Abracadabra!
Copyright© 2009 by Freddie Clegg
Chapter 3: You Get What You Give
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 3: You Get What You Give - When Gregg Gilstrom's magic assistant walks out on him he discovers something that leads to new tricks that he exploits to the full. A tale of lust, power, magic and villainy.
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa NonConsensual Mind Control Magic Heterosexual Fiction BDSM MaleDom Humiliation Oral Sex
Gregg's recovery was slow. First the surreal visions faded, replaced by a flowing mix of colours like a chromatic tide. Then the colours in their turn became paler merging into a monochromatic glow which slowly gave way to a fuzzily perceived view of the room about him.
Eventually he became aware once more of his ability to move his own limbs. Stiff and aching from being sat in one place for, he didn't know how long, it took him all his effort to lever himself, unsteadily, to his feet.
His primary feeling was hunger, an overwhelming need to eat, almost anything. Looking for something fast, hot and bulky, he found a pack of pre-prepared spaghetti and meat balls in the freezer. It was the work of minutes in the microwave to deliver a steaming plateful.
He sat down opposite it and picked up a fork. As he sat struggling with the decision to pursue meat or pasta first he became aware that the pasta was moving. Not in any random, purposeless way, you understand but deliberately as though possessed of a collective intelligence. Slowly the strands began to rearrange themselves from the tangled knot that the bowl had contained to a series of neat coils. Gradually the plate took on the look of a ship's tomato-ey sauced foc'sl, its ropes coiled neatly in readiness for use.
Gregg shook his head; uncertain as to whether or not this meant that the spaghetti was good to eat and equally unsure if it meant that the effects of the spliff had not, in fact, quite worn off yet. His attempt to push the thoughts of the obsessively neat pasta from his mind were interrupted by a curious sensation from his feet.
He looked down. His shoelaces were unravelling themselves from his shoe in the same way that the spaghetti had uncoiled itself. Now two lengths of pale cord had laid themselves out in straight lines beside his feet.
Disbelieving, he shook his head, trying to clear his mind of whatever residual hallucinogen remained. As he did so the end of one of the laces picked itself up from the floor, pointed its end at Gregg for a moment before slowly threading itself back into his shoes. With a similar show of reluctance the other lace followed.
It was impossible Gregg, thought to himself. Of course it was; but so was the obsessively neatly coiled spaghetti. And that was still where it had left itself, on his plate.
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