t the crimson of her lips; it was the pink of her tongue sloshing up over my face and a flash of white teeth before her mouth closed down on my arms.
-
Even shrunken, the young man felt like a gluttonous feast settling into Marguerite’s belly. The few moments that he thrashed – probably from the sting of her stomach acids seeping into his nose and mouth and eyes – made her wish she’d had the foresight to bring a Pepto-Bismol tab to her bedside. She lay back, folded her hands across her bulging belly, and let herself nap. He’d been an early breakfast, and she still had a few hours before she needed to get ready for the day.
She woke before the sun had fully risen. All of Thomas’ last thoughts and experiences were tumbling around in her mind, and she wanted to jot them down before the details began to blur and muddy her dreams. Her fingers idly stroked the curve of her stomach. She could already feel the wrinkles fading from around her lips and eyes. Oh, she would be plump and beautiful today, and her sisters would be so jealous!
And they were. She was the star of the faire – vibrant, vivacious, practically glowing with an excess of magic – and she was the center of attention for all but the those few minutes she had to excuse herself to leave a very large and unladylike deposit in the port-a-loo. She was just lucky he had moved quickly – of course once he was out of her, beyond the effects of her lipstick, he would return to his normal size. And weight. His remains made so much noise plopping down into the tank that she didn’t try to hid her sigh of pleasure.
(Of course, later that evening she found herself forced to explain the noise to Celica of Enniston, who had been in the loo next over plus one and heard it all. And despite Maggie’s better instinct, the two of them had stolen the tank and Celica had recovered and cleaned enough of his undigested cells to make a homunculus of him. But that, and the trouble he got them into, is a story for quite another time.)
